Chapter 17: The Other Kind of Wealth

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The assignment came through on a Thursday morning.

A message from the agency:

> “Fujimoto-san, we need an extra pair of hands at the Takahira residence. One-day assistance only. Transportation will be provided.”

It wasn’t unusual for the company to move us around when clients requested additional help, but I’d never been sent anywhere outside my usual buildings.

And the name Takahira—

I recognized it immediately.

Councilman Takahira: late fifties, perfect hairline, skin always a little too smooth for his age. I’d seen his face on the news with polished smiles and a voice that sounded like it had been practiced in a mirror.

Still…

I said yes.

Saying no wasn’t really an option.

---

The car dropped me off in front of tall iron gates framed by manicured hedges and a fountain carved into the shape of a phoenix. Water spouted from its beak in a precise arc, the bird’s stone wings forever mid-rise—as if struggling to escape the estate.

The house behind it wasn’t a home.

It was a declaration of importance.

Glass walls that gleamed unnaturally. Marble steps polished until they hurt the eyes. Gold trim that caught the sunlight like it was starving.

The air inside smelled of men who liked to hear their own voices—cologne, whiskey, cigars—and something faintly sour beneath it, the kind of scent expensive rooms tried to hide but couldn’t quite kill.

A woman in a suit greeted me at the door. She was tall, sharp, and impeccably put together.

Her hair was pulled back so tightly that it gave her face a permanent tension, as if she’d been holding her breath for years. Her eyes were cool, practiced, and almost colorless.

“You’re from Shimizu Domestic Services?”

Her voice was clipped, efficient.

I nodded.

“Good. The councilman is hosting guests tonight. Keep your head down and don’t linger in the main rooms.”

That last line wasn’t in any manual.

But her tone made it sound less like advice and more like a rule carved into stone.

---

The hours blurred: polishing glassware, rearranging immaculate vases, dusting picture frames that looked like they had never known fingerprints.

But the voices carried.

Laughter that was too loud.

Words delivered like knives meant to impress themselves.

The men here were older, powerful, thick necked from too many cigars and too many dinners. Their suits strained a little at the buttons; their watches gleamed; their faces flushed easily from alcohol or arrogance; I wasn’t sure which.

“Bring another bottle!” someone barked from the dining room.

I wasn’t sure if the command was for me, but when I stepped forward with the tray, the man who gave it looked me over in a way that made my stomach twist.

He was maybe mid-forties, his hair gelled back to hide the thinning. His tie was red—too bright, too bold, the kind of color that didn’t belong in a room like this. His eyes were lazy and unfocused, but they sharpened as he looked at me.

“You’re new,” he said, smiling. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. It didn’t even try.

“What’s your name?”

I bowed slightly. “Fujimoto, sir.”

“Pretty name,” he said, staring in a way that made my skin crawl. His gaze traveled—slowly, deliberately. “Where’d they find you? They don’t usually send girls this—”

A beat.

A flicker of awareness that others were in the room.

“Efficient,” he finished, too late.

The others laughed.

The kind of laughter that agreed with power, not humor.

I lowered my gaze. “Excuse me, sir.”

My hands didn’t tremble until I reached the hallway.

---

The shift dragged after that.

Every step felt watched.

Every room felt like it had a pair of eyes hidden somewhere.

Tanabe-san once told me that houses absorb the people living in them—collecting their moods, their tempers, their sins.

This house felt heavy.

Suffocating.

Like the walls were tired of what they had to hold.

I folded, cleaned, aligned my way through the hours until time finally moved again.

When the event ended, the woman in the suit pressed an envelope into my hand.

“Here’s your pay. Double rate.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“Don’t mention today to anyone.”

I nodded. “Understood.”

She didn’t thank me.

She didn’t have to.

Outside, the air was sharper than I remembered. I walked past the phoenix fountain; the stone bird spat water that glittered like it was trying to disguise a choke.

---

On the ride back, the city felt different—distant towers of glass reflecting a thousand tiny lights.

Lights that shimmered like they wanted to be stars.

But money didn’t make everything shine.

It just rearranged the shadows and taught them to stand still.

My hands still smelled faintly of that house. Perfume layered over rot. Wealth layered over something unclean.

I scrubbed them when I got home.

Twice.

And as the water turned warm and my skin turned pink, my thoughts drifted—unexpectedly—to the Minami penthouse.

Cold, yes.

Controlled.

Unlived-in.

But not like that.

Kaito Minami’s world was gray and distant, but it wasn’t dirty.

Not hollow.

Not… predatory.

Was controlled indifference better than weaponized charm?

I didn’t know.

But lying in bed, I kept hearing his voice—awkward, quiet, like someone trying to remember how to speak around another human being.

An almost-human softness.

I wondered, just once, what he would’ve done if he’d been at the Takahira residence today.

Probably nothing.

But maybe—

just maybe—

he would’ve noticed.