“Awesome!” the man shouted, clapping so hard the sound echoed off the walls. He spun in a circle, then pointed both fingers at the girls. “We nailed that one.”
They whooped and crowded around the phone. Shoulders bumped, voices overlapped as they sang the chorus under their breath, giggling when the video ended and they high-fived each other.
Meanwhile, I stood there like the extra wheel nobody wanted—unsure whether to cross my arms, leave them hanging, or just keep shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Was I supposed to say hello? Walk away? Pretend I was invisible? It was worse than that moment when your friend drags someone along, doesn’t bother with introductions, and you just stare at each other until someone finally blurts, “Hi, I’m…”
The Chopman cleared his throat, deep and gravelly. The man finally looked up from the phone, blinking like he’d only just noticed us.
His face lit up. “Ah! An audience!”
He snatched a chilled bottle of champagne from a silver holder on the wet bar. Two flutes appeared in his hands as if by magic. With a flourish, he popped the cork, filled them, and handed one to me.
“Welcome, welcome! What did you think? Did you like it?” His grin was wide and boyish.
His hair shimmered purplish silver under the lights, styled to perfection. Black eyeliner rimmed his eyes, making them sharp, foxlike. He had perfect veneers, and his nose looked carved by a surgeon.
And then the outfit: a black velvet tracksuit, haute couture, with gold flames curling up the sleeves and across the chest.
I hesitated, fingers tightening around the glass. “Uh… yeah. It was good.”
“Bravo!” He tapped his flute against mine and downed his in a single gulp. Before I could react, he tilted my glass toward me with two fingers, urging it higher.
Caught off guard, I took a sip. The bubbles fizzed sharp against my throat.
The dancers behind him had collapsed onto one of the sectionals, cracking open water bottles, fanning themselves, and replaying the video on someone’s phone. Not a single glance in my direction. The DJ was the same, hunched over his laptop, headphones clamped on like nothing else in the world existed.
“Sit, sit,” the man said, motioning to the sofa.
I hesitated before sinking into the cushion. My brain was still comprehending what was happening. Finally, I found the nerve to speak. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“My name is Ginji,” he said with a smile. “Welcome to my home.”
Up close, I had to admit, he was handsome. Mid-thirties, well-groomed, money practically dripping off him. Into J-pop, sure, but I could forgive that. Still, there was something off about this whole setup, something I couldn’t pin down just yet.
His eyes lingered on me for a moment, weighing me. “I imagine you have questions.”
“Uh, yeah. Like… where’s my friend? Is she here too?”
“You mean Akiko?”
My throat tightened. “How do you know her?”
“Miki,” he said—and the fact that he knew my name made my stomach flip—“I know everything about her. And you. Don’t worry about Akiko. She’s staying somewhere else. You, on the other hand, are my guest. You’ll be staying here in the main house.”
My fingers knotted together in my lap.
Okay. Now he’s giving stalker vibes.
“I’m confused. How do you even know us?”
“Akiko was the darling of the culinary world,” Ginji said easily. “Hard not to know her. But you…” His eyes narrowed with something closer to fascination. “You stayed in the background. Unnoticed.”
He leaned in, grin widening as his gaze swept from my head to my toes. “But I saw you.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
“You can’t hide behind her forever,” he added, voice dropping low. “Not with that kind of beauty.”
The words hung there, tightening my chest.
