Page 12 of Kotori

Paige

I find the first camera while hanging lights.

Three days into my stay at the Matsumoto estate, I'm balancing on a chair in my bedroom, trying to attach the string of fairy lights I brought from America.

A touch of home to make this beautiful prison cell feel more mine.

My fingers brush something hard and metallic tucked into the decorative ceiling molding.

Not part of the architecture.

I freeze, fingertips exploring the object. Small. Circular. A lens.

My stomach drops as I carefully step down, mind racing. A camera. There's a fucking camera in my bedroom ceiling.

"No," I whisper, suddenly hyper-aware of my body, my movements. "No way."

But once I start looking, I can't stop seeing them. Another in the bookshelf, disguised as an ornamental piece. A third behind the antique mirror—only visible when light catches it at a specific angle.

Three cameras. At minimum.

My bedroom. My private space.

Horror washes over me in nauseating waves. How long have they been watching? What have they seen? My undressing, my showers, my private moments?

The violation is so profound I can barely breathe.

Matsumoto. The way he looked at me that first morning, like he knew exactly how my sleep had been, what I'd worn to bed. His penetrating stare that seemed to see right through my clothes.

He's been watching me. All along.

I sink onto the edge of my bed, hands trembling. I should leave. Pack my things and walk out the front gate. But then what? No money, no phone, no contacts in Japan. The nearest American embassy is hours away, and I don't even have train fare.

I'm trapped.

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Think, Paige. What are your options?

I could confront him, demand he remove the cameras. But the memory of kneeling before him flashes through my mind—his absolute authority, the way he made me bow like a servant. The cold, calculated power in his eyes. A man like that doesn't respond well to demands.

I could pretend I never saw them. Continue as if nothing's changed. But everything has changed. My skin crawls knowing unseen eyes track my every move, cataloging my most private moments.

Or...

A third option forms, dangerous and thrilling. If he wants to watch me, why not give him a show?

The thought arrives fully formed, wickedly tempting. I've felt his eyes on me from the beginning, the heat in his gaze when he thinks I don't notice. The tension between us is undeniable—electric, forbidden, intoxicating.

He might control the cameras, but I control what they see.

I glance up at the hidden lens in the ceiling, a reckless plan taking shape. He thinks he has all the power? I'll show him who's really in control.

I wait until evening, after dinner with the girls and their nightly routine. They're adorable, really—Mizuki with her serious questions about American customs, Kohana with her shy smiles when I praise her English, little Aya with her enthusiastic hugs. They're the only reason I haven't fled.

That, and the growing, undeniable attraction to their dangerous father.

Back in my room, I leave the lights on. No hiding in shadows tonight. I want him to see everything.

I move deliberately, knowing the cameras are capturing every gesture.

I select a bottle of lotion from my toiletry bag, placing it prominently on the nightstand.

Next, I choose tomorrow's outfit with painstaking care, laying each garment across the foot of the bed—skirt slightly shorter than my usual, blouse that hints at cleavage without being unprofessional.

Then I begin the show.

I turn my back to where I believe the main camera is positioned, reaching up to unbutton my blouse with deliberate slowness.

One button, then another, letting the fabric part to reveal the curve of my spine, the clasp of my bra.

I shrug the garment from my shoulders, letting it slide down my arms before carefully folding it.

My skirt follows, unzipped with theatrical languor, falling to pool at my feet. I step out of it gracefully, bending at the waist to retrieve it—giving him a perfect view of lace-trimmed underwear that suddenly feels like armor rather than vulnerability.

Power surges through me. He's watching. I know he's watching.

And I'm the one deciding what he sees.

I move to the bathroom. The shower turns on, steam billowing as I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra, letting the straps fall forward before pulling it away completely.

My reflection in the mirror shows flushed cheeks, bright eyes. I barely recognize myself.

I step into the shower. I take my time, turning beneath the spray, letting water cascade over curves. I wash my hair with sensual thoroughness, rinse with theatrical arches.

When I finally emerge, I wrap the towel loosely around my body, securing it just above my breasts. Another towel twists around my hair as I move back into the bedroom, deliberately dropping my shower caddy.

"Oops," I murmur.

I bend slowly to retrieve it, feeling the towel strain against my damp skin, knowing it reveals more than it conceals. The rush of power is dizzying, addictive. For once, I'm the one in control of this strange, charged dynamic between us.

I settle at the vanity, removing the towel from my hair, letting blonde waves tumble down my back. The brush moves through with deliberate strokes—ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one—my mother's ritual that I've continued into adulthood.

The lotion comes next. I pour a generous amount into my palm, warming it between my hands before applying it to my arms, my shoulders, my legs. I take my time, massaging it into my skin with circular motions, occasionally meeting my own gaze in the mirror with a secret smile.

Is he watching now? Is he glued to his monitor, breath coming faster, unable to look away?

Good.

Let him want. Let him burn.

I select a silk nightgown from my drawer—the nicest one I own, pale blue with thin straps and a hem that falls mid-thigh. I've never worn it here before, saving it for... what? This moment, apparently.

The towel drops. Just for a second, I stand naked before the cameras, vulnerable yet triumphant. Then the silk slides over my head, settling against my skin like water.

I turn off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing warmly. Sliding between the sheets, I pick up my book—but my mind is too alive with rebellion to focus on words.

Instead, I set it aside and turn off the final light, lying back against the pillows in darkness.

My hand moves to my neck, tracing the path his eyes had followed during our first meeting. Down my throat, across my collarbone. Lower.

The victory in this rebellion tastes sweet on my tongue. Let him watch. Let him see exactly what he can't have.

I fall asleep with a smile on my lips, feeling more in control than I have since arriving in Japan.

The summons comes during breakfast.

"Paige-sensei."

My head snaps up at the unexpected voice.

Takeshi stands in the doorway, his presence causing an immediate hush around the table.

He's never addressed me directly before—all previous communications filtered through Kaito or household staff.

The fact that he's speaking to me now sends ice down my spine.

"Matsumoto-sama requests your presence in his study immediately following the morning meal."

The formality of his tone coupled with the unprecedented direct address makes my stomach drop. This isn't routine. This is serious.

"Thank you, Takeshi-san," I reply, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "Please inform Matsumoto-sama I'll be there shortly."

He gives a slight bow before departing. The message couldn't be clearer. Whatever game I played last night has captured the attention of the entire household hierarchy.

The girls look between us curiously, breakfast temporarily forgotten. "What did you do?" Mizuki asks, her eighteen-year-old perception uncomfortably sharp.

"Will you still help us with our project today, Paige-sensei?" Kohana asks, eyes wide with worry.

"Of course," I assure her, squeezing her small hand. "I just need to speak with your father first."

I finish my tea to calm my nerves. Last night's boldness seems reckless in the harsh light of morning. What was I thinking, provoking a man like Kaito Matsumoto? A man who demanded I kneel before him, who spoke of ownership as casually as others discuss the weather?

Yet under the anxiety, excitement pulses. I want to see his reaction. I want to know if my little performance affected him.

I stand outside his study door, smoothing my skirt with damp palms. I've chosen today's outfit with particular care. Professional but feminine, modest but fitted enough to remind him of what he saw last night.

I knock, three precise taps.

"Enter."

His voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. Deep, commanding, with that edge of danger that should repel me but instead draws me closer.

I step inside, closing the door behind me.

Kaito sits behind his massive desk, dark eyes following my movement with predatory focus. He wears a charcoal suit today, impeccably tailored to broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His tie is the color of blood.

"Matsumoto-sama," I greet him with the proper bow, not too deep, maintaining some dignity while acknowledging his position. "You wanted to see me?"

"Paige-san." My name in his mouth sounds like something exotic, forbidden. "Please, sit."

I take the chair across from him, crossing my legs at the ankle, hands folded in my lap. The perfect image of professional composure, despite the electricity crackling between us.

"Is everything satisfactory with your accommodations?" he asks, voice deceptively casual.

A test. My first challenge.

"The room is beautiful," I reply carefully. "Though I've noticed some... unusual features."

His eyebrow raises slightly, the only indication that my statement affects him at all. "Unusual features?"