Chapter 3: The Negotiation
The silence in the penthouse the next morning was different. It wasn’t empty. It was listening.
Taichi moved through the rooms like a careful ghost, washing the sheets, making tea. He wore a pair of Van’s sweatpants, the fabric pooling around his ankles. The silver collar was still on. Van watched him from the doorway of his study, the memory of that single word—no—echoing like a contract he’d already signed in his head.
By noon, he was in his car, giving the townhouse address to his driver. His knuckles were white on his knee.
Aiko’s assistant, a silent young man with vacant eyes, led him to the office. It was a tomb of dark wood and suppressed sound. The wilting orchid on the desk seemed like a deliberate taunt, a symbol of something beautiful kept in the wrong environment.
Aiko sat behind the expanse of mahogany, not smiling. “Mr. Van. To what do I owe the visit? A complaint about the merchandise?”
“I want to buy his contract. Outright.” Van didn’t sit. He stood, hands in the pockets of his coat, his posture all boardroom authority.
Aiko laughed. It was a short, dry crack of sound. “You don’t. You want to rent the fantasy of ownership. Taichi is not a pet. He is a revenue stream. My most reliable one.”
“Name a price.”
“There isn’t one. He earns, every night. What you’re asking is for me to slaughter a cash cow. I’m a businesswoman, not a sentimentalist.” She picked up a pen, twirling it. “He’s already booked for tomorrow. A regular client. Very fond of his… quietness.”
A cold fury tightened Van’s gut. He saw the leering man from the auction, others, an endless parade. He forced his voice level. “Then a retainer. An exclusive monthly retainer. He lives with me. He sees no one else.”
Aiko’s eyes, sharp as flint, flickered. The calculator behind them was audible in the pause. “Interesting. Forfeiting all other income on an asset requires significant compensation. The average nightly take for a boy of his caliber, factoring in peak demand nights, is substantial.”
“Triple it,” Van said. “Triple the average. For twelve months.”
The pen stopped twirling. She set it down with a precise click. “Non-refundable. Paid on the first of each month, regardless of your travel, your moods, or his health. If you damage him—” she leaned forward, “—if you leave a mark that affects his value or require more than three days of recovery, you pay a full replacement cost. Which I would set at twenty times the monthly retainer.”
It was predatory. Extortionate. It meant Taichi, on paper, would still be hers. A leased commodity. Van understood the brutality of the terms. He was paying not for a person, but for the illusion of control. And he would.
“Agreed.”
“I’ll have the contract drawn up.” She didn’t move to call anyone. The contract, it seemed, was already in a drawer. She pulled it out, a thick sheaf of paper, and slid it across the desk. “Sign on the highlighted lines. The schedule of payments is exhibit A. The damage clauses are exhibit B. Read them.”
Van picked up the pen. He didn’t read it. He scrawled his name on each line, a dark, slashing signature that felt like cutting a bond and forging a new one simultaneously. The amount, when he glimpsed it, was astronomical. It didn’t matter.
Aiko took the signed pages, her satisfaction a quiet glow in her composed face. “He’s yours to collect. He has no personal effects of value. I’ll inform his regulars he’s… indefinitely unavailable.” She stood, extending a hand. “A pleasure doing business, Mr. Van. I trust you’ll find the arrangement satisfactory.”
Van ignored her hand. He turned and left the office, the hum of the hidden fan seeming to mock his retreat.
Back at the penthouse, Taichi was folding the last of the laundry. He looked up, eyes widening slightly at Van’s expression.
Van walked to him, pulled the stack of towels from his hands, and dropped them on the sofa. He took Taichi’s wrist, his grip firm. “Get your things. Whatever you have. You’re moving in.”
Taichi’s breath hitched. “Sir?”
“I signed a contract with Aiko. You’re exclusive. For a year.” He watched the words land, saw the confusion, the dawning hope, the flicker of fear. “This is your home now. You don’t go back there. You don’t see anyone else.”
Taichi stared at him. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He swallowed, then nodded, a slow, deep movement. “I… I don’t really have things. Just some clothes there. A book.”
“We’ll buy new ones.” Van’s hand came up, his thumb stroking the cool metal of the collar. “Except this. This stays on. That’s the condition.”
A shudder ran through Taichi’s lean frame. Not of fear, but of release. His shoulders slumped, the perpetual, unseen tension of being always on display beginning to drain away. He leaned forward, until his forehead rested against Van’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words muffled.
Van didn’t embrace him. He stood rigid, feeling the weight of the boy’s gratitude, the crushing cost of it, the terrifying shape of the solitude he had just formalized. He had bought a silence, a beautiful, pliant silence, to fill his own.
He guided Taichi to the bedroom. The afternoon light was weak, pale through the high windows. Van pushed him onto the bed, not with violence, but with certainty. He needed the anchor of flesh, the proof.
Later, as the grey sky darkened, Taichi slept, spent and loose-limbed beside him. Van lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The penthouse was finally, completely, his. And it was filled with a belonging that felt exactly like a new kind of isolation. The contract was in his briefcase, a dozen pages of cold clauses. The collar was on the boy’s throat, a circle of silver.
He had claimed all the nights. Now he just had to live in them.