I wanted to admire Caesar’s face a little longer, but the police Security had called burst in. Under Caesar’s influence the zealot turned meek as a lamb; they arrested him, collected the revolver, and took him away.
After that I had to write a statement, so I told the manager and headed to the precinct for a bit.
They ask a lot more than you’d think. Exhausting…
I’d just finished giving my account and come back to the department store to grab my things when McQueen—who’d been holding down the lobby in my absence—spotted me and hurried over.
“You should head up to the private room for a minute.”
Not the office—the private room? Is there a customer I need to handle?
Since the manager’s turf is the entire first floor, McQueen and I also cover a wide area. So if customers suddenly flood in, it wouldn’t be strange for me to get called to help.
But we nearly had a firearms incident today, and didn’t they shut down sales to preserve the scene? The only tasks left should be tidying the floor and writing reports.
“The manager said you can just clock out for the day…”
Did we land an extra-special nightmare?
I blinked, eyes rolling as I stalled, and McQueen wagged a finger with theatrical flair.
“Bzzzt, wrong. Caesar O’n asked for you.”
He flashed an unreadable smile and leaned in to whisper, “He says he wants to apologize to you.”
“Huh?”
I dropped my voice to match. “Him? To me, why?”
“He kept asking if it happened because of him.”
“That was the zealot’s fault, not his.”
“Even so, the zealot said it, right? That you should give Caesar O’n his eye back.”
Right, he did. But how does that translate into apologizing to me?
Seeing I was still lost, McQueen added, “He said he didn’t know that rumor was going around. If he’d known, he would’ve put out a statement to clear it up. So go up, take a breather.”
“Wow…”
He really wants to apologize to me for that? When it’s not even his fault?
…I was the one thinking I should be thanking him.
He’s not like other people. How is someone this kind?
“There must be something in the O’n family water.”
“Special genes?”
“Yeah… something like that. Do they have a gene for being especially kind?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Otherwise how do you get three generations dropping nine-figure donations?”
The whole “family that spreads good influence” title hit me all over again.
“How hardcore does your ethics curriculum have to be for three generations to come out this way? I wish they’d share the syllabus. I could use it on my kids someday.”
“Dream on.”
I meant it, but McQueen laughed like I’d told a joke.
He gave me a light push between the shoulders. “Go on.”
“Okay, be right back.”
I said goodbye to McQueen and headed down the staff corridor. You can only reach the private room via an elevator that isn’t open to regular customers.
When I stepped out of the elevator, I saw the door already slightly ajar.
I approached the door and knocked. “Excuse me. May I come in?”
“Come in.”
The man lounging on the sofa sat up. Caesar O’n, face unreadable.
The moment I saw that face, the thought hit me: a star is a star.
Aura—such a cringey word, I always thought. But real celebrities really do have an aura.
Wasn’t there lingering facial paralysis from the explosion that took his eye, making it hard for him to show expression? In photos, Caesar O’n came off like a cool, detached beauty—dry and chilly.
But the man in front of me now…
Have compression tees always been that indecent?
Not dry at all—he radiated a lush, sticky heat.
This is a little dangerous.
I barely reined myself in and said, “Thank you for saving me earlier. I heard you asked for me, so I came up to thank you in person.”
“You don’t have to be so formal. Speak comfortably.”
He closed the distance in a few long strides. Up close he smelled of a tobacco-leaf fragrance. The soft, smoky scent was so sensual my throat worked on its own.
…This is killing me.
My face felt hot; I ducked my head. Caesar cupped my chin in his hand and gently lifted. His face filled my entire field of vision.
“I heard what happened today was because of your left eye.”
He spoke in a kind tone.
“Another staffer told me you were injured around the same time I was.”
“Y-yes… Since then, things like this happen sometimes.”
Why does his gaze feel a little heated when he looks down at me? He’s awfully at ease with touch too… I’m imagining things, right?
Stammering, I told him, “But, M— Mr. O’n, this isn’t something you’re responsible for.”
He let out a soft sigh.
Then, in a voice like soothing a child, he said, “There are plenty of O’ns besides me.”
“Sorry?”
“Call me Caesar.”
When he said his first name, the tip of his tongue showed between his lips.
Which—unhelpfully—sent a jolt straight through me. A dull ache started low in my belly.
Even the name is sexy, for god’s sake…
Knowing it was impolite, I dropped my eyes anyway.
…and re-confirmed that what he was wearing was, in fact, a tight compression tee.
Oh, hell.
The line from those broad shoulders down to that trim waist sat there in plain view.
I’m losing it.
Was he born with an R-18 sticker on? Where am I supposed to look? Is a person allowed to look like this? Can someone like this walk around in public? Is this okay for kids to see?
I finally shifted to staring at the tip of his nose instead of his eye.
“C-Caesar.”
“Yes.”
“I’m fine. This isn’t your fault, so you don’t need to take responsibility. It’s just something that happens now and then when you work retail.”
Looking at his nose calmed me enough to pull on my service-industry smile.
“I can wear lenses on shift.”
“That’ll be uncomfortable.”
“It can’t be helped.”
To break the syrupy mood, I deliberately brightened my tone. “And I can’t exactly whine at you to take responsibility, can I.”
I tossed it out expecting a “of course not” and a polite laugh. But he didn’t laugh, and he didn’t wave it off either.
He only let out a lazy hum, like something had whetted his appetite. “Hmm… I think I’d be grateful if you did.”
“Pardon?”
What did I just hear?
No. Don’t go there. My joke was cheeky, so he lobbed back a cheeky joke, that’s all.
I decided to win the little battle in my head and ignore the charged air right under my nose.
Then Caesar started talking. “I may look fine on the surface, but I’m actually very tired.”
“Yes…”
“When you repeat the same thing over and over, it makes you crazy…”
Repeat the same thing? What thing?
Cleaning up the zealots’ messes himself? Has that happened a lot?
I turned my head, thinking it over for a second.
His hand touched my back—then that big palm smoothed up along my waist. Goosebumps shot to my scalp.
Ugh, what is this sexual tension.
I froze in surprise, and he drew me in. Our stomachs met, and Caesar’s lips came to hover right in front of my nose.
A red light started flashing in my head.
What—what is this. A joke? This has to be a joke, right?
In that instant, those especially pretty lips at kissing distance murmured, “I’m sick of it now.”
“……”
“So I’ll be blunt.”
His other hand cupped the back of my neck and stroked it gently. Then, right by my ear, came a low, viscous voice.
“I can meet most of your wishes. Will you quietly come into my grasp?”
There was no way to misunderstand. No way to convince myself he didn’t mean it that way.
It was straight-on, head-on flirting.
“Money, status, or my body—it doesn’t matter. If there’s something you want, I’ll provide it.”
He laughed in his throat and looked down at me. “From the look of it earlier, you seemed to like my body well enough.”
As I stood there frozen by the sudden proposition, he slotted his knee between my legs. Then he pressed his lips fully to my ear and whispered:
“Do you want it?”
…A wildly tempting offer.
How many chances in a lifetime do you get to sleep with a man this attractive? Part of me wanted to ditch work and everything else and get it done right here.
But the fallout scares me!
This guy’s never had a scandal or a dating rumor. He’s so famously cool and matter-of-fact people even say he’s asexual… If it got out I slept with Caesar, my name would be in the news for a year, two years—how am I supposed to just say yes?
I don’t want reporters stalking me, I don’t want paparazzi, I want no gossip, please! Spare a humble civilian!
I pictured my name in headlines and getting hounded by O’on church people even worse than now… and suddenly I resented the man who’d tossed out this offer so easily.
You crazy bastard, seriously! A celebrity with ten-million-plus followers shamelessly tempting a civilian?!
It’s insanely enticing, but it’s still an offer I shouldn’t accept.
I steeled myself and shoved him back. “P-please don’t.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why!”
“But you were looking at me with those kinds of eyes.”
“I—I was not!”
Are you really going to prod me in that silky voice right now?!
A rush of aggrieved anger surged up, and I snapped without thinking.
“If you keep this up, I’m calling the police!”
I worried he’d keep pushing anyway, but thankfully the mention of calling the cops made him step back at once.
He took one step back and said, “That would be troublesome.”
But he did seem reluctant to let it go; he pulled a card from his back pocket.
“Shall we save it for next time?”
He slid the card into the chest pocket of my uniform.
“Call me if you think you might need it.”
Then he grabbed his coat and walked out of the private room.
In a blink I was left behind like something someone had forgotten.
“Hah…”
A beat late, my face went hot enough to explode.
I rubbed my burning cheeks with my palms and muttered, “What a damn lunatic…”
If only I could win the lottery instead. No winning ticket, and I get struck by lightning instead?
…Let’s call it averting a curse.
If not that, then I’ll say I paid the price for getting to look at a celebrity up close.
At the time, I truly believed that.
…Not knowing it was only the “first meeting.”