Midnight into Morning Coffee | Takahashi Ran

one

The smell of too-sweet perfume. The sound of clinking glass and soft laughter. The chandeliers reflecting off the entree plates. The music quiet so that polite, stilted conversation could be heard.

Another gala, for one charity or another, run by some heir or heiress hoping to add philanthropist to their epithet. The setting was familiar to you, one you frequented too often by the request of your label, the message transmitted by your exhausted manager— to make connections, she relayed, every time. As if you weren't already a familiar face to all. But the both of you knew that was not the real reason— it was so they could catch you in (another) scandal, canoodling with some B-lister, caught by the paparazzi on their payroll and to put your name into the headlines.

They'd have more luck in the exclusive afterparties that you were far more partial to— that's where all the fun happens. It's just tough luck that any paparazzi or uninvited, unknown names were refused entry, no exceptions.

You took another bored, long gulp of the mediocre champagne, already pleasantly buzzed. The music producer who started introducing himself unprompted, eyed your low neckline unsubtly. Fuck, that's disgusting. Well, whatever. Getting hammered and getting fucked was your goal, anyway, and this guy wasn't too horrible on the eyes. Irina— your manager— had explicitly told you to stay sober and celibate, but she said that every time, and it wasn't like she was here to stop you. It only resulted in a headline half the time.

"Are you heading to the afterparty?" You ask, trailing a hand up his arm.

"Oh— yeah. I was gonna" He says, watching the movement of your hand.

You lean in closer, and whisper into his ear, "Then how about we ditch it, and find somewhere else, together?" It was a game you've played countless times before.

The guy basically pants like a dog as he agrees. It took so little effort; you almost scoff as you down the rest of your drink.

He trails after you as you excuse yourself and say the necessary goodbyes, but a friend of a friend of a friend— some editor for a magazine, stops you by the entrance.

"Ruby-san!" He trills.

"Hello," You smile, ice cold and polite. The music producer wraps an arm around you impatiently. He's getting bolder.

"I was just in contact with your management. We want you and Ran Takahashi, front cover! It's just my luck that I saw you here. It'll be in a studio, of course, and for sportswear, right up your alley. So, what do you say? The campaign would go much smoother if we got your explicit approval." His voice is high and shrill, and it grates on your nerves.

"Sorry, who? Anyway, I can't make decisions like that independently. Good luck, bye." You quickly walk away before he can open his mouth again. You are very much aware of the rudeness, but it's an unavoidable part of your reputation anyway, so who cares? It makes life much easier.

You breathe in the cold night air as you step out of the venue, disliking the way it sobers you up.

The producer pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, and it isn't until you're pulling on your ruined dress and searching for your phone to call Irina for a ride that he finds time for an unwanted conversation.

"You don't know Ran Takahashi?" The producer frowns, watching you from his place on the bed.

"What— who?"

"Back at the gala, some old man wanted you to do the photoshoot with him."

"Oh," You fumble with your phone, "I think I may have heard his name somewhere."