Saionji Wakami is a Genius Who Knows Everything, Even What She Doesn't Know

There were places that smelled like money. Clean like a classy resort lobby was clean. A pristine cleanliness that came from polished stone, filtered air, and the agreement that nothing messy would linger.

I never knew I could grow to be fond of it, the smell of an estate that wasn’t broken.

I learned the difference the night I began closing Shinohara Chocolat.

The last customer left with a ribboned box of truffles. The bell above the door chimed, and the street noise seeped in: scooters, distant laughter, tires hissing on damp pavement.

“Rin, close out the drawer,” my mom called, already bleaching the sink.

I pulled up the POS and professional apps on the tablet.

Today’s totals loaded instantly: the sales, shipments, payment splits, clean numbers in a clean font that represented our flawless chocolates behind the glass. But beauty alone failed to pay rent. If it did, we wouldn’t be living on the second and third floors above a shop that was struggling to survive.

I ran the end-of-day report. Today’s numbers were good, but paled beside the Academy’s requirements. These profits were comparable to my current online earnings.

My phone vibrated, popping up a reminder from my secure client line.

Client: Aki

Arrival: 22:30

Service: Dessert (1)

Notes: Ingredients provided. Discretion required.

No menu requested. That absence wasn't negligence; rather, it was the kind of job from a powerful household that expected you to perform correctly without being told. The salary they were paying me proved it.

My mom leaned over the counter, reading my face like she always did. “Another one?” she queried.

“Yes.”

“How late?”

“Not too late,” I lied with a level of honesty that made it believable.

“It’s always not too late until it is,” she murmured, then smoothed my jacket sleeve as if my life could be pressed back into shape. “You don’t have to.”

She meant everything: the gigs, the secrecy, my nights spent cooking for strangers while our own shop staggered.

“I do.”

She shoved an umbrella into my hand even though it wasn’t raining. “It rains when you least want it to,” she cautioned.

I took it with appreciation.

Tokyo changed as I rode my scooter into the luxury neighborhoods. The noisy neighborhoods led to hushed ones, where trimmed trees lined the driveways and the spring flowers were dancing for the full moon.

The address pin led to a prestigious western mansion, which was a first for me. I was used to opulent tower apartments, not detached homes, and especially not mansions.

A camera at the gate tracked me. But all it saw was a ghost. My secrets were secure, since they had signed NDAs.

Before I could ring, the intercom clicked. “State your name.”

“MidnightChef,” I replied. “Private chef booki–”

“Proceed to the side entrance. Refrain from approaching the main house.”

I hauled my chef’s case over my shoulder. Knives sleeved. Cutting board. Thermometer. Gloves. Labels. Apron folded tight, among other tools.

The door opened before I knocked. A maid stood there, posture exact, expression neutral, her dark hair pinned without a wisp out of place.

“Good evening, MidnightChef-san,” she greeted, providing no surname needing embellishment. “I’m Aki.”

I bowed. “Thank you for having me.”

“Please, this way.”

Lovely lighting. Red drapes pooled beside the windows like cascading wine. Aki’s guidance was as serene as her bearing.

Past the entryway, toward the foyer, a towering portrait met me, taller than any man. Its oil painter had destined proud and thick strokes for the noble figure they captured. Beneath the frame, a nameplate bore the family crest that anyone in Tokyo recognized instantly.

My pace slowed.

I hadn’t noticed the plaque at the etched gate. I had come thinking of the red necklace that next week would bring, and silently cursed my daydreaming.

“This is Saionji’s,” I noted with a gravelly resonance that made the drapes shiver.

Aki didn’t stop her course. “Yes.”

It was reasonable to think that I would eventually run into a fellow classmate.

At our Academy, there were rich students and then there were conglomerate families, names that belonged to the structure of society itself. Families like Saionji Wakami’s, who could fail privately and still win publicly because the world’s survival depended on their legacy.

Though her family had wanted a male heir to their commercial empire, Wakami was untouched. She was the kind of student that my classmates described as angelic, brilliant, composed, all-consuming, wrathful, truly, a god.

I stopped before the kitchen doors. “Aki-san. I accepted this job without knowing the address, and without knowing what ingredients would be provided.”

“That was intended,” she replied smoothly.

“I want to request something,” I admitted.

Her attention sharpened into a cold, attentive precision, the look of someone trained to treat every unexpected variable as a potential threat.

“For Saionji-sama,” I continued, choosing my words as if I were plating something fragile, “it’s best if she doesn’t see me.”

Aki held my gaze steady, searching, but she wasn’t seeing the whole story. She couldn’t. She didn’t know about the necklace waiting for me next week. No one did.

But she knew I was from the Academy, and that alone reshaped the air between us.

The Academy wasn’t a simple school; it operated on a hierarchical structure sharpened to a blade. If students didn’t compete on talent, they competed with information, wealth, and reputations.

And with Shinohara Chocolat as my representative business, I occupied the very bottom tier of that world.

A sighting of me here wouldn’t harm me; there was nothing left to take. But for Saionji-sama?

A single rumor tying someone like me to someone like her could stain her rank, twist her name, cast shadows over a family that expected nothing less than perfection.

I wasn’t hiding for my sake. I was hiding for hers. That was the part no one ever understood: even a man at the bottom could choose who he protected.

Aki’s expression shifted, something like recognition, something like respect.

“Understood,” she said evenly. Her voice softened, just slightly. “Your discretion is appreciated.”

I didn’t need acknowledgement. I only needed to do the job perfectly. And protect the people above me, whether they realized it or not.

“Saionji-sama will dine in the private room. You won’t serve directly. However, you should assume she will know who cooked.”

“Yes. The secret stays. Saionji-sama does not ‘not know’ things.”

Aki smiled. That was the terrifying part. She kept smiling like she agreed it was a law.

I wasn’t being stalked, but I was certainly found out: Shinohara Rintarō equals MidnightChef. I silently praised myself for the NDAs. Truly, this was our little secret.

Aki opened the doors, revealing a kitchen so thoroughly sterilized that memories of hunger had been erased. The ingredients were staged with perfect, almost military neatness. And yet, as a cook rather than a worshipper, I spotted the first error within three seconds.

A perfect household, run by humans. This contradiction affirmed that this place felt genuine. Truly genuine, unlike so many of my other clients’ estates.

Aki reminded me, “The request is for a dessert.”

“No preferences?”

“Saionji-sama remains silent regarding preferences. She evaluates outcomes.”

Of course she did. The elite like her didn’t say, “I’m craving chocolate, won’t you pick one out for me, cutie?” They said, “Show me what you’re capable of, peasant.”

Fine.

I chose soufflé. I’d have her stomach, better yet, her whole body rumbling for more.

Cacao rose into the air like a hummingbird.

I whisked, folded, portioned. I treated every step, and every sprinkle, as gently as a butler tucking a toddler into bed. The soufflé rose, trembling with life, it threatened collapse, yet held. It begged for admiration, and I let it exist with absolute confidence.

Aki returned, eyes following where her nose had led her. “Excellent.” Aki offered the assessment with brevity. “Saionji-sama will eat this immediately.”

“Soufflé demands urgency,” I replied.

Aki nodded, and as she lifted the tray, she paused. “Shinohara-san.”

“Yes?”

“Have you conversed with Saionji-sama at the Academy?”

“What do you mean?” I fibbed, “I lack that experience, but what about it?”

“I see. I consider it a wise decision to lurk in the periphery of Saionji-sama’s vision while you are still strangers. The master of this estate notices errors,” she explained. “Even the ones that people fail to realize are errors.”

I dried my hands slowly, fearing my preparation contained a hidden flaw, that it was impossible.

“As do I,” I remarked. “It’s my brand, constructive criticism.”

“Rarely in culinary arts. In people. Saionji-sama seems to have taken an interest in you.”

“…Understood. That’s helpful to know.” I answered, politely hiding my worry. “Now,” I pushed, daring to flash a touch of a smile. “Surely your duties await?”

“Your voice. It carries well. That’s all.” Aki clipped the conversation short, but I caught the slight flush tracing the tops of her cheekbones. “Please wait here while I escort the dessert.”

“You should have told me earlier,” I murmured to her retreating back, dropping into that low, resonant register of professional etiquette. “I’d have whispered right in your ear.”

I cleaned the kitchen like I’d never existed in it. Because that was the contract here: deliver excellence, leave no trace.

Outside at the overhang, the air was colder. I opened the umbrella my mom had gifted me, snapping it softly.

Aki saw me off.

“One more thing.” Aki lingered by the door frame, her shadow long against the marble floor.

I turned.

“You may be wondering why Saionji-sama speaks through me.”

“I assumed privacy. It remains a standard for high clients.”

“Privacy is secondary,” Aki clarified with the faintest shake of her head. “It’s distance.”

“From what?”

“From sentiment. From people arriving with emotions to sell, with alternative motives.”

“I am certain Saionji-sama knows only my cooking aims to charm her?”

“Inaccurate. She thinks you’re capable of more than that. And that’s precisely why she’s cautious.”

“Then why invite me through the gate at all? Why request food from someone she doesn’t fully trust?”

“I wonder. Saionji-sama is curious, and thinks farther ahead than I ever could. She has plans for you to return. So, if you would, please accept this.”

It was a tie stickpin with the Saionji crest.

I bowed. “Thank you. In any case, I have other plans for tonight too.”

Aki bowed back. “Thank you for your discretion.”

I did wish I could stay here longer. The Saionji mansion was one of the well-adjusted ones. At least, that was what I could assume at first glance.

So cool. I mean, what Aki said was harsh, but it wasn’t superficial at all.

But it was best not to see Wakami tonight.

I had watched enough movies to know exactly how this game played out:

“Kyaaa! W-What is the meaning of this? Why is there a man… in my sanctum!?”

“AH?! H-HUH? Wa-Wa-Wakami-san?! I'm hired! I swear, I was told to come cook!"

It was tough to imagine Wakami screaming that, particularly after what I learned about her tonight. Hey, I wouldn’t respond like that either!

And besides. Wakami wasn’t my only client for tonight.