Chapter 6

Like clockwork, it showed up on her calendar and scheduled on an evening of which she had no intention of spending with strangers. But she was here anyway – a duty to be upheld despite her weak protests in the form of snide comments. Now that she no longer lived abroad and of marriageable age, Kiyoko practiced plastering the polite smile in the mirror in the empty bathroom of the venue.

"If you do not bend," her grandmother warned. "You break." The words echoed in her head. It was something she was told many years ago and it never left. They haunted her on the quiet evenings when she toiled through the finances of her company or when she travelled about from meeting to meeting. They woke her in the middle of the night.

Kiyoko tried again to twitch her dark red lips upward. She blinked a few times, relaxing the muscles of her furrowed brows. Bend, she reminded herself. Kiyoko straightened her back and held up her chin. Bend to fit the mold of what she was taught to become: the perfect wife.

It was easy in theory, was it not? Smile. Look pretty. Stay mute. She had a duty to uphold. The last hope in the midst of what her grandmother called a disaster of a family. The socialite took a deep breath to herself. A duty, she told herself.

Kiyoko stood by her grandmother as instructed, shaking hands of what her grandmother called potential suitors. They glanced at her and gave a polite smile. Told her she was pretty. Asked her what she did for a living. Some made offers to buy her art. Others vied for an invitation to her next exhibit – if they knew her name. None were interested in her as an actual wife, of course.

"I collect sports cars," the man went off about something that Kiyoko did not pay attention to. His family owned a medical device company, according to her grandmother. Her mind was still reeling from her meeting with the event planner, her brain already working on the spreadsheet in her mind. The grandmother was only 10 feet away from her, glancing at her to keep a close eye on the child, almost as if warning her to behave.

"Fascinating," Kiyoko answered monotonously with a nod. Bend, she reminded herself. She forced a smile. The same one she practiced in the mirror only an hour ago, hopefully it was convincing. It must have been since the man continued on without a pause.

"I could give you a ride home," the man offered with whatever the fancy car he was talking about. Kiyoko had drifted off at that point. "In exchange for… maybe an invite to your gallery?" He flashed a smile to her. "Heard the next one had some kind of grotesque theme to it."

"Hm," the curator hummed. "I haven't finalized the invites but I'll keep you in mind." Her response was polite. Business-like. Dear god… this uncultured dimwit. This idiot would never understand.

"Any way I could maybe… seal the deal?" the heir to the medical device company tried again, stepping into Kiyoko's personal space and reaching for her waist. It was enough for the woman to swiftly shift back. A smooth step as though she were avoiding the server who had come close to the two. It was a move that required impeccable timing and one that was subtle enough to not cause offense.

"I'm afraid not," Kiyoko answered the man. "However, if you are looking for a particular piece from artists I represent, I would be happy to assist."
"Maybe you could assist in other ways? You're gorgeous." The man tried to pull her closer by the waist and flashed a grin. "I could show you—"

"—No thank you," Kiyoko cut off as she caught his hand. Bend. She loosened her grip, careful not to let her nails dig into their skin. Breathe. "I believe my presence is required elsewhere," she urged as she looked towards her grandmother. God damn it, of course she wasn't looking when she was about to get defiled by some rich bastard who wanted a quick fuck. Not that her grandmother would have cared as long as she was doing her part in being seen. Kiyoko had dealt with this far too many times. There was a delicate formula to snaking her way out of these situations.

"But you haven't—" he persisted, the grin never leaving his face.
"She's had enough," a sharp voice cut through the lazy lull of the other man.

Kiyoko's ears perked up at the cool timbre against her ears. It was enough for the man to let go of her. His attention shifted at the other person who had challenged him outright. The intruder stood there nonchalantly; his eyebrow raised at the sight of both of them. His interest was piqued by the woman who had hardly gotten away. His eyes were curious to see what she would do next.

"She didn't say that," the idiot argued, fully letting go of the woman who found her footing immediately. She shifted a healthy distance away while standing tall once again.
"She didn't have to," Kyouya shrugged. "But what would an idiot know about reading between the lines?"

"Who are you?" he narrowed his eyes at the stranger. Did the man live under a rock? Kyouya was considerably older, his stature cool and collected at the child who seemed to bear the edge of a tantrum. It was rather apparent that the boy was not the brightest one of the bunch.

"Ootori-san," Kiyoko answered patiently. "His family has one of the biggest corporations in the industry," she explained with a quick glance at the Ootori who smirked at the comment. At least the woman knew her facts. Her phone began vibrating in the midst of the stand-off. Perfect timing. Kiyoko excused herself from the boy and quietly took the call at the doorway of the venue where no one was present.

Nami had called to inform her of the shipments that had arrived. The statues from Europe that safely made their way across the globe to be set up at their earliest convenience. Kiyoko thanked her assistant and told her to take the next few days off, fully aware of the fact that this call was most certainly after-hours. The boss got off the phone and took a few minutes to read through her emails.

A cool breeze swept across her shoulders. Her ears picked up the slightest creak of the door. A gentle vibration in the soles of her feet. Her body was attuned to the smallest sounds. The most minute vibrations. Remnants of anxieties that riddled her childhood were felt in every way by her body. Her muscles stiffened.

"Is there a point to lurk in the shadows, Ootori-san?" she called out into the seemingly empty hall. "Stalking is not the way to any woman's heart," Kiyoko added lightly.

"I believe a thank you is in order," the man stepped away from the door to stand a good distance away from her. She wondered why he stood so far away – was he afraid? So be it, she thought to herself. Better to be feared than trampled upon after all. She hoped to keep it that way.

"I was fine," Kiyoko assured, unimpressed by how the Ootori had come to fish for her gratitude as though she were a damsel in distress. She had the situation handled.
"Didn't seem like it," Kyouya quipped.

"I assure you I am skilled in the art of delicately removing myself from being sexually harassed." The socialite's eyes peered back down to the email she had been reading, the hollows of her eye sockets were painted a smoky grey. She would have to respond to it soon. Her thumbs began composing the email while only providing half her attention to the man who had watched her brush him off.

"Delicately removing," the Ootori repeated with a scoff. Kiyoko could hear the annoyance rumbling in his throat. It was enough to elicit a response out of her. The nails against her glass screen stopped.

"Ah yes," Kiyoko nodded to herself. "Because you, a man, would never understand what it is like to have to be sexually harassed." Her eyes shot an icy glare at the man before diverting her attention back to the screen.

"I would have you know that I was—"
"You've been what? Ogled by women? But have you ever been leered at? Threatened? Touched inappropriately? Does it matter what I say, or what I do?" Kiyoko rolled her eyes. "Either way, Ootori-san – I never needed saving. It was not expected of anyone to save me."

"Then what is expected of you?" Kyouya challenged.
"The same as you," Kiyoko was finding it more difficult to focus on the composition of her email with the Ootori distracting her. "But with the added touch of being flawlessly obedient, talented in the art of social etiquette, and stunningly beautiful beyond my prime," she listed monotonously.

Kyouya observed the woman, giving her the much needed silence to reread the message she had written with her thumbs. Her long nails gripped her phone – it was top of the line, as was his (in the same colour, no less). Her hair had been pinned up neatly, adorned with a long silver ornament to hold it all in place. Her dress was a wine red that barely touched the floor, the fabric swaying with the way she shifted her weight on her heels to give either leg a break. Her shoes of course, were high heeled Louboutins. She ignored him as though he were thin air. What could possibly have been more important than her prospective future husband?

She finally looked up from her phone, half-expecting him to have left by now. "Can I help you?" Kiyoko took a deep breath and tried her best to be present now that she had finished with her business.

"Wouldn't it be nice to not have to deal with those unwanted advances?" the Ootori offered.

The woman was not stupid, quickly catching on to what the man was implying. "Being married does not make you immune to harassment," she rolled her eyes.

"It might if you're married to me," he smirked.

She was unimpressed by the offer. Kiyoko crossed her arms and tried her best to keep her patience from waning too thin. Bend. She was not going to break. She would never. She couldn't afford such a thing. Her whole family could not afford it – if they were ever considered much of a family to begin with.

"Well," Kiyoko raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she could entertain the idea for a moment. "Paint me a picture, Ootori-san. What would it be like to be married to you?" her voice purred.

"A growth in status. Freedom. Power," he listed triumphantly, promising her the riches of the land.

Kiyoko stared back in boredom, uninterested. "I am quite comfortable with my status, Ootori-san. I already have freedom. I do not care for power. It seems like those are the things that would interest you instead." It was quite obvious, really.

"Then what is of interest to you?" Kyouya pressed. Couldn't she tell that he was trying to work with her and not against her? Why did she make things so difficult?

Kiyoko looked back at the crowds and back at him. He was trying. She could see the frustration by the frown lines on his face, the way he tried to keep his eyebrows from furrowing at her. He didn't have the slightest clue about her. But at least he didn't shower her with shallow compliments about how beautiful she looked. Perhaps it was a low bar that they had set – when men had no interest in her beyond what she looked like. Something about being known as crazy tended to keep people away.

But not him, it seemed. Maybe he was crazy too. At least a little.

Kiyoko shrugged. "Good question," the gallerist nodded. "I believe my interests would not align with yours." She looked down at her nails, admiring how sharp they looked. She wondered if he enjoyed it when she dragged her nails along his neck. The way she could make his skin crawl with goosebumps. Maybe the effect no longer worked on him. Such a shame she'd have to find something else to keep the man on his toes.

"And why not? Aren't you here to play the dutiful daughter?" the Ootori shot back.

"Yes," the woman responded without hesitation. "And aren't you here to find someone more suitable?"

He hesitated and looked back in the room. Sure, there were other candidates there. But none like her. He didn't want the nuisance of having to impress women with romantic gestures – Kiyoko came unimpressed and unwilling to change. She was a businesswoman rather than a socialite. He understood that now. She was well-versed in contractual dealings. Marriage was no different. She, despite being difficult to work with at the moment, would understand him more than the rest of the women. She had zero expectations to be swooned, to be seem as anything more than a partner if at all. She had no intent on being loved.

Kiyoko watched as the man paused, mulling over the thought of someone else. Someone who didn't come with the baggage of her family, perhaps. Someone who aligned with his interests. Someone who would worship the Ootori instead of belittling him to the same level as themselves.

"No," he decided. He put his foot down and looked her in the eye. "I've made it clear that I choose you."

Kiyoko flashed a smile. He dared to look her in the eyes, hm. What did he see in them? She wondered. "And I've made it clear that it's a precarious choice, Ootori-san. Why won't you listen to me?" She stepped closer to him, enough so that he leaned back before catching himself. His gut reaction immediately told her that he was uncomfortable by her sudden advance. He straightened himself out, letting her leave only a palm's distance between them. Her heels gave her enough height to let her stare back at his own eyes.

"Hm," she thought to herself. "You have a look of… determination," Kiyoko observed. Determination and anxiety, she thought to herself. She could tell by the way his brow twitched up, only slightly when she peered too deep into his eyes. She blinked to try to ease his anxiety. The man did not like being seen as vulnerable – but then again, who did?

"And you…" He stared back. Her eyes were so dull, even while narrowed. Even when she blinked, he couldn't stop staring. She had her walls up and he didn't. How could one even see the things she saw in the pupils of others? It must have been a lucky guess.

"And I…?" she repeated, letting him trail off. When he couldn't pinpoint the right word, she chuckled to herself. "Ootori-san, you shouldn't be fixated on me."

"Not you," he gritted. The waft of gardenia danced between them as it emanated from her skin. He wondered if she could tell that it made his thoughts cloudy. "Your business," he corrected.

"Not mine," Kiyoko reminded lowly. "My father's." Even though it was very much her grandmother's, to be frank. "But if you are looking to do business – I do think you might like a piece in my upcoming exhibition," she added with a sly grin.

His lips twitched in frustration, annoyed that the woman was somehow able to swiftly divert the matter at hand once again. An excellent businesswoman – the same kind of move that he would do himself.

"You know Nami's number, right?" Kiyoko posed it as a question though it as more certainly a statement. He suddenly shied away, almost embarrassed that she had known about the time he asked for a coffee with her assistant. Did she know what they spoke about?

"I'll let her know you may be in touch," Kiyoko drawled, her dark voice only became more alluring the further she moved away. She left a more comfortable distance between the two. The man quietly exhaled, a knee jerk reaction after his body felt relieved. Kiyoko nodded her head and averted her eyes down to the ground, a bidding him a polite farewell. Her eyelashes batted at him when she raised her head and left without looking back.

He watched as the skirt of her dress trailed behind her, her long legs bringing her back to her grandmother as per usual. The Hibayashis stood side by side with the same expression. It was uncanny – she was like a split image from the eldest Hibayashi. From the furrowed brows to the way her lips would soften into a smile, a practised smile that she mirrored from her grandmother.

The two women whispered with each other in their own little bubble protected by the way they would stare at each other with venom – impenetrable by the public. He wondered if the two did so on purpose, the way they spoke seemed so volatile before putting on the same happy families act when both of them were reminded that they were in public.

"Where were you?" the grandmother snarled.
"With the Ootori," Kiyoko answered, nonchalantly.

The grandmother tilted her head. "Then where is he?" Her eyes scanned the room, careful not to turn her head to make it seem obvious.

"Staring at us from the doorway," the granddaughter answered, doing her best not to roll her eyes. "Did you say something to him? Promises of gold and riches?"

"What?" the Hibayashi narrowed her eyes. The granddaughter stood taller than the elderly woman but never failed to feel like she cowered below her as she did when she was young.

"He seems very intent on getting your business," Kiyoko informed evenly, her brain reminding her that she was a grown adult. There was no need to cower in fear. "Giving away your life's work to a stranger, hm?" the granddaughter murmured quietly.

"As if it would be in better hands with you," the elder scoffed. The child had hit it off with about zero suitors and it was quite frankly quite pathetic at this rate. What good did it do to dress in riches when no one would pay attention to the brat?

"I don't care for it," the granddaughter muttered. "You know what I care about."

"Your little art g—"

"Who I care about," Kiyoko corrected. It was an unspeakable topic, at least in public. Her grandmother shot an icy glare at the child to tell her to shut up. They were not going to speak of this, if ever. "It's all I ask for," the granddaughter reminded.

"You ask for a lot, child," the grandmother kept her voice hushed, increasingly aware of those who had been around earshot.
"I ask for the right thing to be done," Kiyoko spoke evenly, unwavering in her ideals. "I always have."

"What do you know about the right thing anyway?" the elder chastised.
"Well, evidently not a lot given the examples from our family," she half-joked. It was a comment that was not well received. The grandmother's lips twitched in anger as she tried to stay calm in public. Kiyoko knew that look all too well and stared back disinterested, having already known that the slap to the face was not executed purely because of the watchful eyes of the public.

"The Ootoris are not just a family, they are the family," Kiyoko understood. "And that Ootori, the youngest of them… is so naively enraptured by the wealth of the business that he has no clue what he can take on."

"Isn't that precisely the goal?" the grandmother dully responded. "Who else in this room would you rather be so blindly focused on the business and not you?"

Kiyoko scanned the place in the same way that perhaps the Ootori had done so earlier while he was with her. Pharmaceutical magnates, healthcare suppliers, medical device conglomerates… all of the prospective choices were too busy leading hedonistic lives in their youth, if marriageable age was still considered youthful. Perhaps the Ootori truly was the only viable choice in the midst of the dimwits. She sighed to herself and glanced back at the Ootori – meeting his eyes by the door to silently remind him that he was seen, not ignored nor unknown to the Hibayashis.

He stared back at her, unsure of what she meant by the look on her face. Was she telling him something? Those dark orbs were so blank to him. Emotionless. She had built a wall for herself that was impenetrable. They held onto each other's glance for a few more seconds before Kiyoko turned back to her grandmother.

"I expected him to be less naïve," Kiyoko murmured, almost disappointed by the realization.
"At least he isn't an idiot," the grandmother offered. "He is all we have."

From afar, he captured her eyes again. It was softer this time. Apologetic. Sullen. Pitiful. A window to her real emotions. Her eyes flickered back to the hard stare she had given him for most of the night.

How odd, he thought to himself. He must have been imagining it.

Kyouya was never one for gambling. He understood the rules of the game. The theory of probability. The supposed thrill of winning large on low stakes. He sat back in his office chair, well into the evening as he pulled up a tournament of a young Hibayashi who was dealt a rather terrible hand. She still looked the same as she did now, her eyes emotionless as she played against the men at the table. She folded her cards.

Her strategy aligned with the same logic that he would have executed – never quite taking a large risk unless the calculated probability had been in her favour. Of course, the calculated risk was easy to determine when you were watching as part of the omniscient audience.

He was quite frankly impressed. He dug even further over the course of the night – following her short professional career as a gambler. She was so young. But she played at tournaments that lasted days, over hundreds of games that Kyouya could not sift through in time.

His curiosity was enough to lead him out of the office, calling the number he had only used once. He found himself travelling 20 minutes away, standing in the foyer after travelling up 35 floors. He took note of the dark skies outside, the evenings were quiet in these skyscrapers. Gallery hours varied when only private showings were offered apparently.

The familiar assistant had come to fetch him at the entrance where security guards stood.

"It's nice to see you again, Ootori-san," she greeted politely. She led him down the hall. "I was just about to leave but luckily I have another showing scheduled."
"Is Hibayashi-san here?" Kyouya cut to the chase, not particularly caring for whatever had been in the room.

"Er," Nami looked down at her tablet, her fingers swiping to a calendar. "No, I'm afraid she isn't scheduled to be here until tomorrow morning. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?" The standard question she asked to any kind of guest to the gallery.

Kyouya pursed his lips. "No." He wasn't thirsty. He was curious.

Tomorrow morning meant being at work in his office – like any regular person. This was not exactly a convenient time for him to reschedule. He huffed to himself. Why was it so hard to get a hold of her? He wanted to stop meeting her to only speak with her for a few minutes at some upscale event that was quite frankly, a waste of time. He wanted to trap her in a room - interrogate her. Understand her. Play her in the same way she did to him.

"She noted that you might appreciate a particular piece," Nami read off the notes. "I'll show it to you."

Kyouya looked around the room – it felt like a museum of sorts. An odd exhibition. He wondered what she meant by him finding this particular showing to be of any interest to him.

"Why are all of these… monstrous?" He couldn't quite pinpoint the right adjective to describe the things around him. It bordered on the edge of being mildly terrifying with a smidgen of something oddly enticing, drawing you in to see what else the pieces of art offered.

Nami shrugged. "Pretty cool, isn't it? I had no idea she could even find these pieces or artists," the assistant responded. "Every time you stare at something, you find something else." She led him to a steel statue, no more than 12 inches in height. It seemed so small in comparison to all the large pieces that surrounded him. What did she mean? Was this a jab at his ego? Kyouya instantly felt defensive.

"It's quite nice, isn't it?" A smooth shape of a man with his head in his hands, back hunched over, sitting on a slab of the same dark material. The Ootori narrowed his eyes at the object. He looked down at the plate. Pensive, he read inwardly. It was made of smoothed obsidian stone. Foraged from the foot the Mediterranean islands. The price tag seemed rather exorbitant for how small it was.

"Why did she think I would appreciate such a simplistic piece?" Kyouya scoffed. They were surrounded by sketches, paintings, other sculptures. All of which were more elaborate than this one.

Nami looked back at the tablet. "She wrote a good addition to the office," she quoted. "It seems to work well with your previous purchase."
"I don't have room for it," the Ootori dismissed.
"But you had room for a 10 foot tall painting?" Nami blinked. Her comment was meant innocently without any intent to offend. She was that kind of person.

Kyouya ignored Nami's point and glanced around the gallery. The assistant took it as a perfect segue to let the man wander – perhaps he would find something else that would catch his eye. The Ootori wandered around the place, wondering what would spur the woman to curate such a strange collection. Then again, strange would be one of the words he would describe her anyway.

He heard the footsteps of someone's heels down the hall. Hushed whispers. Kyouya immediately walked over to the new guest, expecting the owner to have showed up at this hour. It seemed like a good assumption until his legs brought him to the pair of females by the door. Kyouya was immediately disappointed that it wasn't who he thought. Someone else. Older. An elderly woman. A stranger that he didn't recognize at all.

Nami immediately turned her attention to the man who had showed up unexpectedly.

"Ootori-san, was there anything you required assistance with?" she politely asked.
"No," he quickly brushed off. He kept his cool demeanour as he shuffled his way around to the door. "Thank you," he murmured before exiting the space. He wondered why he somehow expected to run into her. He just had so many unanswered questions.

Rewatching the games of her poker tournaments only confirmed one thing: the woman was calculative. Manipulative. Intelligent. It was an unconventional method of earning an income, but she excelled at it and retired ahead of it all. Kyouya couldn't help but to wonder why – to become some glorified art curator seemed like such an odd jump. He couldn't read her. Understand her. He couldn't determine her next move. That was the most bothersome of all.

There was only one other place he knew of. But quite frankly, it didn't matter. He could use a stiff drink to nurse the headache that formed. It was a fifteen minute walk through the brisk cold air into an unsuspecting restaurant storefront and down a staircase that only a select number of patrons knew about. Catered to the rich and the elite, the entire bar was tucked away from the public. A bodyguard was hidden behind a secret door, letting people in as long as the bar was not at capacity.

He found it the first time after a trail of rumours he found on the internet. A rare glimpse into one of her exhibitions, wherein the curator was only named KH. It was featured in an upscale art magazine. The writer had mentioned that the curator had met them for an interview in a secretive location – a bar beneath what everyone assumed as a modern restaurant which lead into a room with exposed concrete walls and dim lighting. The industrial look seemed more like an artistic touch rather than a rundown detail. After frequenting the place a few times, Kyouya had decided to test his luck on a day wherein they were to formally meet over a dinner.

Lo and behold, she had shown up. Their first meeting ended with her reminding him that she was what everyone had said about her. Their second meeting was at her gallery where he spent a good chunk of change, naively thinking it might provide him with the stroke of luck to be in her good graces. The third was his most triumphant, confirming the rumours of her philandering father. But Kiyoko did not budge, nor did she seem to let it bother her when she once again held the upper hand by making him feel so incredibly stupid. The fourth time, she surprised him by not batting an eye to the information he shared. Was she just unabashedly fearless? Perhaps that was the one advantage of being at rock bottom – nothing could have fazed you. There was no amount of blackmail or threats to let her believe she would ever fall further than the pit of the darkness she was already in. Even when he declared that he had chosen her, Kiyoko dismissed his statement as a joke.

He had now met her a handful of times. An actual handful with their fifth meeting ending in a shared glance that he couldn't decipher.

Why won't you listen to me? Her voice repeated. Her tone urgent, as if trying to scold a child when they kept making the same mistake over and over again.

She seemed like she didn't care how everything played out – fully aware that the Ootori had the upper hand to make the decision. There were only two options for her: ascend or stay in the same position she was in her whole life.

I am quite comfortable with my status, Ootori-san. I already have freedom. I do not care for power.

She made him second guess himself, in decisions that were meant to be the most logical. She knew it too, the way she could play him like a fiddle. It made him finish off the drink in his hand, letting the liquid burn all the way down his throat.

"Could I get you another, sir?" the bartender interrupted.
"Yes," Kyouya answered stiffly. The place was empty. It was only 9 PM on a weekday, of course it was empty.

"What's on your mind?" the man poured another whisky on the rocks. "Wait, no, let me guess – a woman," the man smirked.

The Ootori stared back, unamused at the guess. He was not here to entertain this stranger with his personal life or the thoughts that weighed on his mind.

"You were here with that art curator," the man remembered. There were regular patrons that he recognized, but Kyouya was not exactly one of them. Granted, the place catered to a select number of niche demographics – but all of them rich of some kind. "Right?"
Kyouya narrowed his eyes, suddenly realizing that there was an opportunity. "What do you know about her?"

"She likes her bourbon," the man shrugged. "Just like you, apparently."
He rolled his eyes. That wasn't helpful at all.

"Oh man, don't tell me…" the bartender on the other side of the counter chuckled. "It's not her on your mind, is it?"

The Ootori took a sip of the alcohol and ignored the question.

"She hasn't been around lately. But she's interesting to talk to, no?" He was polishing a glass casually, lining them all up as though he was getting ready for a whole crowd to come through. Weeknights did not really draw much of a crowd but one could still prepare.
"How so?" Kyouya raised an eyebrow. Interesting was the least of it.
"We've talked about a range of topics. She'll tell a story and asks me to determine if they're true or not. But she'll never tell me if I'm right."
"What stories?" the businessman pressed, now curious.

"She always has stories of playing poker against some crazy people," the bartender answered. "Seems fake. No way she's the kind of person who would gamble. She's too prim and proper for it."
Kyouya Ootori shook his head with a smirk. "Actually, she was a professional poker player." He brought up his phone and showed him a video of a tournament that he had conveniently loaded on the device from earlier. The bartender paused in polishing the glass, his eyes widening at the thought of her being a professional gambler. He racked his brain for other stories she had told him.

"She once helped in freeing a kidnapped person from the yakuza by following a money trail of where her art had been purchased."
"That's quite farfetched," Kyouya responded. "You said it yourself, she's too prim and proper to be involved with the yakuza."

"She was very convincing," the bartender grumbled, now embarrassed that he truly believed it. "That's the thing with her: she'll tell you something and you wouldn't even be able to tell if she was lying. She keeps you on your toes, even if you're dead sober and she's well ahead of you in the drinks."
"I'm well aware," the Ootori grumbled. "What else have you learned about her?"

"She can handle her alcohol well," the bartender admitted. "She'll come here for business dealings, sometimes."
"Oh?" Kyouya raised an eyebrow. "Business?"

"I don't know the details. Sometimes it's real-estate. Sometimes it's art dealings. She's always doing something with money," the stranger observed. She would sit in a booth with someone else as they signed papers. Oftentimes it ended in a drink to celebrate the merger of some kind. "Either way, she's quite elusive but rich as hell."
"Indeed," he agreed with a sigh, feeling like he was at his wit's end with her. Elusive but rich as hell was a description that both of them fit.

"So what's your deal with her?" the man asked as he stared across the counter with the distressed figure.
"I have to make her my wife," Kyouya muttered quietly to himself before taking another large sip of his drink. The flame in his throat did not subside when the bartender stared at him in disbelief.

"That seems like… a feat," the bartender raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to say to that. It must have been going poorly considering how bothered the man seemed. "She's hard to get to know."
"You have no idea," he gritted with a glint in his eyes.

"But she's a good person," the man offered in consolidation. "You can just feel it when you talk to someone." The man has talked to many people over the years – while Kiyoko was hard to understand, at the very least, his gut told him that she was good.
"Maybe she's just a good liar," the Ootori rolled his eyes, obviously the more cynical of the pair. It seemed like a more plausible idea. She was a pathological liar – how else could she have been a great poker player otherwise?

"Maybe," the bartender agreed. "But at least she's a great storyteller."
"What good is she to just tell stories all day?" the businessman grunted. A useless skill that yielded zero profit.

"She told me she's a writer," the stranger casually mentioned.
"Perhaps another lie," Kyouya rolled his eyes. She was a gambler. An art curator. A socialite. And a writer? He'll believe it when he saw it.
"Seemed true to me," he shrugged. "She has a way with words. A well-educated air to her, you know? I think she would be very talented in it."

"The only talent she has is confusing people," the drinker sighed. "She paints herself as psychotic, manipulates the world into thinking she's to be feared…" he trailed off as he stared into the glass. It felt like he had hit a wall every time he tried to understand her.

"Well, if that's what you're looking for in a future wife…" The joke didn't land as well as the man had hoped. "At least she's not actually psychotic," he added in consolation.
Kyouya blinked at those words. "She says that she is."

"Nah," the man shook his head. "She likes to psyche people out. That's her thing. A defense mechanism. I let her do it because it's fun to play along."
"Hm," Kyouya nodded. "Yes, that's it. A defense mechanism." He wondered why it took him this long to figure it out. And even then, it wasn't even him who figured it out, he had to get the answer from a stranger.

"Looks like she's got you psyched out pretty good, huh?" the man chuckled to himself.
"I never said that," the Ootori snapped, despite realizing that perhaps, it was true. She had him running in circles over the decisions he had made for himself, hesitating over what should have been rational.

"You didn't have to," he shrugged. "So what's the plan? How will you ever get her to fall in love with you?"
Kyouya shook his head. "There's no need for love," he explained while perching up his glasses. "A useless concept in our world."

Kyouya slid his drink across the counter to silently ask for another. The bartender obliged, not commenting on what was said earlier. Each to their own, he figured. Using the same glass he just polished, he turned his back to gather a new set of fresh ice cubes before pouring 4 ounces of his bourbon of choice.

"I'll tell you a story," the bartender offered.
"What story?" the Ootori deadpanned. He was not here for storytelling. He was here to try to think.

"It's about your future wife," the man enticed. The Ootori relented with a sigh, leaning back in the chair with his glass as he listened. "Opening this place was a dream of sorts, the kind where you always thought about but never had the guts to achieve." The man pointed towards the room, pointing out all the little details of the décor. Drawing inspiration from the prohibition era, the kind of secretive hideaway where only the most exclusive could come and entertain themselves.

"The first year was shit," the owner explained. "Could hardly make rent. People didn't understand the concept. It was a place that was meant to be hidden. A secret of sorts. Kiyoko stumbled in here once," he continued. "She was running. Escaping from some kind of event. From a crowd. I can't really remember."

"And then what? She made this place a success?" Kyouya scoffed. "What was she running from, anyway?"

"She said it was a group of art snobs," the bartender chuckled. "Kiyoko really did make this place a success. She drew the right people in. People who appreciated the cocktail culture. People who could behave themselves in a bar. People that could actually pay for the drinks."

The man slid down and unlocked a drawer. He fished out a golden hair pin and held it up. The lighting was dim across the entire bar, but it glistened anyway. The metal was soft to touch – a delicate piece of work crafted with gold tiger lilies and small diamonds in the centre of each flower.

"She gave me this," the bartender explained, holding it out for the Ootori to inspect and even touch. The metal was cold against his palm at first but warmed quickly. The pin itself was heavy, clearly solid gold. It was so beautifully elegant. Luxurious. Delicate. Goodness, it screamed her. He could already picture her wearing it in the way that she always did, her hair beautifully crafted into a low bun with strands of her hair intentionally falling down her neck and framing her face. A dark gown. Bold red lip. Eyes sunken in with grey smoky hues. How did he even picture that?

"I told her it was getting difficult to make rent and she pulled this out of her hair. And you know what the fuck she said? For emergency use only." The man laughed to himself. "I was like, what the fuck am I going to do with a goddamn hair pin?"

"Pay rent," Kyouya softly answered, now in a daze as he could easily imagine her smile as she said the same words in the same spot he sat in.

"Exactly," the bartender nodded. "Luckily I've never had to use it. But I don't think I'll need to, not anymore. You keep it," he suggested.
"I have for no use for this," the Ootori scoffed, trying to hand back the hairpin in his hand. He tried to shake off the image of her in his mind. It was enough daydreaming. He clearly had enough to drink. The bartender refused with a headshake, his hands full with bottles of alcohol that he was putting back on the shelves.

"Use it," the elder urged. "Use it as an excuse to see her again. Tell her you heard a story about her. A good story," he added with a raised an eyebrow.

Kyouya knew many stories about her. He knew of her history. Or rather, stories about her family. But not her. He stared down at the hair pin. It wasn't exactly the collateral he needed or wanted. The weight of the object felt heavy in his hands. His mind wandered to how she must have carried this with the strength of only the strands of her hair.

What else did she carry in that mind of hers?