The footsteps ascending the stairs were light, almost delicate, yet they landed with the heavy finality of a judge’s gavel. The air in the room grew thick, charged with anticipation. Three figures emerged from the stairwell, their silhouettes sharpening into focus.

Leading the way was a girl in a simple, elegant black dress. She had striking, ruby-red eyes and a face of flawless porcelain white. She was a dark lotus in full bloom, a girl whose beauty was so profound it was almost a form of violence.

Following a step behind her was a maid with a single blonde ponytail tied high on the left side of her head. With her golden hair and clear blue eyes, she was a lovely, doll-like mixed-race girl, her expression perfectly, unnervingly blank.

Bringing up the rear was a heavy-set woman with a grim, severe face. From her authoritative air and the different, more austere cut of her uniform, it was clear she held a position of authority—a stewardess, a manager of the household staff.

The trio reached the doorway, their presence sucking the warmth from the room. Ryo and Shiraki bowed in perfect, synchronized respect. “Good day, Second Young Mistress! Good day, Stewardess!”

The girl in the black dress paid the maids no more mind than if they were furniture. She walked directly to Haruka, her movements fluid and predatory, and stopped before him. She stared, her gaze intense and unnervingly direct, as if she were trying to peel back his skin to see what lay beneath. It was the older woman who gave the maids a condescending, dismissive nod.

The dark lotus girl remained silent, simply observing Haruka for a long, uncomfortable moment. The silence stretched, becoming a weapon in itself. Haruka began to wonder if there was something wrong with his clothes, may be a thread out of place. Why else would she be staring at him with such focused, analytical intensity?

“Ahem.”

The blonde maid behind her gave a soft, almost inaudible cough, a subtle signal. Only then did the girl tear her eyes away from Haruka.

“Your name is Yukishiro Haruka?” she asked, her voice as cold and clear as ice water.

Haruka nodded.

“How old are you?” she asked, turning her head to the side with an air of practiced arrogance, as if he weren’t worthy of her direct gaze.

“Almost thirteen.”

“About the same as me. What month were you born in?”

“August.”

“My name is Fujiwara Kiyohime. I was born two months before you. According to seniority, you should call me ‘onee-san’.” The words were a statement of fact, but they carried the weight of a command.

“I am merely an outsider,” Haruka replied, his tone perfectly, flawlessly polite. “I am grateful enough that the Fujiwara family has taken me in. How could I dare to presume such a relationship and tarnish the Young Mistress’s name?” His words were a shield, smooth and impenetrable.

“Whether you can even stay here is not yet certain!” Kiyohime glared at him, trying to appear fierce, but when he showed no reaction, no flicker of fear, she shot an irritated look at the older woman.

The stewardess nodded and stepped forward. “Young Master, the party is about to begin. I was wondering if you have finished changing?”

“I have,” Haruka replied. “This is what I am wearing.”

The woman took a few steps back, her eyes scanning his attire with theatrical disapproval. “Oh, that simply will not do,” she declared, shaking her head. “It is not at all appropriate for your status. Perhaps I could help you change into something else?”

She took a garment from the blonde maid, shook it out with a dramatic flourish, and held it up high for all to see.

Ryo and Shiraki gasped, their hands flying to their mouths as they glanced worriedly at Haruka.

It was a woman’s kimono. A fiery, garish red, it was adorned with flamboyant, almost vulgar patterns of cherry blossoms and swirling clouds. It was a costume, a mockery.

“The Young Master is so exceptionally handsome,” the woman said with a deferential smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The implication that he was feminine enough to wear it was a clear, calculated insult. “This outfit would suit you perfectly.”

Haruka feigned ignorance. “There’s no need. I’ve already changed.”

“It’s no trouble. It won’t take much of your time.”

Haruka’s voice grew a fraction colder. “That is a woman’s garment.”

“That’s right, it is,” the woman said, her smile widening. “And I think it would look very good on you, Young Master.”

“The clothes do look nice.”

“They were custom-made to your measurements.”

“But I cannot wear them,” Haruka stated, his voice calm but unyielding. “They are for a woman, and I am a man.”

The woman chuckled. “But you’re so beautiful, Young Master. I’m sure you would look just as good.”

Haruka smiled back, a slow, deliberate expression that finally held a glint of steel. “If being beautiful is the only requirement, then perhaps you should be the one putting on a man’s suit, Stewardess.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Ryo and Shiraki struggled to suppress their laughter, their shoulders shaking. Kiyohime, however, let out a sharp, clear laugh that was surprisingly melodious, a sound of genuine, cruel amusement.

The stewardess froze, her face flushing a deep, mottled red. She was suddenly in an impossible position, holding the ridiculous kimono, unsure whether to advance or retreat.

“Second Young Mistress, what seems to be so amusing?” a new voice drifted from the doorway, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

Kiyohime’s smile vanished as if it had been wiped from her face.

Ryo and Shiraki immediately bowed, their heads low. “Lady Momozawa.”

Haruka looked over. The owner of the voice stood at the entrance. She had legs with the lustrous sheen of ivory and moved without a sound, approaching like a beautiful, silent predator. He heard the name “Momozawa” and immediately recalled what Suzune had told him about the head butler.

“Good day, Young Master. I am the head butler here. My name is Momozawa Ai,” she said, walking up to Haruka and giving a slight, elegant bow. A lock of her golden hair fell forward, brushing against her full, red lips.

“Lady Momozawa…” the stewardess stammered, forcing a sycophantic smile.

Momozawa Ai held out her hand. “What are you hiding behind your back? Let me see it.”

“It’s… it’s the Second Young Mistress’s clothes,” the woman hesitated, her eyes darting toward Kiyohime for support.

Momozawa Ai’s eyes were like flawless sapphires, deep and unreadable. She looked at the woman calmly. “I said, let me see.”

The stewardess glanced at Kiyohime, who was now pretending to be utterly absorbed in the pattern of the carpet. The pretty face of the blonde maid beside her was a perfect, emotionless mask. The stewardess bit her lip and produced the kimono. Momozawa Ai snatched it from her and held it open.

“Who did you intend to have wear this?” Momozawa Ai asked, her voice dangerously soft.

The woman didn’t dare speak.

“Quite a few people saw this,” Momozawa Ai said, her gaze sweeping over Ryo and Shiraki before finally settling on Haruka. Her voice softened, becoming almost motherly. “Young Master… tell me. Was this woman trying to force you into this?”

Haruka nodded.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Momozawa Ai demanded of the stewardess. “Who told you to do this?”

The woman gritted her teeth, a cornered animal. “I did it of my own accord.”

Momozawa Ai’s eyes flickered toward Kiyohime and her maid. “And why did you do it?”

The woman lowered her head. “If I could force him to wear this to the party… he would never be able to stay in the Fujiwara household.”

Haruka heard every word clearly, and a dark, cold cloud settled over his heart.

Momozawa Ai’s heart sank as well. She knew a mere stewardess would never dare such a thing. The order had come from Kiyohime. But the Old Mistress’s recovery depended on this boy. She had to give him a satisfactory, and public, resolution.

“Kneel!” Momozawa Ai commanded, her voice cracking like a whip.

The woman did not resist, immediately dropping to her knees with a heavy thud.

“Not to me,” Momozawa Ai said coldly.

The woman hesitated for a fraction of a second, then began to awkwardly shuffle on her knees toward Haruka. The movement was clearly painful for her heavy frame, her face twitching with suppressed agony.

“Please… forgive me,” the woman said, bowing her head low.

“Have you forgotten how to properly apologize?” Momozawa Ai’s voice was laced with contempt.

A wave of utter humiliation washed over the woman. She placed her hands on the floor in front of her and pressed her forehead firmly to the polished wood. “Young Master, please forgive me.”

Haruka felt no sense of victory, only a cold, clear understanding. This woman was merely a pawn, a shield for the real player.

“She is yours to command,” Momozawa Ai said softly to Haruka. “What is your wish, Young Master? How should she be punished?” Her sapphire eyes glinted. This was a test of his character, a demonstration for an unseen audience.

Haruka thought for a moment, then held out his hand.

Momozawa Ai, slightly surprised, handed him the red kimono.

“Look at me,” Haruka said to the kneeling woman. He shook the kimono out in front of her, the red fabric a splash of violence in the quiet room. “You wanted me to wear this? Fine. You wear it instead. For everyone to see. Then, I will forgive you.”

Momozawa Ai lowered her eyelids, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “Get up. Do as the Young Master says.”

“Yes, yes,” the woman scrambled to her feet.

“You don’t need to take your uniform off,” Haruka said. “Just put it on over it.”

The woman hurriedly tried to pull the kimono on, but her large frame and the small size of the garment made it a grotesque struggle. She stumbled, falling heavily to the floor. Without pausing, she scrambled back up and continued to wrestle with the kimono, the fabric straining and tearing with audible rips as she finally managed to pull it on. She looked like a sausage that had been twisted too many times in its casing, a ridiculous, pathetic figure.

Momozawa Ai gestured with her chin. “Get her properly made up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ryo and Shiraki, finally able to speak, rushed to the vanity and began smearing blush and eyeshadow onto the woman’s face with a grim efficiency. In moments, her face was a grotesque caricature, as comical as a kabuki clown’s, her cheeks like a monkey’s backside.

The maids remained silent and professional, but Kiyohime couldn’t help but let out another delighted, cruel laugh.

“Are you satisfied, Young Master?” Momozawa Ai asked.

Haruka nodded.

“Then get out,” Momozawa Ai said to the woman.

Just as the woman was about to retreat, a wave of relief washing over her face, Haruka suddenly called out, “Wait!”

The woman froze, her nerves stretched taut.

“Don’t take the clothes off,” Haruka said, his voice quiet but carrying an undeniable authority. “Wear them for ‘everyone’ to see. And if anyone asks, tell them you offended me.”

Momozawa Ai gave Haruka a long, deep look, a flicker of what might have been approval in her sapphire eyes, then nodded.

The woman still didn’t dare to move until Haruka said, “You may go.” Only then did she bow deeply and slowly, grotesquely, back out of the room.