Page 19 of Kotori

Paige

I stumble through the garden paths, silk catching on bamboo, tears blurring my vision. The wooden geta sandals torture my feet—click, click, click against stone like a countdown. I nearly fall twice, the restrictive kimono making every step short when all I want is to run.

Kotori . His voice follows me through the mist. Little bird .

The cherry trees watch as I pass, ancient witnesses to whatever just happened at that shrine. My breath comes in short gasps, the tight obi making everything harder. I can't think. Can't process. I just need to get away from him, from that place, from the way he looked at me like I was already his.

There is no leaving this place. No returning to your small life in Chicago. No escape from what you've become in my eyes.

His words echo in my head as I rush forward, desperate to put distance between us. I still feel his hand on my throat, his thumb tracing my lip, the heat of his body as he knelt close to mine. The way he broke me apart with words and touches that claimed without taking.

The main compound emerges through the fog. Stone walls, sliding doors, somewhere I can lock myself away and pretend this morning never happened. My hands shake as I reach for the side entrance, the one they used to take me out for this nightmare.

"Williams-san." A guard appears, making me jump. "You have returned early."

My voice cracks. "I need to go to my room."

He bows slightly but doesn't move aside. "Matsumoto-sama's instructions were to escort you back when your walk concluded."

"The walk is concluded," I say through gritted teeth.

"Hai." But he follows me anyway, footsteps echoing behind mine as I navigate corridors that feel like a maze. Every turn, every sliding door, every paper screen looks the same. How am I supposed to find my way out of here if I can't even find my room?

Finally, the familiar door. I fumble with the handle, desperate to get inside, to breathe, to think. The guard bows and disappears, but I can feel him watching. Feel all of them watching.

The door slides shut behind me, and I lean against it like it's the only thing keeping the world out.

The yukata has to come off. Now.

I claw at the elaborate obi, but there are too many layers, too many ties, too many pieces I don't understand. The fabric wraps around me like chains, holding me in place while I fight to get free.

"Come on," I whisper, tugging at fabric that won't budge. "Come on, come on."

My fingers find a tie that seems important, and I yank at it. Something loosens, then tightens again in the wrong place. The obi shifts but doesn't release. I'm trapped in expensive fabric, wrapped up like a present for someone who thinks he owns me.

Kotori .

I make a sound that's half sob, half scream and attack the kimono with fury. Pulling, twisting, fighting against layers of tradition that won't let me go. A seam tears. Good. Let it tear. Let it all fall apart.

Finally, something gives way. The outer layer pools at my feet. Then the blue layer. Then the white. I kick the geta sandals across the room and they hit the wall with a satisfying crack.

I stand in the middle of expensive fabric wearing nothing but the white cotton undergarments and silk shorts they put on me like I was a doll. Like I was something to be dressed up for his pleasure.

The tears come all at once.

I sink to my knees among the silk puddles and sob until my chest aches. Ugly sobs that echo off the walls, that would horrify the composed women who dressed me this morning.

What is happening to me? What kind of world have I walked into?

You could be. With proper education. Sufficient motivation. Complete surrender to the natural order of things.

His words echo in my head, calm and certain and terrifying. The way he looked at me when he said it. Like it was already decided. Like I was something he'd already claimed.

You belong to me now.

I bury my face in my hands and let myself break. For the first time since I got here, I stop pretending I'm handling this. Stop acting like I'm strong enough for whatever game he's playing.

Because this isn't a game.

My suitcase. I need to get out of here.

The thought hits me like lightning. I scramble to my feet, stepping on expensive fabric, not caring if I ruin it. My suitcase is in the closet, where I shoved it after unpacking the first day. I yank open the door, drag it out, and flip it open on the bed.

I grab my jeans and a sweater, pulling them on with shaking hands. My own clothes. My identity. My choice. Then I start throwing everything else in—t-shirts, underwear, the few personal items I brought. I don't need much. Just enough to get away.

The door. I need to check if the hallway is clear.

I slide it open just enough to peer out. Empty. Thank god.

Which way to the exit? I try to remember the route from when I arrived, but all these hallways look the same. Left, I think. Left and then straight to the main entrance. I have to try.

I grab my passport from the drawer where I stashed it, shove it in my pocket along with the small amount of cash I have, and zip the suitcase shut. It's small enough that I can carry it rather than drag it noisily behind me.

I slide the door open wider and step into the hallway. So far, so good. No one in sight.

My heart pounds as I move quickly down the corridor, trying to step lightly, trying not to look panicked. Just a casual walk. Nothing suspicious here. Just a woman carrying a suitcase through a house she's supposed to be living in.

I reach the end of the hallway and peer around the corner. Still clear. I turn left and keep going, passing doors and alcoves, beautiful artwork and antique furniture that suddenly seems menacing. Every shadow could be someone watching. Every closed door could open at any moment.

Finally, the main entry hall comes into view. Enormous and imposing, with its high ceilings and traditional architecture. And there—the massive front doors that I came through just days ago, thinking I was starting a normal tutoring job.

But there's a guard stationed by the entrance, his back to me. I freeze, ducking behind a decorative screen. I need another way out.

I backtrack, trying to remember the layout of the house. There must be a side entrance, something less obvious. I follow a narrower corridor that seems to lead toward the rear of the compound.

It ends at a sliding glass door that opens onto the garden. I slip outside, the cool morning air hitting my face. The garden stretches before me—the same garden where he had me kneel just hours ago. I push the memory away and focus. Beyond the manicured landscape must be an exit, a gate, something.

I skirt the edge of the property, keeping close to the high stone wall that surrounds the estate. The suitcase grows heavier with each step, but I refuse to abandon it. It's my only link to my real life, to the person I was before I came here.

The wall seems endless, curving around the vast property without any breaks. Then finally—there it is. A gate. Heavy wood and metal, traditional Japanese design but imposing in its solidity. It has to lead outside.

I rush toward it, fumbling with the handle, pushing and then pulling.

Locked. Of course it's locked.

I look around desperately. There has to be another way. The wall is too high to climb, especially with a suitcase. Maybe there's another gate.

I follow the perimeter further, moving away from the main house, deeper into the property. The landscaping becomes less formal here, more natural. I pass a small pond, a cluster of maple trees, what looks like a meditation garden.

And there—another gate. Smaller than the first, partially hidden by carefully placed shrubs. Service entrance, maybe?

I hurry toward it, hope rising. This one has a simple latch rather than an ornate handle. I lift it, push.

Nothing. It doesn't budge.

I push harder, throwing my shoulder against the solid wood. Still nothing. This gate is locked too, probably from the outside.

"Damn it!" I whisper, fighting back tears of frustration.

Wait—what's that? Beyond a stand of bamboo, I can see what looks like a maintenance shed. Maybe there are tools inside, something I could use to break the lock or climb the wall.

I abandon the suitcase temporarily, hiding it behind a large decorative rock, and make my way to the shed. It's utilitarian, out of place among the perfect aesthetics of the rest of the property. The door isn't even locked.

Inside, I find exactly what I'd hoped for—garden tools, ladders, equipment. I grab a short ladder and drag it back to the smaller gate. If I can just get high enough to reach the top of the wall...

I set up the ladder against the wall beside the gate, testing its stability. It seems solid. I start to climb, one rung at a time, my heart pounding in my throat.

I'm nearly at the top when I hear it—a soft electronic beep, then another. I look up to see a small black dome mounted on the wall. A security camera, its red light now blinking rapidly.

Before I can react, an alarm blares, high and piercing. Red lights flash from posts spaced along the wall.

I freeze for a split second, then scramble the rest of the way up the ladder. I have to at least see what's on the other side, know what I'm trying to reach.

My hands grasp the top of the wall, and I pull myself up enough to look over.

Forest. Dense Japanese forest stretches as far as I can see. No roads. No houses. Just wilderness. And directly below me, on the other side of the wall, a sheer drop of at least fifteen feet into a rocky drainage ditch.

Even if I could get over the wall, I'd likely break an ankle jumping down—assuming I could even make it through the wilderness beyond to find help.

The alarm continues to wail as I lower myself back down the ladder, defeat crushing me. This place isn't just a house—it's a fortress, designed to keep people in as much as keeping them out.