The unwitting object of their obsessions was getting ready. She wore a long dress, a subdued blend of Wa Lolita fashion, halfway between a kendo hakama and a Victorian-era gown with a large corset belt of dark brown leather with brass buckles. An overlay of chiffon made a valiant attempt at preserving her modesty, although one could debate how successful that was.

  Had it been up to her, she would have worn brass goggles, leather arm guards and an antique pocket watch, going full steampunk. Her father would disapprove, however, and her producer wouldn’t be pleased either—her next movie was a science fiction flick, and he’d have her dressed in a skintight mecha pilot outfit if he could.

  Lord knows there’s enough of that stuff on the web, she thought.

  She spun around. The idea of using a hakama as a base for the skirt worked better than expected. The fabric was on the heavy side, but after years of kendo training, the weight felt just right and she could move freely, something that would have been impossible with a genuine Victorian dress.

  It was a pretty good compromise, all things considered.

  She had responsibilities after all. Between her wedding and the merger, this was no time to steal the show with wild, fringe fashion.

  I’m actually getting married, she thought. It still felt unreal. She had known Oroshi for a while, they had crossed paths as kids, and since then, at various social functions, but little more than that. The courtship… well, there had not been one yet.

  She was already 32, and her dad, desperate to see her settled and happy, had taken the matter into his own hands. At first, she protested she would find someone herself, but deep down, she knew how unlikely that was and so she relented. Apart from a couple of flings in her early twenties, there had been no romance in her life. It didn’t do her career any good, and between kendo training, acting classes, movies and photo shoots… time had flown by so fast.

  It was kind of ironic, really. She’d been through the wildest of romances on screen.

  According to the magazines, I could have any man I want, she sneered, dabbing her face with a cream for a “fresher, more natural look.” But how would I even meet a man I want? Her “elite” social circle was full of self-indulgent brats raised with a silver spoon. Potential suitors were plenty, but about half of them were playboys hunting for a trophy wife while the other half lusted after her father’s empire. They didn’t know her and didn’t seem to care what she thought, felt or dreamed of. In all fairness though, she hadn’t found them to be particularly interesting either.

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  She leaned closer to the mirror, pursing her lips to apply lip gloss, a near transparent layer that made her lips “naturally” fresher and moist. Her artificially “natural” look was a work of art, and an expensive one at that.

  This reminded her of the last category of suitors she had encountered: closeted gay guys who needed a cover story. Her last fling had been one of those, a lesser known actor she had a few scenes with.

  Yuki was a gorgeous man, attentive, kind and he seemed to love her for who she was more than what she looked like. She was over the moon for a while. It was all so very discreet—although movie stars like herself defined the essence of sex appeal, Japanese society expected her to remain as pure and untouched as fresh snow.

  She chucked the lip gloss into her bag, irritated.

  That relationship had only lasted a few weeks, disintegrating when she found Yuki in the arms of the tall blond actor playing the main protagonist. Not in his arms, she sneered as she recalled the scene: he was on his knees between the legs of the blond giant. No amount of “it’s not what it looks like” could make up for the fact that the blond actor had not been wearing pants—or underwear for that matter.

  Who could she even date after that?

  She had been mad at first, but perhaps her father was right. It wasn’t as if she could make a profile on a dating website or pick up a guy in a bar. Oroshi was somewhat older than she was, and an accomplished businessman whose family had recently acquired major high-tech manufacturing assets. Combined with her father’s empire, the match made a whole lot of sense, business-wise at least, and…

  Oroshi was hot. Unquestionably so.

  She blushed at the thought. She remembered seeing him at a premiere last year. The perfect gentleman. He moved from one group to another with ease, speaking rarely but commanding respect every time he did. He didn’t have any reputation for being a playboy either. In truth, for a man of his social standing, remarkably little was known about him.

  A man of mystery. She smiled. Who knows, he might be fun in private.

  She made a few silly faces at herself in the mirror: a nice smile, demure and innocent. A seductive, foxy smile, then a scornful glare. Forced laughter. She went through a gamut of emotions, effortlessly flowing from one to the next like the consummate professional she was.

  Mashiro Kaori, Japan’s most beloved daughter, was getting ready for an arranged marriage because she couldn’t find love on her own.

  If people only knew…

  She wanted to scream out loud “Look at me. This is the real me, I’m human too.”

  She flashed another smile at the mirror, as if daring herself to keep whining. She was still young, rich, stunningly beautiful, and soon she would start a family of her own. Could she really complain? Things would work out, and if they didn’t, she would make them. So what if her heart didn’t race for Oroshi? Maybe it would. It had never raced for anyone else either.

  Should I spend the rest of my life alone and childless waiting for something that only happens in stories?

  She had to try. She glanced at her reflection one last time and nodded approvingly. Oroshi might be surprised to see her dressed like that, but after all, a date was meant for them to learn more about each other, so why not? If he couldn’t deal with some minor quirk, she had to find out now.

  She strode out confidently from her dressing room, ready to face the future.