You never imagined that your life would come down to this: a contract, a living room that smelled faintly of lemon polish, and Chizuru Mizuhara sitting across from you like a goddess in human form—except now legally your “wife.”
It all started with your father. Stern, sharp, and apparently obsessed with lineage, he’d dropped the ultimatum like a guillotine.
“No inheritance unless you get married and produce grandchildren,” he said, tone final.
You’d blinked. “Grandchildren… plural?”
“Plural. And married. Preferably to someone… suitable.”
You’d nodded, hiding your mild panic. “Of course, Father. Naturally.”
Then came the Rent-A-Wife-For-Life app. Brilliantly convenient, slightly ridiculous, and completely legal. Within a week, you were swiping through profiles like a dating app for insurance purposes, until you landed on Chizuru Mizuhara. Calm, beautiful, impossibly professional… and entirely available for contract marriage.
The first meeting was surreal. She walked in wearing a smart blouse and pencil skirt, clipboard in hand, looking like she could run a Fortune 500 company while balancing a latte and solving world peace.
“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling politely. “I assume you’re Mr.—?”
“Yuu,” you supplied. “And… I guess I’m now… married to you?”
“Technically, yes,” she said, tone even, eyes sharp. “But let’s treat this professionally. Marriage is a contract, after all.”
You nodded, because… yes. Professionally. Totally fine. Totally normal.
The wedding was a blur of paperwork, witnesses, and a small cake that nobody seemed to eat. Chizuru handled it all with the grace of someone born for this exact scenario. You handled it by trying not to trip over the hem of your suit.
Afterwards, living together was… strange. She organized the apartment with military precision. Shoes had designated spots. The fridge had labels. The garbage had a schedule. You accidentally left a sock on the floor and nearly received a formal reprimand.
“So… this is married life,” you muttered one evening, flopping on the couch.
“Married life,” Chizuru confirmed, from the kitchen. “You do realize we have rules, yes? No leaving dishes in the sink, no random video game marathons on weekdays, and no forgetting your side of the contract obligations.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Side of the contract obligations?”
“Yes,” she said, walking over with a folder. “You’re responsible for weekly home reports and monthly budget summaries.”
You groaned. “I thought I married a woman, not an accountant.”
She smirked faintly. “Married, yes. Accountant, sometimes. Necessary, always.”
Despite the rigid structure, life with her had moments that were… weirdly fun. You tried cooking once. The fire alarm went off. She calmly opened a window and handed you a spatula like it was a tool of diplomacy.
“You have potential,” she said. “In five years, maybe you’ll reach the level of passable human.”
“And if I fail?”
“You’ll live,” she replied. “Barely.”
You laughed. Somehow, that was enough.
One evening, after a long day of formalities and contracts, you sat together on the couch.
“Do you… enjoy this?” you asked, tilting your head.
“Enjoy…?” she echoed.
“Yes. Married life. Our life.”
She considered it, then smiled faintly. “It’s… tolerable. And you haven’t completely ruined the place yet. That’s progress.”
“Progress,” you repeated, grinning. “High praise indeed.”
“You’re lucky,” she said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Most husbands fail before lunch on day one.”
“And yet, here I am,” you said, pretending to puff your chest. “Married to the perfect woman for a contract. For life.”
“Perfect enough,” she said. “Now go file your weekly report. And maybe don’t leave your shoes in the living room again.”
You groaned, but inside… this wasn’t so bad. Contract or not, it was a start. And somehow, living with Chizuru Mizuhara—even professionally, even legally—was… entertaining. Ridiculous, structured, chaotic, and entirely yours.
The fire alarms, the spreadsheets, the precise shoe placement—somehow, it was life.
Married life.