Page 14 of Kotori

Paige

"I don't understand why we need to learn this," Mizuki says, staring at the English essay prompt with obvious frustration. "When will I ever need to write about 'my dreams for the future' in English?"

A week has passed since I discovered the cameras in my room, a week of performing every night while pretending during the day that nothing has changed between Kaito and me.

The morning after my first deliberate show had been excruciating—walking into breakfast with my cheeks burning, knowing he'd watched me, commanded by him to wear that blue silk again, wondering if he'd been pleased.

And now I'm trying to focus on teaching while my mind keeps circling back to how willingly I've been displaying myself for his cameras each night since.

"Because someday you might want to study abroad," I suggest gently to Mizuki, dragging my thoughts back to the present. "American universities require personal essays."

"I won't be studying abroad." Her tone is flat, final. "My place is here, with the family business."

The way she says "family business" makes it clear we're not talking about cultural preservation or traditional crafts. There's resignation in her voice, the sound of an eighteen-year-old who's already accepted that her life has been decided for her.

"What if you had a choice?" I ask quietly.

Mizuki's pen stops moving. Across the table, Kohana looks up from her vocabulary worksheet, suddenly alert. Even little Aya pauses to listen.

"There's always a choice," Mizuki says carefully. "But some choices have consequences."

The weight in her words makes my chest tight. "Tell me about your dreams, Mizuki-chan. Not what you think you should want. What you actually dream about."

For a moment, her perfect composure cracks. I see a flash of longing, quickly suppressed. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

The simple words hang in the air. Kohana sets down her pencil, watching her older sister with worried eyes. Aya abandons her coloring completely, sensing the tension even if she doesn't understand it.

"I..." Mizuki starts, then stops. She tries again. "I used to think about studying international law. Working with the UN, maybe."

The admission is a whisper, like she's confessing something shameful.

"That's brilliant," I say, meaning it completely. "You'd be incredible at that."

"Otou-san needs me here," she says firmly, walls slamming back up. "The family needs—"

"Mizuki." I lean forward, catching her eyes. "Your father loves you. Parents want their children to be happy, to reach their potential. Have you talked to him about this?"

"You don't understand." Her voice is strained. "Being oyabun means sacrifice. Not just for him—for all of us. My happiness is..." She trails off, shaking her head.

"Secondary?" I finish gently.

She nods, not trusting her voice.

My heart breaks for her. Eighteen years old and already convinced her dreams don't matter. I glance at Kohana, who's watching this exchange with the intensity of someone who sees her own future in her sister's resignation.

"What about you, Kohana-chan?" I ask. "What do you dream about?"

"Books," she says immediately, then blushes. "I mean, writing them. Stories where people get to choose their own endings."

"And you, Aya-chan?"

"I want to be a veterinarian!" she announces with a grin. "And have lots of animals and help them when they're sick!"

"Those are all wonderful dreams," I say firmly. "And dreams aren't selfish—they're necessary. They're what make life worth living."

"Easy to say when you're American," Mizuki mutters, but there's no malice in it. Just tired acceptance.

"You're right," I admit. "I am American. I grew up believing I could be anything I wanted. But you know what I learned? Dreams without action stay dreams. And sometimes the people who love us need to see us fighting for what matters before they understand how important it is."

Mizuki looks up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Your father sees a daughter who accepts her fate without question. What if he saw a daughter with passion, with direction, with specific goals she was willing to work toward? Do you think his response might be different?"

"He'd be angry," she says automatically.

"Or would he be proud that he raised a daughter strong enough to know what she wants?"

I can see Mizuki's expression hardening. "I couldn't disappoint him," she says, voice getting colder.

"Honey." I reach toward her hand. "Sometimes the biggest disappointment is watching someone you love give up on themselves."

Mizuki jerks away from my touch, her composure finally cracking. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Mizuki-chan."

"No." She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"You've been here a week and you think you understand our family?

Our world?" Her voice rises, eighteen years of pressure exploding.

"You don't know anything about sacrifice or duty or what it means to be part of something bigger than your selfish dreams! "

Kohana shrinks back in her chair. Little Aya's eyes go wide with confusion and fear.

"I was just trying to—"

"To what? Save me?" Mizuki's laugh is bitter. "I have responsibilities you couldn't comprehend," Mizuki continues, her perfect posture rigid with fury. "We all do. And some naive American teacher isn't going to change that with pretty speeches about following dreams."

She grabs her books with shaking hands. "Kohana, Aya, lessons are over for today."

"But—" Kohana starts.

"Now." Mizuki's tone brooks no argument. She heads for the door, then turns back. "And Paige-sensei? Next time you want to play savior, maybe learn something about the people you think need saving first."

The door slides shut behind her with controlled violence, leaving me alone with Kohana's worried face and Aya's trembling lip.

"Is Mizuki-nee okay?" Aya whispers, tears starting to spill.

"She will be," I say, though I'm not sure I believe it. "She's just frustrated."

"She's scared," Kohana says quietly. "We all are."

"Scared of what?"

Kohana looks toward the door where her sister disappeared. "Of wanting things we can't have. Of disappointing Otou-san. Of being weak."

The weight in her young voice breaks my heart. "Wanting things doesn't make you weak."

"It does in our world," Kohana says with the resignation of someone far too young to sound so defeated. "Mizuki-nee knows that. She was trying to protect us from hoping too much."

God, what have I done? I came in here thinking I could inspire them, and instead I upset the family dynamic, made Mizuki feel attacked, and scared the younger girls.

"I should apologize to her," I say.

"She won't listen right now," Kohana says matter-of-factly. "When Mizuki-nee gets angry, she needs space. But..." She hesitates. "She's not really angry at you. She's angry at the truth."

Before I can ask what she means, Aya tugs on my sleeve. "Paige-sensei? Are you going to leave because Mizuki-nee was mean?"

The innocent question hits me like a freight train. "No, sweetheart. I'm not leaving."

"Promise?"

I look into her worried face, then at Kohana's carefully neutral expression that doesn't quite hide her own fear of abandonment. These girls have lost people before. They're terrified of getting attached to someone else who might disappear.

"I promise," I say, though the words feel heavier than they should. "I'm not going anywhere."

Aya throws her arms around me in a fierce hug, and over her head, I catch Kohana's gaze. There's a sadness, a wisdom beyond her years in her eyes that makes me wonder what these children have endured.

"Your mother," I begin carefully, watching their reactions. "Do you ever talk about her?"

Aya freezes in my arms, and Kohana's expression shutters completely.

"No," Kohana says quietly. "We don't."

"Papa says it makes him sad," Aya whispers against my shoulder. "And Mizuki-nee gets really angry if we ask."

I want to press further, to understand the shadow that seems to hang over this family, but something in Kohana's rigid posture warns me against it. This isn't the time.

"I understand," I say gently, stroking Aya's hair. "Maybe someday you can tell me about her, when you're ready."

Kohana gives me a barely perceptible nod, a silent acknowledgment that I've respected their boundary.

I approach the dining room at seven o'clock, expecting to find the girls already seated, chattering about their day while Hayashi arranges the evening meal. Instead, I find empty corridors and silence that feels heavy with intention.

The traditional dining room where we've eaten every night this week is dark, sliding doors closed. Confusion twists in my stomach. Did I misunderstand the dinner arrangement?

Footsteps echo behind me, measured and familiar.

"This way, Paige-san."

I turn to find Kaito approaching from the opposite direction, wearing a charcoal kimono that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad and his dark eyes burn with quiet intensity.

After a week of his penetrating gaze across the dinner table, of feeling him watch me through the cameras at night, my body responds instantly to his presence.

"Where are the girls?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Busy." He offers no further explanation. His tone is perfectly reasonable, but there's satisfaction underneath that makes my pulse quicken. "Tonight, you dine with me. Privately."

The word "privately" hangs between us like a challenge. I should object. Should insist that family dinners include the family, that I'm here for the children, not for whatever this is becoming.

Instead, I hear myself say, "Of course, Matsumoto-sama."

His smile is absolutely devastating. "Follow me."

He leads me through corridors I haven't seen before, deeper into the private wing of the compound. These halls feel more intimate—narrower, with lower ceilings and paper screens that filter light into something golden and secretive. Personal space rather than public areas.