Of course, Hoshino Ayumi had heard of Kitagawa Ryo's name. His face and reputation flashed across neon signs and giant billboards day and night. Earlier this year, he had topped the "Most Desirable Man to Hug" rankings on his first appearance—a national sensation.
Like Kimura Takuya, who had debuted during Ayumi's school days, he was the unspoken topic on everyone's lips.
Back then, Ayumi had been no exception. She had even dated a boy nicknamed "Little Kimura"—until he abandoned her and vanished. Not that she blamed the real Kimura for it.
But in the twenty years since, she hadn't met anyone who could even compare to Little Kimura. Unwilling to face that truth, she drowned herself in alcohol, convincing herself that any man would do.
Drifting in a haze of liquor, she refused to sober up enough to recognize her clients. Even when she saw their faces, she pretended not to know them—pasting Kimura Takuya's image over theirs like a mask.
To Ayumi, vanity in love was like a game where defeating a rival meant claiming all their treasures. If other girls liked a guy, winning him first meant crushing those girls underfoot.
And now, Hoshino Ai was telling her that Kitagawa Ryo—a superstar whose looks surpassed even Kimura Takuya's—was her boyfriend.
Which meant—
Ai didn't need to hunt for a "Little Ryo" or numb herself with fantasies. Just by wrapping her arm around his, like in that photo, she had already trampled countless women—including Ayumi herself—under her heel.
In the mirror, Ai caught the darkening shadow on her mother's face. Smiling lightly, she asked:
"What's wrong, Mom?"
"...Just surprised. I didn't know you had a boyfriend. You never mentioned it before."
Ayumi forced down the venomous jealousy gnawing at her heart. She needed to salvage something tangible from this.
"Still, I'd like to meet this Kitagawa Ryo. He's lucky to be dating our Ai..."
She prattled on like a real mother—one who'd just learned of her daughter's relationship. But between the lines, she was angling for an invitation.
Ayumi had already planned it out. As Ai's mother, Ryo had to visit her eventually—and he wouldn't come empty-handed.
Even if he only spared a crumb from his wealth, she could profit and sell the story to Weekly Entertainment.
"Everything about Kitagawa Ryo is valuable."
That was what that reporter, Tanaka, had told her.
"If you want to meet Ryo, he'll—"
Ai pulled out her phone mid-sentence, then frowned.
"Ah, he has work tonight. He can't make it... What a shame."
Sighing, she put away her cosmetics. Dressing up for someone who appreciates you—if Ryo wasn't coming, there was no point.
"Since Ryo's busy, let's not wait. You used to cook for me—today, it's my turn."
Unlike her initial stiffness, Ai had fully settled into her role now. Method acting at its finest—programming herself into a flawless, precise machine.
She performed brilliantly. The lies she'd rehearsed for days even made Ayumi briefly believe she'd once been a good mother.
A lavish spread covered the table—a steaming sukiyaki pot at the center, simmering over an alcohol burner. Beside it were two bottles of premium liquor Ayumi had only ever heard of in her decades of life.
"I'm not quite twenty yet, so I can't drink with you. What a pity—this should be a celebration."
Ai feigned regret as she poured her mother a glass, smiling.
"Don't hold back on my account."
Countless times, her mother's drunken rages had left her bruised. But today, she was grateful for that addiction.
Weekly Entertainment's reporters wouldn't waste alcohol on Ayumi. So when Ai filled her glass, Ayumi gulped it down greedily.
Just as Ryo had guessed—if Ayumi had any real wit, she wouldn't have sunk this low.
Those polished lines? Clearly scripted by the magazine's editors.
Then, the two began talking—completely at cross-purposes.
Ayumi whitewashed the past. She doubted Ai, barely more than a toddler back then, remembered much. Even if she did, what could she prove? Drag her younger self as a witness? No—she'd have to compromise.
After all, as Ai's birth mother, Ayumi could torment her endlessly.
The irony? Ayumi barely remembered those days herself. After her release from prison, she'd eagerly scrubbed Ai from her life. Why would she recall anything about her?
Like a barren mine, Ayumi quickly exhausted her meager memories and fell back on the story the reporters had fed her.
—Working as a hostess, bringing clients home (omitting the latter half), spinning it as a single mother's desperate struggle.
—Stealing, but framing every misstep as a first-time, last-resort act of desperation.
—Lashing out because of drinking, drinking because of work—"In such hardship, shouldn't a daughter learn to be understanding?"
Unlike the sanitized article, hearing Ayumi recite these lies to her face—so matter-of-factly—made Ai's stomach churn violently.
Those memories had slept inside her all along—licking at her heart like flames, stewing her fears, threatening to consume her.
But—
"Do you remember our tiny rental? Barely ten square meters, but waking up beside you every morning felt so warm."
"Small spaces can feel cozy. Ryo and I plan to stay in a beachside cottage in Bali someday."
Ai smiled sweetly.
"...I'd come home late, cook even later—to save electricity, we ate under a single bulb. Funny to think about now."
"You were quite the cook. Sadly, I didn't inherit that. Ryo usually handles meals—he's amazing. Makes desserts too, like yogurt cheesecake, mango pudding, sesame sweet potato cakes, mochi, dorayaki, blueberry pie... Better than any bakery. Have you tried them?"
Ai beamed.
"...People always urged me to remarry. Sometimes I considered it—but then I'd see you and endure."
"Single mothers do struggle to remarry. That's why Ryo and I are dating seriously—marriage is the goal. No kids too soon, though. He already has a little sister. Maybe after we retire—when we're financially free."
Ai's smile bloomed like a flower.
One spoke of the past, the other of the future.
One spun a fabricated past, the other a future within reach.
"...Are you mocking me?"
Drunk, Ayumi finally shed her loving mother act.
Her eyes bloodshot, she snarled at her daughter.
"Am I?"
Ai tilted her head slightly.
"Shouldn't a mother want her child to have a better life than hers?"
"Or... did you never see yourself as my mother, Ayumi?"
"How dare you speak to me like that!"
Slurring, Ayumi bared her uneven teeth. She staggered up, looming over her seated daughter.
"Who knows how many men you've slept with as an idol, huh? Lost count?"
She patted Ai's cheek roughly.
"No different from a whore."
Ai looked up, silent. Instead of refute, she remembered her first days at the orphanage.
The director had each child share their dreams—what they wanted to be.
One boy wanted to be a scientist—though his version was just "shaking bottles in a lab" (he had no clue what was inside).
Another aimed to be a pro baseball player—despite knowing nothing about the rules. "Swinging a bat looks cool."
When Ai's turn came, she hesitated. The director gently asked: "Any wish? I'll help match it to a job."
"To love someone... and be loved in return."
Not her exact words, but close. The other children laughed, confused.
Yet the director patted her head and offered two answers—though he only voiced the first aloud:
"An idol."
Later, Ai sought him out privately for the second answer.
"Not quite a career, but it fits what you want to be."
He smiled.
"A bride."
"You can insult me, but don't insult my profession—or the fans who support me."
To Ayumi's shock, Ai's retort was firm.
"You're drunk. Go rest. I'll be busy with Tokyo Dome preparations, so stay here until—"
As Ai reached to help, Ayumi shoved her aside—just like years ago.
"Accidentally" yanking the tablecloth in her stumble, dishes and bottles crashed to the floor.
Glass shattered. The sound pierced Ai's ears.
The overturned alcohol burner flared. Ai scrambled to smother the flames.
Ayumi laughed at the chaos—remembering how Ai used to clean up her drunken messes.
That was when she felt something resembling joy.
The control she held over this life.
Soon after, Ayumi passed out.
"Got the recording."
"Good work."
Ryo took the USB from Ai, then handed her a lunchbox from his bag.
"You barely ate earlier. I made extra."
Ai nodded, opening it.
She shoveled warm rice into her mouth, more at ease than ever.
Here, there was no danger—no malice.
To learn to love many and be loved by many—become an idol.
To learn to love one and be loved by that one—become his bride.