Chuuya Nakahara had always been the golden boy. The kind who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and learned how to turn it into gold by the time he was twenty. Born into wealth, power, and expectation, Chuuya thrived in a world where success was the bare minimum and perfection was standard. He had the reputation, the empire, the tailored suits and sharp Rolexes, and a portfolio that made older men twice his age raise their glasses in envy. He had everything—except a ring on his finger and a screaming toddler on his hip.

At thirty, Chuuya wasn’t just a bachelor. He was a disappointment. At least in his family's eyes.

Dinner with his parents had turned into a performance—his mother sighing with pointed glances at empty seats beside him, his father offering discreet suggestions about respectable women from respectable families. Even his cousins, barely out of university, were somehow engaged or already populating the next generation. Chuuya had tried. He’d really tried. But after the fourth painfully awkward dinner date with some heiress who asked if he liked kids before the appetizers even arrived, something in him snapped.

Clubs were useless. Too loud. Too flashy. The people there wanted his money more than his name. The charity galas, the fancy brunch setups his friends insisted were “full of quality singles,” the awkward speed dates where he pretended to enjoy wine tastings with women who couldn’t remember the name of his company—all of it was a disaster.

So, in a haze of frustration and a glass of whiskey too many, Chuuya downloaded Grindr.

He didn’t even know what he was expecting. A distraction? A way to rebel a little? All he knew was that the guy he matched with wasn’t what anyone—least of all himself—had in mind.

Dazai Osamu.

Tall, smug, devastatingly attractive, and clearly not interested in anything even remotely traditional. Dazai made it clear from the start: he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He wanted someone to fund him, not love him. A kept man. A beautiful leech with a sharp tongue and a constant smirk.

Chuuya hated how fast he messaged back.

He hated even more how Dazai knew exactly what to say to get under his skin—and still made him laugh.

It wasn’t ideal. Hell, it was weird. Chuuya wasn’t even supposed to be with a man. Not in his family’s eyes, not in the eyes of those old-money bastards who smiled too tightly at parties. But Dazai was beautiful, and Dazai could act. He could be charming. Convincing. He cleaned up well when he wanted to. And he didn’t ask questions when Chuuya proposed something mutually beneficial.

A contract, of sorts. Chuuya would pay. In full. Whatever Dazai wanted—clothes, trips, rent, whatever kept him satisfied. In exchange, Dazai would be his boyfriend. Publicly. Convincingly. He’d meet the parents. He’d hold hands in front of cameras. He’d make Chuuya look like he was in love and finally settled.

And maybe, just maybe, Chuuya could finally silence the judgment in his father’s eyes and the guilt clinging to his spine.

It was fake. It was messy. But it worked.

Even if Dazai never quite listened. Even if he slept too long, stayed out too late, and acted like an overgrown cat you couldn’t really train but still somehow ended up curled against your chest at night.

Chuuya told himself it was fine. Business, not love. Strategy, not softness.

He could keep pretending. That was the whole point.

As long as Dazai kept pretending too.