Empty Mansions, 1/4
Title: Empty Mansions
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sakurai Sho/Matsumoto Jun; Aiba Masaki/Kanjiya Shihori
Summary: “Jun-kun, tell me,” Shiroyanagi Masaharu said with hope in his eyes, “how much do you know about your Aunt Michiko?”
Notes/Warnings: This story is 500% inspired by the life of American heiress Huguette Clark. I read a biography of her recently and found her totally fascinating. The title of this story comes from said biography because I am lacking in originality. Learn more about Huguette’s interesting life here. Drama/angst in store for the patient reader.
With the stack of newspapers tucked under one arm and the bakery bag in his other hand, he nodded in gratitude as Yasuda-san held the door for him. “Good morning, Sakurai-san,” the cheerful doorman said, eyeing his usual bounty of papers. “Cold today, huh?”
“Doesn’t usually get this bad until January,” he complained.
“No kidding!” Yasuda said, shutting the door, returning to his post outside.
Sho let the warm embrace of the building’s lobby take hold of him, and he stood there a few moments, catching his breath. He’d been in and out all morning, leaving his apartment at 6:30 in order to catch the Toyoko Line. It dropped him at Jiyugaoka just before 7:00, giving him just enough time to pick up the papers, get to the bakery, and make it to Michiko-san’s building by 7:30. Or, as Sho thought proudly when he checked his watch, 7:24. A new December record, especially with how slowly Shibutani-san at the newspaper stand counted out change in his gloved hands.
He headed for the elevator, adjusting the items in his arms as the doors opened and he punched in the passcode for Michiko-san’s floor. She was the second floor from the top, and Sho was one of only a handful of people to have that passcode. Some mornings, when it was too cold or too hot or he was too frustrated, he reminded himself of that fact, of that trust. Some mornings it still didn’t make much difference, but on most, it did.
The elevator chimed and let him out. Like all of the floors in the building, there were only four massive apartments on each. However, unlike all the other floors, only one apartment on this floor was occupied. The other three Michiko-san had purchased years ago in order to not have neighbors. Someday soon, Michiko-san was always hinting, she’d buy out the people above her and below her. Shihori always managed to talk her down from such plans, thankfully.
Sho fumbled with the flap of his laptop bag, digging out his keyring. Before he could put it in the lock, however, Shihori was already unlocking it, pushing it open. “You’re early,” she said, looking up at him with a bit of warning in her eyes.
Don’t make it a habit, she was implying, or Michiko-san will start expecting her papers at 7:00.
Shihori had been Michiko-san’s live-in nurse for four years now, and Sho liked her a great deal. It took a lot, being at the old woman’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When Sho had first started, Michiko-san had had a rotation of three nurses - one who lived with her and the other two who switched off weekends. But it had proven to be too many people, and so now there was Shihori around the clock save for a few days off a month when one of the old weekend nurses visited twice a day.
Shihori was good-humored, patient, and despite her small size, she had no trouble getting Michiko-san in and out of bed or the bathtub, guiding her around the massive apartment on their “little strolls.” Sho sometimes wondered if Shihori wished for a different job, for more days off, for a break from Michiko-san. But then again, most people asked Sho the same things, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
Dressed in her cardigan, t-shirt, and slacks, the nurse didn’t really look the part, but Michiko-san preferred it that way. Shihori grabbed the bakery bag out of Sho’s grip, heading off for the kitchen. Michiko-san relied entirely on a meal delivery service specializing in the nutritional needs of the elderly, but she insisted that Sho bring her fresh croissants every morning to go with her breakfast. It was her one “little indulgence” she allowed herself.
He followed Shihori into the kitchen. It was mostly spotless, and even though she ate only her delivered meals, which just required microwaving, Michiko-san’s kitchen could have been used to feed dozens. She had all the latest appliances, a fancy new faucet, a large oven, a “smart” refrigerator with an Internet connection that went unused. Her kitchen was just one of many things that were for show. Shihori never made herself anything that complicated.
Sho took his usual morning seat at the kitchen counter, pulling his laptop from his bag and setting down the papers. While Shihori munched on some French toast she’d made for herself (with extras for Sho), she heated up Michiko-san’s morning meal. Sho started with the Yomiuri Shimbun, scanning each page for the type of news his employer liked. While Michiko-san would go on and read the papers herself with her magnifying glass, Sho jotted down notes on his laptop so he could answer Michiko-san’s questions and then search the Internet for any further discussion or developments.
“You’d be great on those current affairs programs,” Shihori was always telling him. “You could be a commentator since you read those papers every single day.”
Sho hadn’t known what to expect a little more than ten years ago when he’d been ready to graduate and looking for his first full-time position. He’d done the usual song-and-dance, going on interviews with at least a dozen companies. He hadn’t been too sure about life as a salaryman, sitting in a boring office all day selling things that meant nothing to him. Then there’d been that ad in the newspaper. He’d only managed to spot it because he’d left his Starbucks cup sitting on top of it, lifting it up to see he’d inadvertently circled the ad. It had been a sign, he supposed. A sign that his life was about to get very odd.
“Personal assistant wanted. Looking for someone smart and organized. Unusual hours, must be loyal. Attractive young man preferred.”
He’d applied as a joke after showing a friend the ad. “It’s probably for a porno,” his friend had teased him. “Or maybe you’ll pose nude for an artist.”
Instead he’d shown up and met Shiroyanagi Michiko, and his life had never been the same. She’d been approaching 87 then, and she’d asked him to show up and do pretty much the same thing he did every morning of every day they were together now. “Tell me what’s happening out there,” she’d told him. So he’d gone out, bought a stack of newspapers and summarized the top stories of the day for her. When she challenged him on things, asked for clarification or to repeat a name, demanded that he offer an opinion, he’d failed that first time.
“I’m sure you can get better,” she’d said, peering at him through her enormous glasses, smiling at him with her crooked teeth and smeared lipstick. “You are an attractive young man.”
She’d hired him on the spot, giving a twenty-two year old days from graduation a starting salary of 18 million yen per year.
Though Sho augmented a lot of his daily news with the Internet now, Michiko-san still preferred the newspapers. She liked staining her fingers with the ink. She liked when Sho read her the obituaries of famous people she had outlived, too. “The secret to a long life, Sho-chan, is to read. Never stop reading. I bet they stopped,” she always said with a smile. “Keep that mind of yours sharp, just like mine.”
Sho did more than just read the papers. Shiroyanagi Michiko was one of the wealthiest people in Japan, not that many people knew it. She was a recluse and had been for most of her life. When her parents died suddenly back in the 1930’s, her father’s will had been rather unusual. She and her older brother had been given equal shares of his fortune and equal shares in the family business, commercial real estate. Michiko-san, kind but almost painfully shy, had zero interest in the business and had refused to marry. She’d let her brother Daisuke buy out her interest in the company, and she’d hidden herself away, investing her money wisely for decades.
Living alone for many years, Michiko-san had funneled all her money into her own interests. She donated millions anonymously to children’s charities and maintained a rather child-like innocence herself. Her parents died when she was twenty, and she’d spent almost eighty years now buying dolls. Commissioning new ones and buying rare ones at auction. She had doll houses built for them, clothing made for them. Very few of them actually lived with her. She had apartments and houses scattered around the country, and they were filled with them. It was Sho’s job to maintain and photograph her collection, to track her commissions, to carry out her wishes.
It had been creepy at first, being twenty-two and hired to look after some crazy old woman’s dolls, but Michiko-san wasn’t really crazy. She was just passionate about her hobby, and even if it was a little creepy, walking around one of her “doll apartments,” he was well-paid for his time. And she had more than dolls. She had fancy jewelry, works of art, sculptures, china sets, items boxed up that she never used but refused to part with. She had property all over Japan, houses she’d never even set foot in. She trusted Sho to look after them. She trusted Sho to come by every day and let her know what was happening outside. She trusted Sho to be her voice, to write the letters she dictated, to work with her lawyer and her accountant to ensure her wishes were carried out.
Even when she frustrated him, he couldn’t imagine someone else doing his job. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her. She needed him, and Sho doubted that there was any company in Japan that “needed” him or would appreciate him in the same way.
By 8:15 he’d summarized the papers and had made a big show of circling one of the obituaries that morning. It was something Michiko-san needed to know, and Sho actually wasn’t too sure how she was going to react. The name “Shiroyanagi” in the paper was never something that interested his employer. The real estate company her father had started, that her brother had inherited, that she’d cut herself off from - it held little interest. The only time her brother’s side of the family contacted her, it was because they wanted money for the business, even though she’d washed her hands of it. “Vultures,” she called them. “All they want is my money.” She still knew all their names, all the relatives who never bothered to get to know her in return.
Shihori cleaned up Michiko-san’s breakfast, and when Sho was given approval to enter for the day, she seemed in good spirits. She’d slowed considerably since Sho had started working for her, given that she’d just turned 97 in the last week. Her mind was still sharp as ever, but her body disagreed with her more often than not lately. She was nearly deaf in her right ear, so Sho always sat to her left. Her sight was poor, and her magnifying glass was almost always in her hand. She was in pain from arthritis, and every time her physician paid her a visit, he recommended she move to a care facility. Every time, the old woman refused.
As wealthy as she was, Michiko-san wore simple clothing. Turtleneck shirts no matter the season, seeing as she never left the house, long skirts. Shihori trimmed her hair for her, helped her put on lipstick. “I have to look nice for my young man,” she told her nurse. The only sign of her millions came in the jeweled bracelets she sometimes wore, the rings she put on her fingers. She’d had her croissants, and she was in her usual place, perched among some pillows on her overstuffed sofa. Sho took his usual place in the chair just to the left of the couch, and she smiled for him, her thin hands folded primly in her lap.
“Sho-chan, good morning.”
“Good morning, Michiko-san.”
“Today is the eighteenth of December,” she recited for him. “It’s a Thursday.”
“It is,” he nodded. They started every morning exchange this way. If she was ever wrong, it was a sign to call her physician. Michiko was proud of herself. She hardly ever faltered. No signs of dementia at all. “I’m afraid I have some sad news to report this morning. There’s been a death in your family.”
Michiko fiddled with the blanket Shihori had placed on her lap. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Money-grubbing though they could be, Michiko didn’t hate them. Sho arranged the newspapers on the couch for her. While Michiko-san picked up her magnifying glass, gripping it tightly, Sho gestured to the obituary that dominated the section that day.
“Shiroyanagi Daisuke, the son of your great-nephew Masaharu and his wife. The heir to Shiroyanagi Management.”
Michiko-san looked deeply sad, shaking her head. Her fingers drifted across the newsprint, and she bowed her head. “So young.”
“Yes, it says here he was born in 1981.” Sho held his tongue about the other details. The man had been unmarried, a playboy. He’d been off in Switzerland pissing his family’s money down the drain, had died by falling off a balcony drunk. It was an embarrassment, one final embarrassment in a long line of them. Now he was dead, and the entire company was in jeopardy. At least that was what all the papers were implying.
“And Masaharu has no other children,” Michiko said, shutting her eyes. “This is terrible for him, simply terrible.”
“What would you like to do?” he asked.
Her fingers lingered on the photograph of Shiroyanagi Daisuke, dead at 33, named for Michiko’s own brother. “Flowers,” she decided. “Sho-chan, there must be so many flowers for this poor boy.”
-
She’d been fumbling with the envelope of condolence money the entire car ride over, turning it over in her hands, tapping it against her leg, and Jun was very close to yanking it away. But his older sister had always been a stubborn person, and he wasn’t in the mood to start a fight. It made more sense for Arisa to carry the thing anyway, for Arisa to hand it over. She actually wanted to be here.
There were so many cars in the lot that Jun swore under his breath, trying to be patient as he was slowly directed across the gravel to a spot near the end of a row. He parked, waiting patiently as Arisa poked and prodded her hair, adjusting bobby pins. “You look fine,” he said with a sigh as she examined herself in the tiny mirror from her handbag. “It’s a wake, you know.”
She shot him a dirty look before opening the car door and slamming it after her. He hid a smile, biting his lower lip. The last thing anyone needed to see him do was smile right now. It was an elaborate set-up, as he’d expected. They were yards away and could already smell the flowers. Because it had been unexpected, because Daisuke had been so young, everyone had seemingly competed to show the most shock, the deepest sympathies through their floral arrangements.
The most sucking up.
It irritated Jun quite a bit, but he stayed calm, walking at his sister’s side as they approached the funeral parlor. “Do you think they’ll be angry that Dad’s not here?” she’d been asking him ever since they’d found out, ever since she’d begged Jun to attend the wake with her.
“Hell would freeze over before Dad would show up here, and they know it,” had been Jun’s reply.
Their father, Matsumoto Hiroki, was not a fan of his mother’s family. Shiroyanagi Atsuko had been born to wealth and privilege, the daughter of real estate mogul Shiroyanagi Daisuke. But then she’d refused an arranged marriage and had married “beneath” herself, marrying for love, marrying Matsumoto Yuji, a simple chicken farmer and Jun’s grandfather. When Atsuko made her choice she’d been cut off from the Shiroyanagi name, the Shiroyanagi wealth. While Atsuko’s father and her brother lived in mansions, Atsuko and Yuji struggled for years to survive. Jun’s father had never forgiven the Shiroyanagi family for how they’d treated his mother.
Jun knew their father was angry he and Arisa had decided to attend the wake at all. Daisuke, their second cousin, had been named for his great-grandfather. He’d gone to the best schools, to the best university. He’d traveled the world, had everything he could have wanted. Though they had the same great-grandfather, Daisuke’s life was vastly different from Jun and Arisa’s. They hadn’t grown up poor, as their father had, but theirs was just an average family. An average house, average schools. Arisa had gone to a decent college, Jun to a second-rate culinary school because he couldn’t afford the top tier.
When Jun was younger, his sister had been obsessed with the family that was so closely related but yet so far from them. Arisa would tack up stock market tables on the bulletin board in her small bedroom, would track the Shiroyanagi Management stock (even if she didn’t really know what the hell she was looking at). She followed society mentions of their father’s cousin Masaharu, his son Daisuke who was born the same year she was. She knew about their glamorous vacations, about the yacht they owned. She had always been so jealous.
“You’ll never get their money,” their father would yell at her. “They want nothing to do with us, and that’s just fine with me.”
It would only spur her on. Jun had managed to remain mostly indifferent all these years. Not interested in being stuck between his sister’s envy and his father’s hatred, the Shiroyanagi family meant little to Matsumoto Jun. They were a talking point, a pick-up line. “You’ll never guess who I’m related to.”
And now Daisuke had fallen off a balcony in Switzerland, and Jun was here to pray for his soul.
His sister fussed with his tie before they entered the temple. He was 31 years old, and she’d never stopped treating him like her underling. He finally had to shove her hand away before someone saw them. Jun knew that she’d tried to get her husband to come with her first, but Keisuke, the damn traitor, had suggested it would be more appropriate if brother and sister attended together instead.
They entered the funeral parlor, the best money could buy, and Jun could just imagine the fireworks exploding in Arisa’s head. Here she was at last, able to bask in greatness. There were dozens of people milling about, staff accepting the envelopes of condolence money, asking them to sign registers of their attendance. High society, everywhere. The kind of people who were like the Shiroyanagis, not the Matsumotos. Even in basic, muted funeral black Jun could smell the money on these people just as much as the incense in the halls.
He nudged Arisa forward, and as Jun had irritatingly anticipated, she introduced them as family. Cousins, which was true, but they’d never met Daisuke once. A staff member took down their names and accepted their business cards, took their pathetic financial offering, and escorted them out of the packed lobby and into the main room. He’d never seen such a large wake in his entire life. Row after row of chairs, a park’s worth of flowers at the front, and a photograph of a smiling, handsome Shiroyanagi Daisuke that looked more like a cover for a men’s style magazine than a funeral portrait.
The staff member brought them closer and closer to the front of the room, closer and closer to Daisuke, and Jun’s unease grew. He had no qualms about expressing sympathy - much as his cousin hadn’t seemed like a stellar person, it was still sad that he’d passed away so young. But he didn’t need to be up at the front with the immediate family.
They were seated only two rows back from Daisuke’s parents as they waited for everything to begin. He looked around nervously. While Arisa sat proudly, back straight and face serene in a place she thought they deserved to be, Jun could see the confusion grow on other faces. Who the hell are these peasants, Jun imagined them saying and he had to stifle yet another smile of amusement.
Finally, mercifully, everyone else was shown in and the priest moved to kneel before Daisuke’s coffin, beginning his chant. Jun went through the motions, walking behind his sister and following the other Shiroyanagi relatives to the altar. After offering the incense, he met eyes with Shiroyanagi Daisuke for the first time, if only with his portrait. He knew the guy was a scumbag, a spoiled brat who never worked hard for anything in his life. For 31 years, Jun’s father had told him so. “This is what money does,” Matsumoto Hiroki said. “This is what it does when you let it rule you.”
Jun pursed his lips and bowed to the portrait respectfully before following Arisa. Shiroyanagi Masaharu and his wife Michiru were waiting. He let his sister introduce them. “Of course,” Michiru said with a kind, genuine smile. She looked so tired, Jun wanted to apologize for taking up her time. “Of course, Hiroki-san’s children. Thank you for coming. It’s so kind of you.”
“If there’s anything we can do,” Arisa said quietly, “anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Jun would have to save his eye roll of the century until they got back to the car. He could just imagine Arisa standing in front of the mirror at home, practicing that line until Keisuke made gagging noises. Instead Jun bowed to them, to the people his father had resented his entire life.
When Masaharu held out his hand, Jun almost didn’t know what to do. He was a short man, balding with glasses. He and Jun’s father had the same eyes, and it was unnerving. First cousins, vastly different lives. “Jun-kun,” Masaharu said, clasping Jun’s hand in his own. He could hear whispers, more confusion from the other attendees. Their murmurs didn’t seem to reach Shiroyanagi Masaharu. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “Jun-kun, thank you.”
They bowed once more, and Masaharu let him go.
When they got in the car, Arisa was angry. Jun started the car, eyeing her in annoyance. “What, you’re mad he didn’t shake your hand?”
She crossed her arms and actually snorted, a grown woman with a husband and child. Sometimes Jun thought Arisa’s five year old son was more mature than she was. “I may as well have stayed home.”
He sighed, backing up the car and heading out of the lot. He would never understand her, this woman who shared the same DNA as him. “You thought they were going to hand out Tiffany jewelry and country club memberships as the thank you gifts for all the mourners?”
“What an awful thing to say! He was our cousin!”
“He was a stranger,” Jun shot back, loosening his tie when they stopped for a red light. “A complete stranger.”
-
Sho always felt a bit awkward attending the client Christmas party at Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners. Everyone around him, lawyer and client alike, was wealthy, the type who drove sports cars and flew first class. Sho was well-paid for his job, of course, but not like this. Every year since he’d started working for Michiko-san, and most likely every year before that, an invite to the client Christmas party had arrived for her. “Sho-chan, you should go. I’m sure they serve wonderful food there.”
Well, they did actually, and if there was one thing Sho appreciated, it was wonderful food. Michiko-san always sent a letter declining the invitation and insisting that Sho be issued one instead, as he would be attending in her place. The client Christmas party was a celebration of a year’s success, although Sho always sensed eyes on him if he reached for one too many shrimp hors d’oeuvres.
Because if one client caused headaches for Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners, it was Shiroyanagi Michiko. The firm had served as her legal representation from day one in the 1930’s when she’d sold her shares of Shiroyanagi Management to her brother. Her lawyer had the unenviable job of negotiating real estate deals when Michiko-san wanted to buy a new house she wouldn’t live in or if she planned to buy more of her dolls in auctions around the world.
She was one of the wealthiest clients on their payroll, and that included some entire companies, but for decades, she had caused them headaches. And the latest irritation was Michiko-san’s lack of interest in signing a will. “I feel great,” Michiko-san would say any time one of Kato’s polite, but annoyed letters arrived. “Does that boy want me dead so he can make a profit off it? Lawyers get money for handling that, you know.”
Kato Shigeaki was actually the fourth lawyer from Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners to be in charge of the Shiroyanagi Michiko client file. His grandfather, the Kato in the firm’s name, had been Michiko’s trusted ally for years before he retired. After a few years’ limbo, Michiko being passed around the partners, Kato’s grandson had been hired at the firm right out of law school. “That one, that one, Sho-chan. I always trusted Kato-san! I want him to manage my affairs!”
“I’m not the same person,” Kato had said by way of introduction to Sho the first time three years ago. “She does know that, right?”
Kato had been a little arrogant for someone starting at the bottom of the totem pole in such a prestigious firm, and he’d leapt into Michiko’s life and her very complex files with something closer to contempt than enthusiasm. The rapport his grandfather and Michiko had shared often gave him the courage to say things Sho thought someone in their mid-twenties shouldn’t say to an elder. From the very start, he opted for “Michiko-san” over “Shiroyanagi-san,” and he got a little testy whenever a new work contract made it to his desk, going so far as to call some of Michiko’s plans “foolish.”
That evening Kato was nearly up Sho’s ass, coming by to nag about Michiko every five minutes when he ought to have been enjoying the shrimp. Sho tried to be patient as Kato, pencil by his ear and manila file folder in hand, accosted him by the bar. Sho sipped quietly from his champagne flute while Kato found something else to point out.
“She’s got this thing coming from Germany and is paying extra for them to ship it to the Nagano house? Why? Why can’t it just be shipped to her here?”
Sho took another sip, trying to stay as in control as he could despite having enjoyed quite a bit of champagne already. He was still here as Michiko’s representative. “It’s a model of Neuschwanstein.”
“Neusch-what?”
“Neuschwanstein Castle. In Bavaria. It’s a famous castle in the Alps I think? So she wants it in the Nagano house because of the mountain setting.”
“It’s a dollhouse,” Kato complained, staring Sho down. “Does it matter? She’s paying twice as much to ship it there, and the craftsman in Germany needs confirmation before the end of the year to close his books out. Ninomiya’s breathing down my neck so he can mail out the final check, but I have to finalize the work contract and…”
“I have to take pictures of it for her once it arrives. It’ll be in the west wing of the house, and you can see Mount Kirigamine from the windows there.” He set the champagne flute down, gesturing a little wildly with his hands. He needed to stop drinking so much at these things, but free was free. “So I have to make sure she can see how it looks with the mountains in the background.”
“She wants her German castle dollhouse in the Nagano house because of the Japanese mountains?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t just Photoshop it?”
Sho smiled, seeing Kato’s face darken in his usual rage. “Send it to the Nagano house. She doesn’t care if it costs more.”
Kato stomped off, wondering what he’d done in his life to deserve such an oddball client. At least he wasn’t the one who’d have to drive out to Nagano, arrange the specific dolls Michiko-san requested in various poses within the massive dollhouse, and then snap photos until the memory card of his camera was pretty much full. Michiko rarely saw a completed dollhouse masterpiece in person any longer. It always fell to Sho to get her the photographs. Her apartment was full of bookshelves stacked with photo albums, bursting with pictures Sho had taken of all her possessions.
The Neuschwanstein was just the latest in a long line of castles Michiko-san had commissioned. There were dolls in proper German Alpine attire that Sho would have to pose once it arrived. That summer the replica of Buckingham Palace had arrived, and it lived quietly in Michiko’s Nishi-Azabu apartment with its companion dolls Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, Prince William, Duchess Kate, and even the new little Prince George doll. Michiko-san had a thing for royalty.
Sho switched to water, knowing he was at risk of overstaying his welcome at the party. Michiko-san had already been speaking just the other day about commissioning a set of new clothes for the Alpine dolls from her usual seamstress in Paris. Her dolls wore fancier clothes than most human beings. Kato always had to go to a lot more trouble with the foreign work contracts, getting things translated, and running drafts by Michiko over and over until she was certain things were correct. Sho decided that he’d hold back about the clothes at least until the New Year.
He was halfway to the elevator when Kato caught him one more time, reaching for his sleeve. He might have been the only person in Tokyo still working during a holiday party. “Sho-san, about the will…”
How many times had they had this conversation in the last year alone? Sho had lost count. Just the other month Michiko had finally consented to signing a temporary document, a placeholder will that would stand until she felt like doing a proper one. The simple document, no more than a page including the signatures of Michiko and her witnesses - Kato, Sho, and Shihori - had gone through eighty-six revisions and all it said was that all of her money would go to her next of kin by default if a formal will wasn’t signed before her death.
“She’s not ready,” Sho said weakly, knowing just as well as Kato that it was incredibly foolish on Michiko-san’s part. A 97 year old woman without a proper will? With the money and assets she had? There was nothing noted about where she actually wanted her money to go. There was nothing noted about what would happen if she was hospitalized, if she was unconscious, if the inevitable “pull the plug” conversation came up. Sho, of course, knew the answers to these questions, and Shihori did too. But again and again, Michiko refused to put it in writing. She refused to acknowledge a world in which she wasn’t still alive.
“It’s dangerous, you know,” Kato reminded him. “Every day could be her last.”
Sho shivered, tugging his scarf around him tighter. “Don’t be so morbid, Kato. It’s Christmas, lighten up.”
“Unless she’s immortal and hasn’t told us, she needs to do this. My bosses are bugging me constantly about this! It’s insane!”
Sho jabbed the down button for the elevator, sighing heavily. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Maybe wear one of those white horror masks from the Scream movies, give her a shock. Then when she stops feeling like her heart’s going to explode, you can take off the mask and get talking about it.”
Sho laughed. “You’re awful.”
At that, Kato simply nodded, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’m a lawyer. I’m paid to be.”
-
Jun returned from a delivery to find a note tacked to the refrigerator in the rear of the shop.
Someone from the bank called, 1:37 PM.
He frowned, looking through the glass to see that his partner was with a customer. He hung back, annoyed, busying himself with cleaning out some of the mixers until Ohno came up in his usual quiet way, poking him in the shoulder.
“Did you see my note?” Ohno asked innocently enough, gesturing to the fridge.
Jun turned off the water, sighing. “Someone from the bank called? That’s your message?”
“Yes?”
“Does ‘someone from the bank’ have a name so we call the right person back?”
At this Ohno realized his error, his guilt manifesting in the way he shoved his hands in his apron pockets and let out a tiny huff. This was why Jun mostly handled the business side of things. Ohno Satoshi could make a cake or the perfect loaf of bread in his sleep, but when it came to some common sense things, he was a lost cause. “So and so who liked the Black Forest cake wanted another one,” Jun would find tacked to the fridge on a random Wednesday. No name, no estimated time for when it should be ready. But then there’d be a sketch tacked up right beside it, a gorgeous colored pencil sketch of the newest cupcake they ought to consider selling the following month. A sketch that could hang in an art museum and with frosting that Ohno would be able to replicate with his piping bag exactly.
They’d met in culinary school, and after a few years apprenticing here and there, they’d caught up with each other again and decided to go into business together, taking over a small shop from a retiring baker Ohno had worked for. Because of the old man’s legacy, it hadn’t felt right to change the name. And so Mr. Bake, their shop in Ikebukuro, did decent business and had great reviews online. At first the bakery’s history brought people in the door. Jun and Ohno’s treats kept them coming back. Unfortunately, a new issue had emerged as of late, and Jun was stressed more and more each day. Especially whenever Ohno tried to be reassuring and say “it’ll all blow over.” Things like this didn’t “blow over.”
Some high-end shops had started opening in the neighborhood, and small businesses like Mr. Bake were at risk of being forced out. Some of the other shop owners on the street - the dry cleaners across the way, the izakaya three doors down - were planning to shutter their doors come March. Rent was probably going to rise, more fancy stores would move in, and that would be a problem. The last thing Jun wanted to do was sacrifice quality, so he’d been back and forth with their bank the last few weeks, just putting out feelers. Potential places they could relocate to in the event the neighborhood got too expensive for them. Ohno, more concerned with yeast and flour than with what they cost, was doubtful anything would actually change for them.
“…I’ll finish cleaning that,” Ohno said meekly, pushing Jun out of the way in lieu of apologizing.
Jun headed to the front of the shop, perusing what they had left for the day. Their daily specials were usually gone by 8:30, popular with commuters. Housewives came by for fresh bread and maybe a treat or two during the morning. Then there’d be the girls from the junior high and high school in the neighborhood, clearing out most of the rest of the sweets in the afternoon. Mr. Bake was closed by 6:00, giving them time to work on any special orders or go home to get a good night’s rest to start fresh come morning. The bank would be closed by the time they shut down for the day, so he’d have to try and go tomorrow and figure out who Ohno had spoken to.
It was just after 5:00 when there was an unexpected visitor. Jun looked up from marking clearance prices on the morning’s bread when the shop door opened, and Shiroyanagi Masaharu walked in. He was accompanied by another man, middle-aged and rather unfriendly, who stayed by the door almost like a bodyguard. Jun couldn’t help but stand up a little straighter behind the counter, offering his usual “Welcome to Mr. Bake” greeting. Ohno was in back, cleaning with his earbuds in.
Shiroyanagi took in the shop slowly, eyeing the case, fingerprinting the glass as he examined what was left. Finally he straightened up, gave Jun a warm smile. “Jun-kun, what would you recommend?”
He wasn’t even sure how to address the man. This was only the second time in Jun’s life they were meeting. It had been a week since the wake, and Jun had mostly moved on from the death of his second cousin. Arisa, of course, hadn’t, but luckily she seemed to be complaining mostly to their mother about it, had given up on Jun, who’d had enough of hearing about her weird feelings about their relatives.
Jun opted not to address him at all, instead leaning over and gesturing to the case. “If you have a sweet tooth, our strawberry shortcake is always a top seller. We use only the highest quality ingredients, organic strawberries…”
“I’m afraid I’m diabetic,” Shiroyanagi said, looking embarrassed. “How about your breads here? Do you have a baguette?”
“We do. All our bread is made fresh in store each morning.” He directed the man to the baskets he’d just marked down. “Everything after 5:00 is 75% off.” Not that someone with his money needed to be bargain hunting. Jun shut his mouth before he said something stupid. Shiroyanagi waved his companion over, selected two baguettes, and the other man pulled out a wallet and paid for them. Jun rung it up, watching the way the man was sniffing the bread. It seemed almost snobby, as though he expected it to be nothing special. But if there was something Jun excelled at, it was his baguettes.
“Can we sit and talk?” Shiroyanagi asked. “Privately?”
Jun couldn’t keep the shock from showing on his face, and he clasped his hands behind his back. What on earth would Shiroyanagi Masaharu have to talk to him about? “Of…of course. Let me tell my partner, and we can speak in the back.”
He went through the swinging door, very happy for the one-way glass. Shiroyanagi didn’t have to see Jun in full-blown panic. Jun hurried across the room, yanking Ohno’s earbud out. His partner looked up at him, eyes sleepy and almost annoyed with the interruption. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone…someone came to see me,” Jun said, wringing his hands. He’d thought all this time that he didn’t care, that the Shiroyanagi side of his family was an untouchable, unreachable thing. That they were characters, not real people. But now here the insanely wealthy Masaharu was in his shop, wanting to speak to him privately. To Jun, who may as well have not existed a week earlier. He’d come in person himself rather than asking Jun to come to him, which seemed more proper given their circumstances. “Can you watch the front? I’m taking him back here.”
Ohno’s eyebrows raised the slightest bit. He was paying attention at least. “New boyfriend?” he asked, the corners of his small mouth quirking.
Jun punched him in the shoulder. It had been quite a long time since he’d had one of those, and he didn’t need any reminders. “Would you just watch the front?”
Ohno, even though he was three years older than Jun, was usually willing to be obedient, and he strolled through the swinging door, offering a “Welcome to Mr. Bake!” to Shiroyanagi and his companion. Jun then escorted his relative into the rear of the shop, opening up the door to the small office in back where they kept their invoices, their computer, their coats. He pulled out the desk chair for Shiroyanagi and stood a bit awkwardly next to the desk.
“I’m sorry again about your son,” Jun said, inclining his head.
“Thank you, that’s kind of you to say.” Shiroyanagi’s face was fairly emotionless despite his words. Was it grief over his lost son? Or indifference because said son had been such a nuisance?. “I’m not one to drag things out, and I see that you’re a businessman, so you probably prefer to have things laid out honestly and directly, am I right?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I came here for a specific purpose, Jun-kun. Hiroki and I aren’t close, as you well know, but I must admit that I’ve followed both you and your sister’s accomplishments for many years.” This was the first Jun was hearing about it, and he stood still as a statue, unsure where this was going. “Daisuke…Daisuke was a troubled man, and as shocking as his loss has been for my wife and me, it’s been a more incredible shock to our shareholders.”
The man took off his glasses, holding them in his hand while he looked at Jun directly. It was still so eerie how closely Masaharu resembled Jun’s own father.
“Shiroyanagi Management has always been a family-run organization, and as you know, Daisuke was our only child. The ah, the family line on my side has been rather…sparse. Not sure how much of our family tree you filled in, given Hiroki’s feelings for us, but I was my father’s only child, just as Daisuke was mine. To be blunt, I have no heir. And you, Jun-kun, you are the next male in the Shiroyanagi line.”
Jun felt his insides start to churn. “I’m…I’m not a Shiroyanagi, I’m a Matsumoto…”
“Your grandmother is a Shiroyanagi. Your father is, through her. And thus so are you.”
“My grandmother was cast out, cast aside like trash,” Jun said, leaping to defend her in a way he knew his father would. “And my father is still alive. After you, he is the next male according to your definition of the Shiroyanagi line.”
“You came for Daisuke. Your father did not,” Shiroyanagi said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You’re young, you’re experienced with running a business…”
“A…a bakery! We have a bakery. One small bakery!” Jun was unconsciously backing up, realizing it when his ass hit the doorknob hard. What was happening here? Had the man gone mad with grief?
Shiroyanagi was out of his seat in the next instant, his fingers clutching Jun’s wrist. “Do you understand what this means for you? You can be the heir to the company. I’m willing to train you, to teach you, Jun-kun. There’s nobody else!”
“I make cake!” Jun protested, trapped between a relative he barely knew and the door to his shop. “I like who I am and what I do. I’m good at it.” He tried to meet Shiroyanagi’s eyes. “Why do you need an heir? Why can’t you just change the structure, let someone else take over when you retire? Like any other company?”
“We’re a legacy. This is the family’s pride.”
This is the family’s money, Jun thought, knowing that Arisa would already be halfway out the door and ready to sign on the dotted line, no matter how strange Masaharu’s suggestions were. But he wasn’t Arisa.
“I’m not interested.”
“You wouldn’t have to take over right away,” the man said, backing off. “Make your cake, I wouldn’t stop you. You take over gradually. I’m not getting any younger. And in twenty years, you turn it all over to a child of your own or you transfer everything into Yosuke’s care.”
Jun was about to decline once again, but Yosuke. Shiroyanagi knew about Yosuke. “My sister’s son…”
Masaharu smiled weakly. “Everything could go to him. Think of what he could do. He’d be set for life.”
“I’m not going to dictate my nephew’s future for him,” Jun argued. “I could never do that.”
But if Arisa knew about this, if she found out Shiroyanagi Masaharu had come into Jun’s bakery and pretty much offered to hand his company over to him and technically to her own son in the future…
Jun knew Keisuke didn’t make a lot of money at the factory, if only because Arisa wasn’t shy about saying so. But with Shiroyanagi money, little Yosuke could do anything. No restrictions. The best schools, the best opportunities. How could Jun take that away from his nephew? Why wouldn’t Jun want the absolute best for him?
Maybe because of what it had done to Daisuke.
“The real estate in this neighborhood is expensive,” Masaharu said, calmer than before. “But you wouldn’t have to worry about it. Shiroyanagi Management could easily buy up this entire neighborhood. Shiroyanagi Management could set the rents.”
Jun had been one big ball of nerves, going back and forth with the bank the last few weeks. The thought of Mr. Bake going strong for years and years, protected by Shiroyanagi. Saved by Shiroyanagi. It was money and power both that Masaharu was dangling before him. And Jun had been raised by a person who knew what it was like to struggle, who had raised children that had a respect for hard work. Daisuke had lived and died in a world of privilege, of meaningless spending and excess. Jun wasn’t like Daisuke.
“There’s a deadline,” Masaharu explained. “With Daisuke’s loss, the shareholders have the right to petition for a change of leadership. They will gut the business, change the name, destroy everything our family built…” He met Jun’s eyes, remembering just how little the Shiroyanagi name and legacy meant to him. “The company needs new blood, it needs to be reinvigorated. And if you help with that, Jun-kun, I’ll name you as my successor. The new fiscal year starts April 1st. If you help me, you help yourself. And Yosuke.”
“Help you?” Jun asked, suspicions raised.
“Daisuke was no leader,” Masaharu admitted. “He urged the company to make bad investments, to funnel money into the ventures of his lazy friends. The company as it stands today needs to recoup those losses. We need money.”
“You promised a good future for Yosuke. If the company’s broke, where is that future going to come from?”
“You can secure it for him! By helping to raise that money.”
“I make cake,” Jun said once more. “My skill set doesn’t expand much beyond what I make in this kitchen.”
“Jun-kun, tell me,” Shiroyanagi Masaharu said with hope in his eyes, “how much do you know about your Aunt Michiko?”
part two
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sakurai Sho/Matsumoto Jun; Aiba Masaki/Kanjiya Shihori
Summary: “Jun-kun, tell me,” Shiroyanagi Masaharu said with hope in his eyes, “how much do you know about your Aunt Michiko?”
Notes/Warnings: This story is 500% inspired by the life of American heiress Huguette Clark. I read a biography of her recently and found her totally fascinating. The title of this story comes from said biography because I am lacking in originality. Learn more about Huguette’s interesting life here. Drama/angst in store for the patient reader.
With the stack of newspapers tucked under one arm and the bakery bag in his other hand, he nodded in gratitude as Yasuda-san held the door for him. “Good morning, Sakurai-san,” the cheerful doorman said, eyeing his usual bounty of papers. “Cold today, huh?”
“Doesn’t usually get this bad until January,” he complained.
“No kidding!” Yasuda said, shutting the door, returning to his post outside.
Sho let the warm embrace of the building’s lobby take hold of him, and he stood there a few moments, catching his breath. He’d been in and out all morning, leaving his apartment at 6:30 in order to catch the Toyoko Line. It dropped him at Jiyugaoka just before 7:00, giving him just enough time to pick up the papers, get to the bakery, and make it to Michiko-san’s building by 7:30. Or, as Sho thought proudly when he checked his watch, 7:24. A new December record, especially with how slowly Shibutani-san at the newspaper stand counted out change in his gloved hands.
He headed for the elevator, adjusting the items in his arms as the doors opened and he punched in the passcode for Michiko-san’s floor. She was the second floor from the top, and Sho was one of only a handful of people to have that passcode. Some mornings, when it was too cold or too hot or he was too frustrated, he reminded himself of that fact, of that trust. Some mornings it still didn’t make much difference, but on most, it did.
The elevator chimed and let him out. Like all of the floors in the building, there were only four massive apartments on each. However, unlike all the other floors, only one apartment on this floor was occupied. The other three Michiko-san had purchased years ago in order to not have neighbors. Someday soon, Michiko-san was always hinting, she’d buy out the people above her and below her. Shihori always managed to talk her down from such plans, thankfully.
Sho fumbled with the flap of his laptop bag, digging out his keyring. Before he could put it in the lock, however, Shihori was already unlocking it, pushing it open. “You’re early,” she said, looking up at him with a bit of warning in her eyes.
Don’t make it a habit, she was implying, or Michiko-san will start expecting her papers at 7:00.
Shihori had been Michiko-san’s live-in nurse for four years now, and Sho liked her a great deal. It took a lot, being at the old woman’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When Sho had first started, Michiko-san had had a rotation of three nurses - one who lived with her and the other two who switched off weekends. But it had proven to be too many people, and so now there was Shihori around the clock save for a few days off a month when one of the old weekend nurses visited twice a day.
Shihori was good-humored, patient, and despite her small size, she had no trouble getting Michiko-san in and out of bed or the bathtub, guiding her around the massive apartment on their “little strolls.” Sho sometimes wondered if Shihori wished for a different job, for more days off, for a break from Michiko-san. But then again, most people asked Sho the same things, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
Dressed in her cardigan, t-shirt, and slacks, the nurse didn’t really look the part, but Michiko-san preferred it that way. Shihori grabbed the bakery bag out of Sho’s grip, heading off for the kitchen. Michiko-san relied entirely on a meal delivery service specializing in the nutritional needs of the elderly, but she insisted that Sho bring her fresh croissants every morning to go with her breakfast. It was her one “little indulgence” she allowed herself.
He followed Shihori into the kitchen. It was mostly spotless, and even though she ate only her delivered meals, which just required microwaving, Michiko-san’s kitchen could have been used to feed dozens. She had all the latest appliances, a fancy new faucet, a large oven, a “smart” refrigerator with an Internet connection that went unused. Her kitchen was just one of many things that were for show. Shihori never made herself anything that complicated.
Sho took his usual morning seat at the kitchen counter, pulling his laptop from his bag and setting down the papers. While Shihori munched on some French toast she’d made for herself (with extras for Sho), she heated up Michiko-san’s morning meal. Sho started with the Yomiuri Shimbun, scanning each page for the type of news his employer liked. While Michiko-san would go on and read the papers herself with her magnifying glass, Sho jotted down notes on his laptop so he could answer Michiko-san’s questions and then search the Internet for any further discussion or developments.
“You’d be great on those current affairs programs,” Shihori was always telling him. “You could be a commentator since you read those papers every single day.”
Sho hadn’t known what to expect a little more than ten years ago when he’d been ready to graduate and looking for his first full-time position. He’d done the usual song-and-dance, going on interviews with at least a dozen companies. He hadn’t been too sure about life as a salaryman, sitting in a boring office all day selling things that meant nothing to him. Then there’d been that ad in the newspaper. He’d only managed to spot it because he’d left his Starbucks cup sitting on top of it, lifting it up to see he’d inadvertently circled the ad. It had been a sign, he supposed. A sign that his life was about to get very odd.
“Personal assistant wanted. Looking for someone smart and organized. Unusual hours, must be loyal. Attractive young man preferred.”
He’d applied as a joke after showing a friend the ad. “It’s probably for a porno,” his friend had teased him. “Or maybe you’ll pose nude for an artist.”
Instead he’d shown up and met Shiroyanagi Michiko, and his life had never been the same. She’d been approaching 87 then, and she’d asked him to show up and do pretty much the same thing he did every morning of every day they were together now. “Tell me what’s happening out there,” she’d told him. So he’d gone out, bought a stack of newspapers and summarized the top stories of the day for her. When she challenged him on things, asked for clarification or to repeat a name, demanded that he offer an opinion, he’d failed that first time.
“I’m sure you can get better,” she’d said, peering at him through her enormous glasses, smiling at him with her crooked teeth and smeared lipstick. “You are an attractive young man.”
She’d hired him on the spot, giving a twenty-two year old days from graduation a starting salary of 18 million yen per year.
Though Sho augmented a lot of his daily news with the Internet now, Michiko-san still preferred the newspapers. She liked staining her fingers with the ink. She liked when Sho read her the obituaries of famous people she had outlived, too. “The secret to a long life, Sho-chan, is to read. Never stop reading. I bet they stopped,” she always said with a smile. “Keep that mind of yours sharp, just like mine.”
Sho did more than just read the papers. Shiroyanagi Michiko was one of the wealthiest people in Japan, not that many people knew it. She was a recluse and had been for most of her life. When her parents died suddenly back in the 1930’s, her father’s will had been rather unusual. She and her older brother had been given equal shares of his fortune and equal shares in the family business, commercial real estate. Michiko-san, kind but almost painfully shy, had zero interest in the business and had refused to marry. She’d let her brother Daisuke buy out her interest in the company, and she’d hidden herself away, investing her money wisely for decades.
Living alone for many years, Michiko-san had funneled all her money into her own interests. She donated millions anonymously to children’s charities and maintained a rather child-like innocence herself. Her parents died when she was twenty, and she’d spent almost eighty years now buying dolls. Commissioning new ones and buying rare ones at auction. She had doll houses built for them, clothing made for them. Very few of them actually lived with her. She had apartments and houses scattered around the country, and they were filled with them. It was Sho’s job to maintain and photograph her collection, to track her commissions, to carry out her wishes.
It had been creepy at first, being twenty-two and hired to look after some crazy old woman’s dolls, but Michiko-san wasn’t really crazy. She was just passionate about her hobby, and even if it was a little creepy, walking around one of her “doll apartments,” he was well-paid for his time. And she had more than dolls. She had fancy jewelry, works of art, sculptures, china sets, items boxed up that she never used but refused to part with. She had property all over Japan, houses she’d never even set foot in. She trusted Sho to look after them. She trusted Sho to come by every day and let her know what was happening outside. She trusted Sho to be her voice, to write the letters she dictated, to work with her lawyer and her accountant to ensure her wishes were carried out.
Even when she frustrated him, he couldn’t imagine someone else doing his job. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her. She needed him, and Sho doubted that there was any company in Japan that “needed” him or would appreciate him in the same way.
By 8:15 he’d summarized the papers and had made a big show of circling one of the obituaries that morning. It was something Michiko-san needed to know, and Sho actually wasn’t too sure how she was going to react. The name “Shiroyanagi” in the paper was never something that interested his employer. The real estate company her father had started, that her brother had inherited, that she’d cut herself off from - it held little interest. The only time her brother’s side of the family contacted her, it was because they wanted money for the business, even though she’d washed her hands of it. “Vultures,” she called them. “All they want is my money.” She still knew all their names, all the relatives who never bothered to get to know her in return.
Shihori cleaned up Michiko-san’s breakfast, and when Sho was given approval to enter for the day, she seemed in good spirits. She’d slowed considerably since Sho had started working for her, given that she’d just turned 97 in the last week. Her mind was still sharp as ever, but her body disagreed with her more often than not lately. She was nearly deaf in her right ear, so Sho always sat to her left. Her sight was poor, and her magnifying glass was almost always in her hand. She was in pain from arthritis, and every time her physician paid her a visit, he recommended she move to a care facility. Every time, the old woman refused.
As wealthy as she was, Michiko-san wore simple clothing. Turtleneck shirts no matter the season, seeing as she never left the house, long skirts. Shihori trimmed her hair for her, helped her put on lipstick. “I have to look nice for my young man,” she told her nurse. The only sign of her millions came in the jeweled bracelets she sometimes wore, the rings she put on her fingers. She’d had her croissants, and she was in her usual place, perched among some pillows on her overstuffed sofa. Sho took his usual place in the chair just to the left of the couch, and she smiled for him, her thin hands folded primly in her lap.
“Sho-chan, good morning.”
“Good morning, Michiko-san.”
“Today is the eighteenth of December,” she recited for him. “It’s a Thursday.”
“It is,” he nodded. They started every morning exchange this way. If she was ever wrong, it was a sign to call her physician. Michiko was proud of herself. She hardly ever faltered. No signs of dementia at all. “I’m afraid I have some sad news to report this morning. There’s been a death in your family.”
Michiko fiddled with the blanket Shihori had placed on her lap. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Money-grubbing though they could be, Michiko didn’t hate them. Sho arranged the newspapers on the couch for her. While Michiko-san picked up her magnifying glass, gripping it tightly, Sho gestured to the obituary that dominated the section that day.
“Shiroyanagi Daisuke, the son of your great-nephew Masaharu and his wife. The heir to Shiroyanagi Management.”
Michiko-san looked deeply sad, shaking her head. Her fingers drifted across the newsprint, and she bowed her head. “So young.”
“Yes, it says here he was born in 1981.” Sho held his tongue about the other details. The man had been unmarried, a playboy. He’d been off in Switzerland pissing his family’s money down the drain, had died by falling off a balcony drunk. It was an embarrassment, one final embarrassment in a long line of them. Now he was dead, and the entire company was in jeopardy. At least that was what all the papers were implying.
“And Masaharu has no other children,” Michiko said, shutting her eyes. “This is terrible for him, simply terrible.”
“What would you like to do?” he asked.
Her fingers lingered on the photograph of Shiroyanagi Daisuke, dead at 33, named for Michiko’s own brother. “Flowers,” she decided. “Sho-chan, there must be so many flowers for this poor boy.”
-
She’d been fumbling with the envelope of condolence money the entire car ride over, turning it over in her hands, tapping it against her leg, and Jun was very close to yanking it away. But his older sister had always been a stubborn person, and he wasn’t in the mood to start a fight. It made more sense for Arisa to carry the thing anyway, for Arisa to hand it over. She actually wanted to be here.
There were so many cars in the lot that Jun swore under his breath, trying to be patient as he was slowly directed across the gravel to a spot near the end of a row. He parked, waiting patiently as Arisa poked and prodded her hair, adjusting bobby pins. “You look fine,” he said with a sigh as she examined herself in the tiny mirror from her handbag. “It’s a wake, you know.”
She shot him a dirty look before opening the car door and slamming it after her. He hid a smile, biting his lower lip. The last thing anyone needed to see him do was smile right now. It was an elaborate set-up, as he’d expected. They were yards away and could already smell the flowers. Because it had been unexpected, because Daisuke had been so young, everyone had seemingly competed to show the most shock, the deepest sympathies through their floral arrangements.
The most sucking up.
It irritated Jun quite a bit, but he stayed calm, walking at his sister’s side as they approached the funeral parlor. “Do you think they’ll be angry that Dad’s not here?” she’d been asking him ever since they’d found out, ever since she’d begged Jun to attend the wake with her.
“Hell would freeze over before Dad would show up here, and they know it,” had been Jun’s reply.
Their father, Matsumoto Hiroki, was not a fan of his mother’s family. Shiroyanagi Atsuko had been born to wealth and privilege, the daughter of real estate mogul Shiroyanagi Daisuke. But then she’d refused an arranged marriage and had married “beneath” herself, marrying for love, marrying Matsumoto Yuji, a simple chicken farmer and Jun’s grandfather. When Atsuko made her choice she’d been cut off from the Shiroyanagi name, the Shiroyanagi wealth. While Atsuko’s father and her brother lived in mansions, Atsuko and Yuji struggled for years to survive. Jun’s father had never forgiven the Shiroyanagi family for how they’d treated his mother.
Jun knew their father was angry he and Arisa had decided to attend the wake at all. Daisuke, their second cousin, had been named for his great-grandfather. He’d gone to the best schools, to the best university. He’d traveled the world, had everything he could have wanted. Though they had the same great-grandfather, Daisuke’s life was vastly different from Jun and Arisa’s. They hadn’t grown up poor, as their father had, but theirs was just an average family. An average house, average schools. Arisa had gone to a decent college, Jun to a second-rate culinary school because he couldn’t afford the top tier.
When Jun was younger, his sister had been obsessed with the family that was so closely related but yet so far from them. Arisa would tack up stock market tables on the bulletin board in her small bedroom, would track the Shiroyanagi Management stock (even if she didn’t really know what the hell she was looking at). She followed society mentions of their father’s cousin Masaharu, his son Daisuke who was born the same year she was. She knew about their glamorous vacations, about the yacht they owned. She had always been so jealous.
“You’ll never get their money,” their father would yell at her. “They want nothing to do with us, and that’s just fine with me.”
It would only spur her on. Jun had managed to remain mostly indifferent all these years. Not interested in being stuck between his sister’s envy and his father’s hatred, the Shiroyanagi family meant little to Matsumoto Jun. They were a talking point, a pick-up line. “You’ll never guess who I’m related to.”
And now Daisuke had fallen off a balcony in Switzerland, and Jun was here to pray for his soul.
His sister fussed with his tie before they entered the temple. He was 31 years old, and she’d never stopped treating him like her underling. He finally had to shove her hand away before someone saw them. Jun knew that she’d tried to get her husband to come with her first, but Keisuke, the damn traitor, had suggested it would be more appropriate if brother and sister attended together instead.
They entered the funeral parlor, the best money could buy, and Jun could just imagine the fireworks exploding in Arisa’s head. Here she was at last, able to bask in greatness. There were dozens of people milling about, staff accepting the envelopes of condolence money, asking them to sign registers of their attendance. High society, everywhere. The kind of people who were like the Shiroyanagis, not the Matsumotos. Even in basic, muted funeral black Jun could smell the money on these people just as much as the incense in the halls.
He nudged Arisa forward, and as Jun had irritatingly anticipated, she introduced them as family. Cousins, which was true, but they’d never met Daisuke once. A staff member took down their names and accepted their business cards, took their pathetic financial offering, and escorted them out of the packed lobby and into the main room. He’d never seen such a large wake in his entire life. Row after row of chairs, a park’s worth of flowers at the front, and a photograph of a smiling, handsome Shiroyanagi Daisuke that looked more like a cover for a men’s style magazine than a funeral portrait.
The staff member brought them closer and closer to the front of the room, closer and closer to Daisuke, and Jun’s unease grew. He had no qualms about expressing sympathy - much as his cousin hadn’t seemed like a stellar person, it was still sad that he’d passed away so young. But he didn’t need to be up at the front with the immediate family.
They were seated only two rows back from Daisuke’s parents as they waited for everything to begin. He looked around nervously. While Arisa sat proudly, back straight and face serene in a place she thought they deserved to be, Jun could see the confusion grow on other faces. Who the hell are these peasants, Jun imagined them saying and he had to stifle yet another smile of amusement.
Finally, mercifully, everyone else was shown in and the priest moved to kneel before Daisuke’s coffin, beginning his chant. Jun went through the motions, walking behind his sister and following the other Shiroyanagi relatives to the altar. After offering the incense, he met eyes with Shiroyanagi Daisuke for the first time, if only with his portrait. He knew the guy was a scumbag, a spoiled brat who never worked hard for anything in his life. For 31 years, Jun’s father had told him so. “This is what money does,” Matsumoto Hiroki said. “This is what it does when you let it rule you.”
Jun pursed his lips and bowed to the portrait respectfully before following Arisa. Shiroyanagi Masaharu and his wife Michiru were waiting. He let his sister introduce them. “Of course,” Michiru said with a kind, genuine smile. She looked so tired, Jun wanted to apologize for taking up her time. “Of course, Hiroki-san’s children. Thank you for coming. It’s so kind of you.”
“If there’s anything we can do,” Arisa said quietly, “anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Jun would have to save his eye roll of the century until they got back to the car. He could just imagine Arisa standing in front of the mirror at home, practicing that line until Keisuke made gagging noises. Instead Jun bowed to them, to the people his father had resented his entire life.
When Masaharu held out his hand, Jun almost didn’t know what to do. He was a short man, balding with glasses. He and Jun’s father had the same eyes, and it was unnerving. First cousins, vastly different lives. “Jun-kun,” Masaharu said, clasping Jun’s hand in his own. He could hear whispers, more confusion from the other attendees. Their murmurs didn’t seem to reach Shiroyanagi Masaharu. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “Jun-kun, thank you.”
They bowed once more, and Masaharu let him go.
When they got in the car, Arisa was angry. Jun started the car, eyeing her in annoyance. “What, you’re mad he didn’t shake your hand?”
She crossed her arms and actually snorted, a grown woman with a husband and child. Sometimes Jun thought Arisa’s five year old son was more mature than she was. “I may as well have stayed home.”
He sighed, backing up the car and heading out of the lot. He would never understand her, this woman who shared the same DNA as him. “You thought they were going to hand out Tiffany jewelry and country club memberships as the thank you gifts for all the mourners?”
“What an awful thing to say! He was our cousin!”
“He was a stranger,” Jun shot back, loosening his tie when they stopped for a red light. “A complete stranger.”
-
Sho always felt a bit awkward attending the client Christmas party at Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners. Everyone around him, lawyer and client alike, was wealthy, the type who drove sports cars and flew first class. Sho was well-paid for his job, of course, but not like this. Every year since he’d started working for Michiko-san, and most likely every year before that, an invite to the client Christmas party had arrived for her. “Sho-chan, you should go. I’m sure they serve wonderful food there.”
Well, they did actually, and if there was one thing Sho appreciated, it was wonderful food. Michiko-san always sent a letter declining the invitation and insisting that Sho be issued one instead, as he would be attending in her place. The client Christmas party was a celebration of a year’s success, although Sho always sensed eyes on him if he reached for one too many shrimp hors d’oeuvres.
Because if one client caused headaches for Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners, it was Shiroyanagi Michiko. The firm had served as her legal representation from day one in the 1930’s when she’d sold her shares of Shiroyanagi Management to her brother. Her lawyer had the unenviable job of negotiating real estate deals when Michiko-san wanted to buy a new house she wouldn’t live in or if she planned to buy more of her dolls in auctions around the world.
She was one of the wealthiest clients on their payroll, and that included some entire companies, but for decades, she had caused them headaches. And the latest irritation was Michiko-san’s lack of interest in signing a will. “I feel great,” Michiko-san would say any time one of Kato’s polite, but annoyed letters arrived. “Does that boy want me dead so he can make a profit off it? Lawyers get money for handling that, you know.”
Kato Shigeaki was actually the fourth lawyer from Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners to be in charge of the Shiroyanagi Michiko client file. His grandfather, the Kato in the firm’s name, had been Michiko’s trusted ally for years before he retired. After a few years’ limbo, Michiko being passed around the partners, Kato’s grandson had been hired at the firm right out of law school. “That one, that one, Sho-chan. I always trusted Kato-san! I want him to manage my affairs!”
“I’m not the same person,” Kato had said by way of introduction to Sho the first time three years ago. “She does know that, right?”
Kato had been a little arrogant for someone starting at the bottom of the totem pole in such a prestigious firm, and he’d leapt into Michiko’s life and her very complex files with something closer to contempt than enthusiasm. The rapport his grandfather and Michiko had shared often gave him the courage to say things Sho thought someone in their mid-twenties shouldn’t say to an elder. From the very start, he opted for “Michiko-san” over “Shiroyanagi-san,” and he got a little testy whenever a new work contract made it to his desk, going so far as to call some of Michiko’s plans “foolish.”
That evening Kato was nearly up Sho’s ass, coming by to nag about Michiko every five minutes when he ought to have been enjoying the shrimp. Sho tried to be patient as Kato, pencil by his ear and manila file folder in hand, accosted him by the bar. Sho sipped quietly from his champagne flute while Kato found something else to point out.
“She’s got this thing coming from Germany and is paying extra for them to ship it to the Nagano house? Why? Why can’t it just be shipped to her here?”
Sho took another sip, trying to stay as in control as he could despite having enjoyed quite a bit of champagne already. He was still here as Michiko’s representative. “It’s a model of Neuschwanstein.”
“Neusch-what?”
“Neuschwanstein Castle. In Bavaria. It’s a famous castle in the Alps I think? So she wants it in the Nagano house because of the mountain setting.”
“It’s a dollhouse,” Kato complained, staring Sho down. “Does it matter? She’s paying twice as much to ship it there, and the craftsman in Germany needs confirmation before the end of the year to close his books out. Ninomiya’s breathing down my neck so he can mail out the final check, but I have to finalize the work contract and…”
“I have to take pictures of it for her once it arrives. It’ll be in the west wing of the house, and you can see Mount Kirigamine from the windows there.” He set the champagne flute down, gesturing a little wildly with his hands. He needed to stop drinking so much at these things, but free was free. “So I have to make sure she can see how it looks with the mountains in the background.”
“She wants her German castle dollhouse in the Nagano house because of the Japanese mountains?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t just Photoshop it?”
Sho smiled, seeing Kato’s face darken in his usual rage. “Send it to the Nagano house. She doesn’t care if it costs more.”
Kato stomped off, wondering what he’d done in his life to deserve such an oddball client. At least he wasn’t the one who’d have to drive out to Nagano, arrange the specific dolls Michiko-san requested in various poses within the massive dollhouse, and then snap photos until the memory card of his camera was pretty much full. Michiko rarely saw a completed dollhouse masterpiece in person any longer. It always fell to Sho to get her the photographs. Her apartment was full of bookshelves stacked with photo albums, bursting with pictures Sho had taken of all her possessions.
The Neuschwanstein was just the latest in a long line of castles Michiko-san had commissioned. There were dolls in proper German Alpine attire that Sho would have to pose once it arrived. That summer the replica of Buckingham Palace had arrived, and it lived quietly in Michiko’s Nishi-Azabu apartment with its companion dolls Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, Prince William, Duchess Kate, and even the new little Prince George doll. Michiko-san had a thing for royalty.
Sho switched to water, knowing he was at risk of overstaying his welcome at the party. Michiko-san had already been speaking just the other day about commissioning a set of new clothes for the Alpine dolls from her usual seamstress in Paris. Her dolls wore fancier clothes than most human beings. Kato always had to go to a lot more trouble with the foreign work contracts, getting things translated, and running drafts by Michiko over and over until she was certain things were correct. Sho decided that he’d hold back about the clothes at least until the New Year.
He was halfway to the elevator when Kato caught him one more time, reaching for his sleeve. He might have been the only person in Tokyo still working during a holiday party. “Sho-san, about the will…”
How many times had they had this conversation in the last year alone? Sho had lost count. Just the other month Michiko had finally consented to signing a temporary document, a placeholder will that would stand until she felt like doing a proper one. The simple document, no more than a page including the signatures of Michiko and her witnesses - Kato, Sho, and Shihori - had gone through eighty-six revisions and all it said was that all of her money would go to her next of kin by default if a formal will wasn’t signed before her death.
“She’s not ready,” Sho said weakly, knowing just as well as Kato that it was incredibly foolish on Michiko-san’s part. A 97 year old woman without a proper will? With the money and assets she had? There was nothing noted about where she actually wanted her money to go. There was nothing noted about what would happen if she was hospitalized, if she was unconscious, if the inevitable “pull the plug” conversation came up. Sho, of course, knew the answers to these questions, and Shihori did too. But again and again, Michiko refused to put it in writing. She refused to acknowledge a world in which she wasn’t still alive.
“It’s dangerous, you know,” Kato reminded him. “Every day could be her last.”
Sho shivered, tugging his scarf around him tighter. “Don’t be so morbid, Kato. It’s Christmas, lighten up.”
“Unless she’s immortal and hasn’t told us, she needs to do this. My bosses are bugging me constantly about this! It’s insane!”
Sho jabbed the down button for the elevator, sighing heavily. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Maybe wear one of those white horror masks from the Scream movies, give her a shock. Then when she stops feeling like her heart’s going to explode, you can take off the mask and get talking about it.”
Sho laughed. “You’re awful.”
At that, Kato simply nodded, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’m a lawyer. I’m paid to be.”
-
Jun returned from a delivery to find a note tacked to the refrigerator in the rear of the shop.
Someone from the bank called, 1:37 PM.
He frowned, looking through the glass to see that his partner was with a customer. He hung back, annoyed, busying himself with cleaning out some of the mixers until Ohno came up in his usual quiet way, poking him in the shoulder.
“Did you see my note?” Ohno asked innocently enough, gesturing to the fridge.
Jun turned off the water, sighing. “Someone from the bank called? That’s your message?”
“Yes?”
“Does ‘someone from the bank’ have a name so we call the right person back?”
At this Ohno realized his error, his guilt manifesting in the way he shoved his hands in his apron pockets and let out a tiny huff. This was why Jun mostly handled the business side of things. Ohno Satoshi could make a cake or the perfect loaf of bread in his sleep, but when it came to some common sense things, he was a lost cause. “So and so who liked the Black Forest cake wanted another one,” Jun would find tacked to the fridge on a random Wednesday. No name, no estimated time for when it should be ready. But then there’d be a sketch tacked up right beside it, a gorgeous colored pencil sketch of the newest cupcake they ought to consider selling the following month. A sketch that could hang in an art museum and with frosting that Ohno would be able to replicate with his piping bag exactly.
They’d met in culinary school, and after a few years apprenticing here and there, they’d caught up with each other again and decided to go into business together, taking over a small shop from a retiring baker Ohno had worked for. Because of the old man’s legacy, it hadn’t felt right to change the name. And so Mr. Bake, their shop in Ikebukuro, did decent business and had great reviews online. At first the bakery’s history brought people in the door. Jun and Ohno’s treats kept them coming back. Unfortunately, a new issue had emerged as of late, and Jun was stressed more and more each day. Especially whenever Ohno tried to be reassuring and say “it’ll all blow over.” Things like this didn’t “blow over.”
Some high-end shops had started opening in the neighborhood, and small businesses like Mr. Bake were at risk of being forced out. Some of the other shop owners on the street - the dry cleaners across the way, the izakaya three doors down - were planning to shutter their doors come March. Rent was probably going to rise, more fancy stores would move in, and that would be a problem. The last thing Jun wanted to do was sacrifice quality, so he’d been back and forth with their bank the last few weeks, just putting out feelers. Potential places they could relocate to in the event the neighborhood got too expensive for them. Ohno, more concerned with yeast and flour than with what they cost, was doubtful anything would actually change for them.
“…I’ll finish cleaning that,” Ohno said meekly, pushing Jun out of the way in lieu of apologizing.
Jun headed to the front of the shop, perusing what they had left for the day. Their daily specials were usually gone by 8:30, popular with commuters. Housewives came by for fresh bread and maybe a treat or two during the morning. Then there’d be the girls from the junior high and high school in the neighborhood, clearing out most of the rest of the sweets in the afternoon. Mr. Bake was closed by 6:00, giving them time to work on any special orders or go home to get a good night’s rest to start fresh come morning. The bank would be closed by the time they shut down for the day, so he’d have to try and go tomorrow and figure out who Ohno had spoken to.
It was just after 5:00 when there was an unexpected visitor. Jun looked up from marking clearance prices on the morning’s bread when the shop door opened, and Shiroyanagi Masaharu walked in. He was accompanied by another man, middle-aged and rather unfriendly, who stayed by the door almost like a bodyguard. Jun couldn’t help but stand up a little straighter behind the counter, offering his usual “Welcome to Mr. Bake” greeting. Ohno was in back, cleaning with his earbuds in.
Shiroyanagi took in the shop slowly, eyeing the case, fingerprinting the glass as he examined what was left. Finally he straightened up, gave Jun a warm smile. “Jun-kun, what would you recommend?”
He wasn’t even sure how to address the man. This was only the second time in Jun’s life they were meeting. It had been a week since the wake, and Jun had mostly moved on from the death of his second cousin. Arisa, of course, hadn’t, but luckily she seemed to be complaining mostly to their mother about it, had given up on Jun, who’d had enough of hearing about her weird feelings about their relatives.
Jun opted not to address him at all, instead leaning over and gesturing to the case. “If you have a sweet tooth, our strawberry shortcake is always a top seller. We use only the highest quality ingredients, organic strawberries…”
“I’m afraid I’m diabetic,” Shiroyanagi said, looking embarrassed. “How about your breads here? Do you have a baguette?”
“We do. All our bread is made fresh in store each morning.” He directed the man to the baskets he’d just marked down. “Everything after 5:00 is 75% off.” Not that someone with his money needed to be bargain hunting. Jun shut his mouth before he said something stupid. Shiroyanagi waved his companion over, selected two baguettes, and the other man pulled out a wallet and paid for them. Jun rung it up, watching the way the man was sniffing the bread. It seemed almost snobby, as though he expected it to be nothing special. But if there was something Jun excelled at, it was his baguettes.
“Can we sit and talk?” Shiroyanagi asked. “Privately?”
Jun couldn’t keep the shock from showing on his face, and he clasped his hands behind his back. What on earth would Shiroyanagi Masaharu have to talk to him about? “Of…of course. Let me tell my partner, and we can speak in the back.”
He went through the swinging door, very happy for the one-way glass. Shiroyanagi didn’t have to see Jun in full-blown panic. Jun hurried across the room, yanking Ohno’s earbud out. His partner looked up at him, eyes sleepy and almost annoyed with the interruption. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone…someone came to see me,” Jun said, wringing his hands. He’d thought all this time that he didn’t care, that the Shiroyanagi side of his family was an untouchable, unreachable thing. That they were characters, not real people. But now here the insanely wealthy Masaharu was in his shop, wanting to speak to him privately. To Jun, who may as well have not existed a week earlier. He’d come in person himself rather than asking Jun to come to him, which seemed more proper given their circumstances. “Can you watch the front? I’m taking him back here.”
Ohno’s eyebrows raised the slightest bit. He was paying attention at least. “New boyfriend?” he asked, the corners of his small mouth quirking.
Jun punched him in the shoulder. It had been quite a long time since he’d had one of those, and he didn’t need any reminders. “Would you just watch the front?”
Ohno, even though he was three years older than Jun, was usually willing to be obedient, and he strolled through the swinging door, offering a “Welcome to Mr. Bake!” to Shiroyanagi and his companion. Jun then escorted his relative into the rear of the shop, opening up the door to the small office in back where they kept their invoices, their computer, their coats. He pulled out the desk chair for Shiroyanagi and stood a bit awkwardly next to the desk.
“I’m sorry again about your son,” Jun said, inclining his head.
“Thank you, that’s kind of you to say.” Shiroyanagi’s face was fairly emotionless despite his words. Was it grief over his lost son? Or indifference because said son had been such a nuisance?. “I’m not one to drag things out, and I see that you’re a businessman, so you probably prefer to have things laid out honestly and directly, am I right?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I came here for a specific purpose, Jun-kun. Hiroki and I aren’t close, as you well know, but I must admit that I’ve followed both you and your sister’s accomplishments for many years.” This was the first Jun was hearing about it, and he stood still as a statue, unsure where this was going. “Daisuke…Daisuke was a troubled man, and as shocking as his loss has been for my wife and me, it’s been a more incredible shock to our shareholders.”
The man took off his glasses, holding them in his hand while he looked at Jun directly. It was still so eerie how closely Masaharu resembled Jun’s own father.
“Shiroyanagi Management has always been a family-run organization, and as you know, Daisuke was our only child. The ah, the family line on my side has been rather…sparse. Not sure how much of our family tree you filled in, given Hiroki’s feelings for us, but I was my father’s only child, just as Daisuke was mine. To be blunt, I have no heir. And you, Jun-kun, you are the next male in the Shiroyanagi line.”
Jun felt his insides start to churn. “I’m…I’m not a Shiroyanagi, I’m a Matsumoto…”
“Your grandmother is a Shiroyanagi. Your father is, through her. And thus so are you.”
“My grandmother was cast out, cast aside like trash,” Jun said, leaping to defend her in a way he knew his father would. “And my father is still alive. After you, he is the next male according to your definition of the Shiroyanagi line.”
“You came for Daisuke. Your father did not,” Shiroyanagi said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You’re young, you’re experienced with running a business…”
“A…a bakery! We have a bakery. One small bakery!” Jun was unconsciously backing up, realizing it when his ass hit the doorknob hard. What was happening here? Had the man gone mad with grief?
Shiroyanagi was out of his seat in the next instant, his fingers clutching Jun’s wrist. “Do you understand what this means for you? You can be the heir to the company. I’m willing to train you, to teach you, Jun-kun. There’s nobody else!”
“I make cake!” Jun protested, trapped between a relative he barely knew and the door to his shop. “I like who I am and what I do. I’m good at it.” He tried to meet Shiroyanagi’s eyes. “Why do you need an heir? Why can’t you just change the structure, let someone else take over when you retire? Like any other company?”
“We’re a legacy. This is the family’s pride.”
This is the family’s money, Jun thought, knowing that Arisa would already be halfway out the door and ready to sign on the dotted line, no matter how strange Masaharu’s suggestions were. But he wasn’t Arisa.
“I’m not interested.”
“You wouldn’t have to take over right away,” the man said, backing off. “Make your cake, I wouldn’t stop you. You take over gradually. I’m not getting any younger. And in twenty years, you turn it all over to a child of your own or you transfer everything into Yosuke’s care.”
Jun was about to decline once again, but Yosuke. Shiroyanagi knew about Yosuke. “My sister’s son…”
Masaharu smiled weakly. “Everything could go to him. Think of what he could do. He’d be set for life.”
“I’m not going to dictate my nephew’s future for him,” Jun argued. “I could never do that.”
But if Arisa knew about this, if she found out Shiroyanagi Masaharu had come into Jun’s bakery and pretty much offered to hand his company over to him and technically to her own son in the future…
Jun knew Keisuke didn’t make a lot of money at the factory, if only because Arisa wasn’t shy about saying so. But with Shiroyanagi money, little Yosuke could do anything. No restrictions. The best schools, the best opportunities. How could Jun take that away from his nephew? Why wouldn’t Jun want the absolute best for him?
Maybe because of what it had done to Daisuke.
“The real estate in this neighborhood is expensive,” Masaharu said, calmer than before. “But you wouldn’t have to worry about it. Shiroyanagi Management could easily buy up this entire neighborhood. Shiroyanagi Management could set the rents.”
Jun had been one big ball of nerves, going back and forth with the bank the last few weeks. The thought of Mr. Bake going strong for years and years, protected by Shiroyanagi. Saved by Shiroyanagi. It was money and power both that Masaharu was dangling before him. And Jun had been raised by a person who knew what it was like to struggle, who had raised children that had a respect for hard work. Daisuke had lived and died in a world of privilege, of meaningless spending and excess. Jun wasn’t like Daisuke.
“There’s a deadline,” Masaharu explained. “With Daisuke’s loss, the shareholders have the right to petition for a change of leadership. They will gut the business, change the name, destroy everything our family built…” He met Jun’s eyes, remembering just how little the Shiroyanagi name and legacy meant to him. “The company needs new blood, it needs to be reinvigorated. And if you help with that, Jun-kun, I’ll name you as my successor. The new fiscal year starts April 1st. If you help me, you help yourself. And Yosuke.”
“Help you?” Jun asked, suspicions raised.
“Daisuke was no leader,” Masaharu admitted. “He urged the company to make bad investments, to funnel money into the ventures of his lazy friends. The company as it stands today needs to recoup those losses. We need money.”
“You promised a good future for Yosuke. If the company’s broke, where is that future going to come from?”
“You can secure it for him! By helping to raise that money.”
“I make cake,” Jun said once more. “My skill set doesn’t expand much beyond what I make in this kitchen.”
“Jun-kun, tell me,” Shiroyanagi Masaharu said with hope in his eyes, “how much do you know about your Aunt Michiko?”
part two