The Spare Groom

Chapter 1: The Spare

The pristine, sterile silence of the penthouse kitchen didn't last long. It was shattered the moment a heavy, stainless-steel balloon whisk slammed against the imported white marble island with a deafening clack.

"Say that word again," Hinata hissed, his voice trembling with a lethal mix of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated venom. "I dare you. Say it, and I will show you exactly how violent a culinary student can get with a standard-issue kitchen tool."

Kyohei Shinomiya didn't even flinch. He stood perfectly framed under the warm glow of the designer pendant lights, looking every bit the ruthless, untouchable strategist the media loved to worship. His tie was loosened by exactly two inches, but otherwise, his tailored black suit was flawless. In his right hand, he casually held a crisp, legally binding document.

"I merely stated a fact," Kyohei said, his voice smooth, calculated, and infuriatingly calm. "The signatures are dry. The press has already released the statement. Therefore, as your husband, I have every right to discuss how we will manage this marriage moving forward."

Husband. Marriage.

The words triggered an absolute explosion inside Hinata’s chest. He stood there, a vision of defiant fury. One hand gripped his collar, tearing at the suffocating silk tie, while the other brandished the whisk like a weapon. His hair was a chaotic, rumpled mess of brown curls. A dusting of flour and a dark smudge of chocolate from his frantic, angry baking earlier in the evening stained his white shirt, making him a walking disaster in Kyohei’s perfectly ordered world.

"Husband?" Hinata barked out a harsh, mocking laugh, taking an aggressive step forward. "You're a businessman who just bought a piece of property because your original investment ran away! Don't you dare use those words with me. You don't love me, you don't even know me, and I despise every single thing that breathes your last name. This isn't a marriage. It’s a hostage situation!"

Kyohei watched him, those sharp, dark eyes tracking the rise and fall of Hinata's chest. Instead of firing back, Kyohei simply stepped closer, invading Hinata's space until the scent of expensive cologne mingled with the raw, sweet smell of the vanilla extract Hinata had spilled on the counter.

"You're right. I don't know you," Kyohei murmured, his gaze dropping to the whisk still gripped tightly in Hinata's hand, then rising back to meet those fierce, stubborn eyes. "But you signed. And unlike your brother, I always keep my contracts."

As Kyohei reached out, his cool, steady fingers brushing against Hinata's wrist to gently but firmly lower the makeshift weapon, the sheer, suffocating weight of the situation finally pressed down on Hinata. The anger simmered, leaving behind a bitter, hollow ache.

His mind, entirely overwhelmed by the suffocating reality of the ring on his finger, dragged him backward. Away from this hyper-modern penthouse kitchen. Away from Kyohei’s intense, unreadable stare.

Six hours. Just six hours ago, Hinata hadn't been a groom. He had been a spare part.

Six Hours Earlier: The Bridal Suite at The Grand Imperial

"What do you mean he’s gone?!"

The screech that left his mother’s throat was high enough to shatter the crystal champagne flutes sitting on the vanity.

Hinata stood in the corner of the lavish, silk-draped holding room, his arms crossed over his chest, wearing his oversized, comfortable culinary school hoodie and a pair of faded jeans. He was only there because his father had demanded a "complete family photo" for the elite society magazines before the ceremony. Hinata was the afterthought. The black sheep. The son who chose grease, burns, and chaotic kitchens over boardrooms and stocks.

"His phone is off," his older brother’s manager stammered, sweating profusely through his tuxedo. "Itsuki's car is missing from the valet. He left this on the dressing table."

His father snatched the heavy, cream-colored cardstock. Hinata watched, a dark, cynical smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as his father’s face turned an ugly, mottled shade of purple.

“I can't do this. Kyohei doesn't want a partner, he wants a trophy. Find someone else to play the part.”

"The coward," Hinata muttered aloud, unable to restrain his blunt, honest nature. "The golden boy finally grew a spine and realized he was being sold like a prize pony. Good for him."

"Shut up, Hinata!" his mother wailed, clutching her pearl necklace. "You have no idea what is at stake! The Shinomiya Group holds forty percent of our family's tech shares. If this wedding doesn't happen in thirty minutes, Kyohei will liquidate everything. We will be ruined by tomorrow morning!"

His father didn't join the shouting. Instead, the older man's icy, calculating eyes slowly turned away from the letter. He bypassed his weeping wife. He bypassed the panicked manager.

His gaze landed squarely on Hinata.

An unsettling, predatory silence fell over the room. Hinata's smirk vanished. His posture stiffened, his stubborn instincts immediately screaming at him to run.

"No," Hinata said flatly, taking a step back toward the door. "Absolutely not. Don't even look at me."

"You are an Asano," his father said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, commanding tone he used to crush competitors. "You have done nothing but embarrass this family with your scandals, your loud mouth, and your ridiculous obsession with cooking. You have contributed zero to this name."

"And I plan to keep it that way," Hinata snapped back, his jaw clenching. "Itsuki ran. That's your problem. Go find him."

"There is no time!" his mother suddenly gasped, catching on to her husband's train of thought. She rushed over, grabbing Hinata's arms with a desperate, crushing grip. "Hinata, please. The invitations went out to the press. The veil... the lighting... the groom is waiting. The media only knows an 'Asano son' is marrying Kyohei Shinomiya. The public barely even knows what you look like because we kept you out of the spotlight!"

"Because you were ashamed of me," Hinata corrected bitterly, shoving his mother’s hands off him. "Let's be accurate here. You kept me in the dark because I didn't fit your perfect, elite aesthetic."

"And now you will save it," his father roared, stepping forward to block the exit. "You will put on Itsuki's backup suit. You will walk down that aisle. You will sign that certificate. If you don't, I will personally see to it that your culinary academy is bought out and closed by sunset. You won't even be able to get a job washing dishes in this country, Hinata. Try me."

Hinata stared at his father, his blood boiling. The sheer, suffocating arrogance of his family—and the man waiting for them at the altar—made him want to burn the entire hotel to the ground. They wanted a puppet? They wanted a quiet, submissive spare part to paste over the scandal?

A dangerous, reckless spark ignited in Hinata's chest. He looked at the tailored, pristine white tuxedo hanging on the rack.

Fine, Hinata thought, his eyes narrowing with a vengeful, stubborn heat. You want me to play the groom? I'll play it. But I'm going to make Kyohei Shinomiya regret the day he ever tried to buy an Asano.

The memory of walking down that aisle still made Hinata’s blood run hot with humiliation.

The heavy, arched doors of the grand cathedral had groaned open, revealing a sea of high-society vultures dressed in silk and diamonds. The air had been thick with the suffocating scent of expensive white lilies and the low, collective hum of hundreds of people whispering.

Hinata had felt every eye lock onto him. He wasn't Itsuki. Itsuki walked with a rehearsed, delicate grace. Hinata, even forced into a pristine white tuxedo, walked with the broad-shouldered, grounded stride of someone who spent twelve hours a day on his feet in a high-pressure kitchen. The backup suit was tight across his back, constricting his movements, making him feel like a caged animal.

The whispers had started almost instantly, rippling through the rows of pews like wildfire.

"Wait... is that Itsuki?"

"No, look at his face. The jawline is sharper. Who is that?"

"My god, it’s the younger brother. The wild one. The one who got into that public brawl at the culinary showcase last year!"

"Did the Asanos actually switch the grooms? Where is Itsuki? Is this a joke?"

Hinata had kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He could see his parents out of the corner of his eye, smiling fake, plastic smiles at the guests, their hands trembling with terror. They had pulled off the ultimate deception, and now they were praying the Shinomiya family wouldn't execute them on the spot.

Sitting in the absolute front row, looking like a dynasty of dark royalty, was the Shinomiya family.

Kyohei’s father sat like a stone statue, his eyes cold and evaluating, cutting right through Hinata. Beside him, Kyohei’s relatives whispered fiercely behind lace fans and leather-bound programs. To them, the Asanos had just insulted their bloodline by offering a "scandalous spare" instead of the polished heir. Hinata had practically felt their disgust radiating off the mahogany pews. They didn't want a loud, blunt culinary student marrying into their sterile, perfect empire.

And then, there was Kyohei.

Standing at the altar, Kyohei had looked entirely detached from the circus surrounding him. When Hinata finally reached the steps, Kyohei’s dark eyes had swept over him. Hinata had expected shock. He had expected Kyohei to call for his security and have the Asano family dragged out in disgrace.

Instead, Kyohei had simply tilted his head. His gaze had lingered on the furious, defiant fire burning in Hinata's eyes. In that single, fleeting second, Kyohei had deduced everything: Itsuki had run, the Asanos were desperate, and the boy standing before him was a volatile, explosive variable.

Yet, Kyohei didn't blink. He hadn't raised a single objection. When the priest asked for the vows, Kyohei had spoken his lines with a terrifying, smooth precision.

When the marriage certificate was placed between them, Hinata had snatched the pen, stabbing it against the paper to sign his name so violently he nearly tore the parchment. He had looked up, glaring directly into Kyohei's eyes, silently saying: You think you bought me? Just wait. I will ruin you.

Kyohei had merely taken the pen from Hinata’s hand, his fingers deliberately brushing against Hinata's, and signed his own name with a flawless, elegant flourish.

"You looked like you wanted to murder me at the altar," Kyohei’s voice broke through the memory, dragging Hinata forcefully back into the present.

The warmth of the penthouse kitchen rushed back. Hinata blinked, his focus snapping back to the man standing right in front of him. Kyohei’s hand was still wrapped firmly around Hinata's wrist, effortlessly keeping the metal whisk lowered.

"I still want to murder you," Hinata snarled, trying to yank his arm back, but Kyohei’s grip was like iron. "Your family looked at me like I was a piece of trash washed up on their pristine doorstep. Your father looked like he wanted to have me assassinated. Why didn't you stop it, Kyohei? You knew I wasn't Itsuki the second I walked through those doors!"

Kyohei pulled Hinata just an inch closer, completely unfazed by the venom dripping from his lips.

"Because Itsuki was boring," Kyohei murmured, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the hairs on the back of Hinata's neck stand up. "Itsuki would have spent our entire marriage nodding quietly, playing the perfect puppet, and hiding behind a mask. But you..."

Kyohei’s gaze dropped to the flour smudged across Hinata’s cheek, then back to his fierce, unyielding eyes.

"You don't know how to hide. You are loud, you are real, and you hate me with every fiber of your being. For a man who handles boring, predictable transactions every day of his life... you are the most interesting thing I've ever acquired."

"I am not an acquisition!" Hinata shouted, his face flushing red with a mixture of fury and a sudden, betraying spike of heat in his chest. He raised his free hand, fist clenched, ready to swing. "Release me before I actually show you what a scandal looks like!"

Kyohei didn't let go. Instead, a dark, slow, infuriating smile spread across his lips.

"Go ahead, Hinata," Kyohei whispered, stepping entirely into his space. "Show me."

Hinata’s vision tunneled. Driven by pure, unadulterated adrenaline and the humiliating sting of Kyohei’s dark, mocking smile, he swung. His fist carved through the air, aimed squarely at that flawless, arrogant jaw.

He didn't connect.

Before Hinata’s knuckles could even brush Kyohei’s skin, two massive figures in immaculate black suits materialized from the shadows of the penthouse hallway. Large, heavily calloused hands clamped down on Hinata’s shoulders and biceps, pulling him backward with terrifying, effortless strength.

"Let go of me!" Hinata roared, thrashing wildly against the grip of the two bodyguards, his sneakers skidding against the polished hardwood floor. "Get your hands off me!"

Kyohei didn't flinch. He hadn't even blinked when the punch was thrown. He simply stood there, casually brushing a speck of flour off his lapel, before his dark eyes flicked to the guards. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by an icy, absolute authority.

"Release him," Kyohei commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it echoed like a gunshot in the sprawling kitchen.

The bodyguards immediately froze.

"I have not yet had the privilege of putting my hands on my own husband," Kyohei continued, his tone dangerously soft as he stared down the men holding Hinata. "If I haven't touched him, I certainly do not want you leaving bruises on his skin. Treat him with the utmost respect. Ask him politely."

The two hulking guards immediately let go of Hinata as if he were made of molten lava. They took a synchronized step back and bowed deeply, forming a perfect right angle.

"Our deepest apologies, Asano-sama," the guard on the left grunted respectfully, extending an open hand toward the living space. "If you would please be so kind as to walk to the sofa."

Hinata rubbed his wrists, his chest heaving. He shot a murderous glare at the bodyguards, and then an even deadlier one at Kyohei, who simply gestured toward the hall with a polite, infuriating tilt of his head. Swallowing a string of vicious curses, Hinata turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen.

The Audience in the Hall

The main living room of the penthouse was a sprawling masterpiece of floor-to-ceiling windows and imported Italian leather. But it wasn't empty.

Lined up in a perfectly straight, silent row were the cogs of Kyohei’s well-oiled machine. His personal staff.

There was Kenji, the lead secretary, clutching a tablet to his chest, his eyes darting nervously between Kyohei and the flour-covered terror stomping toward the sofa. Beside him stood Taro, the head corporate lawyer, sweating profusely while holding a briefcase containing their ironclad prenuptial agreements. Then there was Chiyo, the stoic, iron-willed head maid, and Akira, Kyohei’s young, terrified personal assistant.

As Hinata threw himself onto the immaculate white leather sofa—careless of the flour and chocolate smudged on his shirt—the collective heartbeat of the staff seemed to stop.

He’s going to be killed, Akira thought, trembling slightly. Shinomiya-sama fired the last maid for using the wrong brand of glass cleaner. This boy is covered in grime.

But Chiyo, the head maid, kept her expression neutral, though her mind was racing. She had served the Shinomiya family for three decades. She knew Itsuki Asano was supposed to be a quiet, refined, delicate creature. But this boy? This boy was a walking natural disaster. She remembered exactly what had happened barely an hour ago, the very second they had crossed the threshold of the penthouse.

Flashback: One Hour Ago – The Arrival

The private elevator doors had chimed open, revealing the grand foyer of the penthouse. The staff had been lined up, bowing perfectly as Kyohei stepped out, closely followed by a fiercely scowling Hinata.

"Welcome to your new home, Shinomiya-sama," Chiyo had greeted respectfully, holding out a pair of plush, designer house slippers for the new bridegroom.

Hinata had stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at the slippers, then at Chiyo, and finally at the sterile, museum-like foyer.

"My name is Asano," Hinata had stated loudly, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "And I am not wearing those. I’d rather walk barefoot over broken glass than pretend I belong in this overpriced mausoleum."

To the collective horror of the staff, Hinata had violently shucked off his ruined white tuxedo jacket and tossed it carelessly over a million-yen abstract bronze sculpture.

Kenji had rushed forward, adjusting his glasses, holding out a silver tray with a stack of documents. "Sir, if you would please review the household schedule and the dietary restrictions of the master—"

"Dietary restrictions?" Hinata had scoffed, entirely ignoring the tray. He aggressively rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing forearms corded with muscle and spotted with old, faint burn scars from the culinary academy. "Where is the kitchen?"

"Down the hall to the left, but sir, the private chef is arriving in—"

Hinata didn't wait. He marched directly into Kyohei’s pristine, untouched, magazine-ready kitchen. He had ripped open the pantry doors, his eyes scanning the imported, mathematically aligned ingredients.

"Disgusting," Hinata had muttered, pulling out a bottle of imported truffle oil. "This smells like synthetic plastic. Who buys this garbage? If I’m a hostage in this glass cage, I’m at least making my own damn food."

Within minutes, Hinata had single-handedly destroyed the flawless aesthetic of the room. He had dragged out bags of flour, slammed mixing bowls onto the marble counters, and started furiously baking, turning his rage into aggressive, violent culinary prep. He had explicitly invaded Kyohei’s space, marking his territory with absolute chaos.

And Kyohei? Kyohei had just stood in the doorway, watching the flour fly, completely silent.

Present Moment

Back in the living room, Hinata crossed his arms over his chest, sinking into the expensive leather sofa. He glared at the line of staff, challenging any of them to speak.

Kyohei walked into the room, his footsteps silent on the thick rugs. He bypassed his terrified lawyer, ignored his secretary, and walked directly to the sofa. Instead of sitting on the opposite chair, Kyohei sat right next to Hinata—close enough that their thighs nearly brushed.

"Kenji," Kyohei said smoothly, his eyes never leaving Hinata’s flushed, furious face.

"Y-yes, Boss?" Kenji squeaked, stepping forward.

"Cancel all my meetings for tomorrow morning," Kyohei ordered softly, reaching out. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed his thumb over Hinata’s cheek, wiping away a stray smudge of flour. Hinata stiffened, his breath hitching at the unexpected, scorching contact.

"It seems," Kyohei murmured, a dark smirk playing on his lips, "my husband and I have a lot of... negotiating to do."