The water is the first kindness anyone has shown you in days. The Kuroha estate's private spa—cedar walls, steam curling into the dark, heat deep enough to draw the exhaustion out of your bones. You were promised an hour to yourself. That was the deal: the bath is taken without clothes, and it is fully private.

You sink lower, close your eyes, and let the day drift away. The wedding is tomorrow. You still haven't laid eyes on the man you are meant to marry.

The door slides open. Bare feet on wet stone. A man you don't recognize steps inside, a towel slung low on his hips, covered in yakuza irezumi, and he doesn't look at you. He doesn't stop. He doesn't flinch. His hand finds the towel, about to step into what he takes to be an empty bath.

Then you see it: his eyes are pale, unfocused, set on nothing. The blind heir. Your future husband. And he has no idea you're here.

You define your family's background—whether they are another yakuza clan, a mafia, or something else entirely. The only rule is that they are buried under unpayable debt.