"Here's your meal, Master." One of the maids stood by my side, resting a silver platter right before me. Just like that, sixteen years flashed past me in the blink of an eye in my new life.Though I guess that's a given when you've already lived for twenty years…Man, how lucky am I?! Living a lame, boring life all that time! Only to be reincarnated into a rich family! Though my father's hardly home.We're not royalty or anything. My father, Reijuro Mishamiya, owns, runs, and manages a maid café company—Café Velvaria! Really, how lucky am I!? I hope to run it someday.
She lifted the silver lid, a delicious aroma gushing forth, causing my mouth to instantly water. Pork cutlets! The golden exterior shimmered in a light veil of oil, fresh off the pan; its crisp amber hide glowed in the atmospheric light!I ran my spoon across it, hearing the light scrape of the rough exterior before sinking it down—the spoon being engulfed by the meat cutlet almost instantly, encasing itself in a deliciously satisfying way before slowly tearing apart, letting out more of that amazing aroma!I've had plenty of meat cutlets before… but those were from cheap, depressing, Americanized bento boxes. Who knew the real deal would be this amazing? I brought the spoon to my mouth, the flavor melting on my tongue! Everything mixing together in a harmony of flavor and texture—this is heaven!
"By the way, Master Haru." The maid spoke up; she was the quiet type, her short, frilly, dark blue hair framing her face, pulling off that cold kuudere look. Her calm green eyes made it look like she was looking down on me, but in reality, she was just taking care of her dear master's child! I couldn't help but admire them.[She actually hates him.]
"Another order has arrived," she informed, her hands resting on the front of her frilly dress. "Although… please do pardon my question, but what could it possibly be that you've been ordering nonstop lately?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I murmured, leaning back against my chair, arms folded with a knowing smile. Some food clung to my cheek. A soft silence spread between us, leaving the maid even more confused.
"A-Are you going to tell me, or—?""Meraline, do you not know anything?" I shrugged, my right hand balling into a fist, tightening around the iron utensil.She blinked at me, emotionless as always—but I swore I saw a twitch in her left brow.
"Tell me, what's one thing that every man needs?" I pondered, my hand slung over the chair, my posture leaving much to be desired. Meraline inhaled softly, as if gathering herself to even entertain an answer.
"Food?" she answered, rather half-assed, not even bothering to think of the nuances.
"Custom maid outfits," I declared, my entire being radiating confidence even at those shameful words.A dreadfully comfortable, totally not tense at all, silence drifted by us for a moment longer. Meraline crossed her hands over her dress once more, as if trying to look respectful even still.
"You're into crossdressing, Master Haru?"I sputtered, nearly choking on a piece of cutlet."N-Not for me!" I shot up, slamming my hand against the table hard enough to jostle the silverware. "I mean—sure, nothing wrong with that, gender is a spectrum and all, but this is about the art, Meraline. The culture. The—legacy of maid aesthetics!"
She blinked. "Legacy.""Yes! You wouldn't get it… but in my past life, there was an entire subculture—an institution, really—built around the sanctity of maid uniforms! Lace, frills, thigh highs, slight melancholy, hidden blades—okay, that last one was from an anime—but still!"
Meraline tilted her head. "And that's why you ordered sixty-five variations of maid outfits from six different regions?""Sixty-seven, actually," I corrected. "Like I said, it's an artform! Each region has their slight differences that make the dresses have their own appeal! For example, did you know that in Bestienreich they prefer more butler-esque maids, and have little straps against their pants to keep their tails down??""Can't say I was aware of this.""It's exactly that—the uncultured appreciation—that this world needs to get rid of!" I ranted. "See—in my old world, people appreciated the small details in the fabric—"
Meraline let out the faintest sigh, so soft it was almost inaudible—almost. "And yet here we are."
"Uhm, Master Haru," another voice called out to me. I couldn't remember her name; she was a rather short one, her long blonde hair draped down her back like seas of gold over her stiff posture. Her blue eyes were as clear as day, even as she looked away from my gaze. "I—Uhm…"
She took a deep breath and talked louder than intended, as if just pushing the words out to get it over with."Your father has r-requested a meeting with you," she bowed aggressively, her hair hiding her face from my eyes.
He's back? I thought to myself, getting out of my chair, the shy maid showing me the way to where he resided.The long hallways of the Mishamiya estate echoed with our footsteps, the crimson carpet muffling the sounds just enough to make it feel… ceremonial. It was weird—this place always felt too big. When you're reincarnated as the heir to a borderline empire built on frills and thigh highs, you'd think life would be one eternal anime opening. But somehow, it always ended up feeling like the final episode, right before the twist hits.
The maid—her name was Roselia, I remembered now—kept her eyes trained straight ahead, her nervous energy rolling off her like steam off rice. I noticed how her hands kept curling into fists and relaxing again.
We stopped before the heavy doors of Father's study. Roselia took a step to the side and gave a shaky bow, keeping her gaze low."He's inside," she murmured, voice barely audible. "He… said not to knock."
I raised my brow at the ominous warning before entering, leaving her on the outside of the room.The room was cozy. I don't get how one does work in a room this comfortable. The fireplace crackled softly. Wood-paneled walls wrapped the room in a deep walnut hue, the surface slightly uneven from years of polishing by hand. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, stacked with leather-bound journals, business ledgers, and the occasional odd trinket—an old brass clock, a pair of dusty opera glasses, a ceramic frog from some long-past café collaboration. Each one looked like it had a story.
"You sent for me, Father?" I asked, watching him as he stood by the bookshelves. He took a soft sigh, turning to me with a weary look in his gaze."I'm cutting your allowance money," he put bluntly, my heart falling before I even processed his words.
…"What?"