Artwork by elevenharbor
*RIIING RIING*
The piercing ring of the phone startled me right back to reality, blinking away a wall of exhaustion. I’d literally just escaped my last client of the night. A real gem—and by gem, I mean an absolute nightmare. She was in her late teens, maybe Souta’s age, but the girl could not shut up. For an hour straight, she babbled in my ear about her upcoming plastic surgery, courtesy of her ultra-wealthy "daddy." She’d practically harassed me to rip off my face mask so she could photograph my nose for reference photos. After I declined at least ten times, the little brat threatened to report me to management for being unprofessional, lecturing me about how the customer is always right.
Needless to say, the exact second the clock hit sixty minutes, I was out of there. It took everything in me not to let my fist connect with her nose. Not that it mattered—she was paying a surgeon to reshape it next week anyway.
*RIIING RIING*
The phone rang again.
"Kagome, can you grab that? My hands are kind of full with hair products right now," Erica called out from behind the counter.
Suppressing a heavy sigh, I dragged myself off the waiting room couch. Honestly, dealing with needy, egocentric clients for twelve hours straight should be an Olympic sport. Heavy on the mental gymnastics.
*RIIING RIING*
Another sharp ring.
As I walked over to the front desk, I made a mental note to ask Erica if our receptionist, Karen, had vanished into thin air. She had a terrible habit of announcing a "fifteen-minute cigarette break" at 8:00 PM and just never returning before our 10:00 PM close.
*RIIING RIING*
Ring number three.
"Who is even calling at this hour?" Erica finally popped up from beneath the desk, cradling about eight massive bottles of custom-formulated shampoo.
"Who knows? Probably one of Yura's 'special friends,'" I muttered, rolling my eyes as I lifted the receiver and switched on my best, completely manufactured retail voice. "Good evening, Yura's Beauty Bar and Spa Services. How can I help you?"
Behind me, Erica snorted, suddenly clutching her head. She’d smacked it on her way up from the counter, scattering paper scraps and receipts everywhere.
"Ah, shit," she hissed, entirely too loud. "Inconsiderate, entitled rich pricks! I hate them!"
I slammed my hand over the mouthpiece, glaring at her to be quiet, praying whoever was on the line hadn't caught her outburst. Erica just flashed me a mid-air middle finger and ducked back under the counter.
"About damn time someone picked up! This is my third attempt, and I know for a fact your salon isn’t swarming with clients at this hour. What kind of lazy staff is Yura hiring these days?!" a shrill voice barked down the line.
Great. One of those: The holier-than-thou type who always kick things off with a casual insult instead of a basic greeting. Human decency is apparently below their tax bracket.
"My deepest apologies, sir," I lied, gritting my teeth so hard my jaw ached. "Yura has a very rigorous screening process. She only hires the best."
Erica reappeared, completely empty-handed now and radiating pure curiosity. I ignored her frantic hand gestures and mouthed “who is it?” from across the desk. Honestly, the guy was screaming so loud she could probably hear him anyway.
"Well, she needs to step up her game! The phones shouldn’t ring more than three times, on the first attempt! That is unacceptable, at best!" The guy continued berating me like I was a toddler who'd committed a federal crime. "No matter. I need an appointment set up in the next fifteen minutes. I will not take no for an answer."
The voice clicked. If my gut was right, this loudmouth was the personal assistant to one of Yura’s highest-paying, most exclusive clients. A sudden mental image of moonlight-silver hair flashed through my mind. Very few patrons demanded late-night emergency spa services, but I needed to be sure.
"May I ask if you're a new or returning client, sir?"
"You wench! Don’t you know who I am?!?"
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming back, faintly tasting copper. Yep. Definitely him. What was his name again? Jensen? Jerk-off? Jaken?
"Jaken, enough."
A second voice cut through the receiver. Cold, smooth, and biting, even filtered through the background of a phone call.
Bingo. My suspicions were officially confirmed.
"Ah, of course! Sir Jaken!" I forced an entire bucket of synthetic sweetness into my voice, though I secretly wanted to wrap the telephone cord around his neck. "What a pleasure. We can absolutely accommodate a last-minute opening. Would Taisho-sama prefer his usual treatment?"
Erica’s neck practically snapped at the mention of the name ‘Taisho-sama’. She was by my side in a fraction of a second, her cheeks flushed and actual stars in her eyes. I could practically hear her internal fangirl squealing.
"Yes, you impudent girl! It’s for Taisho-sama, and yes, he will have his usual treatment. Need I remind you? You must be new."
"Taisho-sama is coming? Let me do it!" Erica whispered aggressively, nudging my arm. I waved her off with my free hand.
Stay cool, Kagome. Then, a beautiful stroke of genius hit me.
"Actually, sir, my coworker Erica is available tonight," I said, my voice brightening. "She knows his preferences perfectly and would be thrilled to take care of him. Let me hand you over to her. One moment."
Before Jaken could even protest, Erica snatched the receiver right out of my hand.
"Good evening, this is Erica speaking. I hear Taisho-sama would like to come in. I’ll get everything set up for him, just as he likes it."
I rolled my eyes as she kicked into high gear, turning on the charm for Jaken. Erica had a massive, unapologetic crush on his boss—an incredibly generous tipper, despite having the emotional warmth of a glacier. Out of all our high-profile clients, I couldn't understand her infatuation. Sure, the man was breathtakingly handsome, but his conversational skills needed a serious software update.
I’d only dealt with him three times myself. The first was during my orientation, which was an absolute disaster of nerves. The second was a late-night overtime shift during a massive storm when another girl called out. The third time was just because Erica had the night off.
But that last appointment... it had been a lot more colorful. And exhausting. Taisho-sama had actually been somewhat talkative, which was a bizarre departure from his usual brooding, silent-statue routine. His presence demanded your absolute focus, and his rare, pointed questions required actual brainpower to answer. It was easily the longest, most high-pressure hour of my life. The whole thing felt less like a spa treatment and more like an intense corporate job interview, consisting of his two-word prompts and me rambling on to explain myself for reasons I still didn't understand.
Naturally, Erica and the other girls spent the next two days interrogating me about it, overanalyzed every single syllable of our cryptic conversation. I refused to feed the gossip mill, hiding behind client confidentiality to shut them up.
While Erica chattered away, undoubtedly securing herself a fat tip, I busied myself with closing tasks. I tuned out her voice, straightening receipts and logging into the computer to check tomorrow's schedule. I winced as I typed his name in as a last-minute addition to the system. At least I'd get to leave on time tonight; Erica would gladly stay late for her favorite billionaire client. It was a total win-win.
I even started humming, mentally planning my sudden free evening. I could stop by the pet store to restock Buyo's food. That cat was draining my bank account faster than I could fill it, and it was all going straight to his expanding stomach. I was half-convinced he was pregnant, even though he's a male cat. Maybe he'd pull an Arnold Schwarzenegger in Junior and just miraculously give birth. It was a weird movie, but then again, my community college English professor who made us watch it was pretty weird too.
My train of thought was violently cut short by the sound of the phone slamming back onto the cradle.
I looked up. Erica’s face had completely fallen. She looked like she’d just been dumped via text, a total 180 from her usual foul-mouthed, happy-go-lucky attitude.
My brows furrowed. "Did he cancel?" I asked, genuinely hoping he hadn't for her sake.
"No, he's coming," she said, her voice entirely flat.
"Then what's with the long face? Go get prepped!" I nudged her elbow across the counter.
"That’s the problem," she sighed, a mix of disappointment and genuine envy bleeding into her expression. "He’ll only come under one condition."
"Which is?"
Erica looked straight at me. "He requested you."
Oh, great.
"...For tonight, and for all of his sessions moving forward," she added quietly.
No. No, no, no.
"Oh, Eri, I'm so sorry," I said quickly, the shock instantly turning into pure guilt. "I have no idea why he'd ask for me. I only covered for you that one time, and you know how agonizingly awkward it was! I swear I’m not trying to steal your client. I would never." I meant it, too. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Ice-Cold after our last grueling encounter.
She didn't respond, visibly downcast. Erica was my closest friend at the salon, and I wasn't about to let some billionaire ruin that.
"Hey... just tell Jaken I left for the night! Tell him I'm sick!"
"Too late. I already told him you answered the phone."
Damn it, Erica.
"Oh." I let out a long, defeated breath. There went my quiet night. Goodbye, dilapidated couch. Goodbye, cold beer and lazy cat-petting. The simple pleasures in life always seemed to slip right through my overworked fingers.
My shoulders slumped. This meant staying at least another two hours—one for the appointment, and another to close up the salon completely alone.
I looked at Erica, who was still standing there looking utterly rejected. Part of me wanted to insist she take him anyway. She had great rapport with her clients, she deserved the eye candy, and god knows she could use the massive tip. I even wanted to joke that if she massaged the right tension points and used her best flirtatious lip service, she might score a date.
But then reality hit me. I needed the money. Badly. My rent was past due, and my current diet consisted entirely of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the occasional cheap six-pack of beer when I wanted to feel alive. To hell with his cryptic moods and awkward silence. I dealt with difficult people every day anyway.
I walked around the counter and threw my arms around her in a massive bear hug.
"Hey, look at the bright side—I'll make sure to do a terrible job so he begs to have you back," I whispered, giving her a tight squeeze. "He'll regret settling for me in a heartbeat."
That finally broke the ice. Erica let out a genuine chuckle. "Touché, Kagome. Go ahead and put him through the wringer. I'll be waiting to swoop back in."
"You can count on it," I said with a wink. "At least you get to leave this depressing place and go home like a normal human. I'll be stuck here until midnight."
"Girl, please," Erica scoffed, gathering her coat and bag. "I’d trade places with you in a second. My only plans tonight involve scrolling through depressing Tinder messages that go nowhere. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a decent conversation. If I’m unlucky, a mediocre dick pic before getting ghosted for eternity."
"Erica Jane Connolly!" I shrieked, playfully throwing her scarf over her face. "Stop putting yourself down! You're gorgeous, smart, and hilarious. Any guy with a functioning brain would be lucky to have you."
"Aw, thanks, Mom," she teased, pinching my cheek.
"Anytime, kiddo." I ushered her toward the glass doors, handing her my umbrella as the cold, damp air hit my face. "Now get out of here before the weather gets worse. Text me when you get home safely."
"I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Billionaire before I left, just to fuel my imagination later."
"You're terrible. Goodbye, Erica!"
"Bye, babe. Good luck tonight!"
I locked the door behind her and flipped the sign to 'Closed,' lowering the blinds. I paused for a second to look out at the city streets, the raindrops catching the lights like tiny scattered diamonds. Dreary as it was, I always found a weird kind of comfort in the rain. It was the perfect weather for curling up inside—clothing optional, preferably with a partner. Cuffing season was in full swing, after all. Not that I had anyone in mind. Between scraping by to support myself and feeding my overgrown fur-baby, dating was a luxury I literally couldn't afford.
Shaking off the stray thoughts, I went to prep the room, praying this session wouldn't be completely agonizing. I lit the scented candles, got the hot towels ready, and lined up Mr. Taisho's specific hair treatments. I even brewed a fresh pot of houjicha tea that I'd brought from home. During his last visit, he’d actually taken a liking to it, even asking to taste it right out of my cup. It was a pretty un-billionaire-like thing to do, but I hadn't minded since it gave us something to talk about other than mergers and market trends.
Tonight, I went ahead and poured two cups. One for him, and one for me. Because honestly? If I was going to spend the next two hours in corporate purgatory, I was going to enjoy my tea.
The faint chime of the front door alerted me that His Highness had arrived. I threw on a fresh uniform jacket, a head covering, and a crisp face mask—because God forbid a plebeian like me contaminated his pristine, expensive air with germs.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I stretched out my hands, squared my shoulders, and walked out to the lobby with my best professional smile plastered across my face. Showtime.
And there he stood, looking like a literal high-fashion statue.
His hair, a striking, flawless platinum blonde, was tied back in a loose, low ponytail. It was so impossibly pale it almost looked white, framing a complexion that was aggressively flawless. There wasn't a single blemish, shadow, or stray line on his pale skin—he looked completely airbrushed, like a living mannequin. I betted he’d never had a pore or a pimple in his entire life.
He was dressed to the nines in a flawlessly tailored navy suit beneath a gunmetal-gray trench coat that hugged him in all the right places. His chiseled face was entirely expressionless, completely unreadable. The man literally glowed, like a celebrity stepping onto a red carpet—except the red carpet was just our salt-stained, tan lobby rug, and the premiere was an empty beauty bar catering to his ridiculous wealth.
He was either a walking masterpiece or a high-end assassin.
"Good evening, Mr. Taisho," I greeted him smoothly. "Welcome back to Yura’s. I hope the weather didn't make your drive too difficult?"
He turned his gaze toward me. Those calculating amber eyes swept over me from head to toe, analyzing me like a specimen under a microscope. It used to make my skin crawl, but by encounter number four, I’d learned to just shake it off. At least, that's what I told myself.
"My assistant, Jaken, will be in momentarily. He is parking the vehicle," he said coldly, entirely ignoring my small talk as he slipped off his coat.
Fine, be that way. I watched as the raindrops rolled effortlessly off the expensive fabric like water off a duck's back. The coat alone probably cost more than my entire annual salary.
"Is there an issue with my attire?" he asked, arching a single, perfect brow. The subtle mockery in his tone made my blood instantly boil.
"Not at all," I replied, shaking my head a little too fast while forcing my eyes to look pleasant. Thank god for the face mask and my unruly bangs; otherwise, he would have seen the literal fire raging in my eyes and my overwhelming desire to slap his pretty face into next week.
We stood there in an incredibly tense, awkward silence while he adjusted his cuffs, seemingly enjoying the fact that he made me squirm. I just focused on breathing, fighting down my explosive temper. Five minutes in, and we were already off to a spectacular start.
"I'll leave the front door unlocked for Sir Jaken," I murmured, stepping forward to take his coat like a proper receptionist. I neatly transferred it to a heavy wooden hanger, keeping my head down.
He let out a faint, dry scoff at my words. "Such formality is unnecessary. Jaken is sufficient."
I didn't bother pointing out that unlike him, I didn't have the luxury of casually throwing around first names with elite clients.
His eyes swept over the quiet lobby, his head tilting slightly toward the back corridor. "Is that brewed houjicha? The scent is remarkably fresh."
I blinked, genuinely stunned by his sense of smell. Amidst the heavy, overwhelming chemical cloud of hairsprays, styling creams, and imported perfumes lingering in the salon, he had somehow picked up the faint aroma of tea steeping in the absolute furthest room down the hall. Seriously, only a trained bloodhound should have that kind of sensory superpower.
"Yes, actually," I said, a genuine note of pride slipping through my customer service mask. "I remembered you enjoyed it last time, so I took the liberty of brewing a fresh pot. I hope that’s alright."
"Hn." He tilted his chin up, catching the scent one more time. "Very well."
I smiled beneath my mask, my eyes wrinkling politely while my brain screamed: I hope you choke on your tea, asshole.
"Right this way, Mr. Taisho."
I turned on my heel and led him to the back. It was going to be an incredibly long night.
---
words: 3,034