Page 2 of Kotori

The thought slides through my mind before I can stop it. I shake my head, annoyed with myself. David's betrayal has made me paranoid, seeing threats where there's just cultural difference. Wealthy families everywhere have security. Just because it's more obvious here doesn't mean anything sinister.

I grab my bags. When I turn to say goodbye to the driver, he's already backing away from the house, engine running, desperate to depart. He doesn't even wait for me to close the door properly before he's driving toward the gates.

Which are already swinging closed behind him.

I stand alone in the courtyard, surrounded by the kind of silence that feels heavy with watching eyes.

Security cameras perch discretely among the traditional architectural elements—modern technology blending seamlessly with ancient design.

I count at least six visible ones, which means there are probably twice as many I can't see.

The morning mist swirls around the buildings, creating an ethereal beauty that makes everything feel dreamlike. Or nightmare-like. The distinction is getting blurrier by the minute.

Gravel crunches behind me, and I turn to see a woman approaching from the main house. She's probably in her fifties, wearing a perfectly pressed kimono, moving with the kind of precise grace that comes from a lifetime of serving powerful people.

"Williams-san," she says with a bow that's respectful but not subservient. "I am Hayashi. I manage the household for Matsumoto-sama."

Her English is perfect, accent barely detectable. She moves with the efficiency of someone who solves problems before anyone notices they exist.

"Please, call me Paige." I bow back, probably too casually, definitely wrong. "Thank you for having me."

Something flickers across her face—surprise? Amusement? It's gone too quickly to interpret.

"Matsumoto-sama is waiting," she says. "Your belongings will be taken to your quarters."

My quarters. Not "the guest room" or "your room." My quarters. Like I'm a permanent resident instead of a temporary employee.

Two young men in dark suits appear from nowhere and collect my bags before I can object. They move without sound, and I notice the bulge of shoulder holsters under their jackets. Armed household staff. Because that's normal.

Hayashi leads me up the stone steps and through the massive front doors. Inside, the house is even more impressive—soaring ceilings with traditional wooden beams, paper screens that filter the morning light into something golden and ethereal, polished floors that reflect our footsteps.

Everything is pristine, expensive, and absolutely silent except for our movements. It's beautiful in the way museums are beautiful—meant to be admired from a distance, not lived in. Certainly not by someone like me.

We walk through a series of corridors lined with what I'm pretty sure are priceless artifacts. Ceramic vases that belong in museums, paintings on silk that predate the Declaration of Independence, swords displayed in glass cases that look sharp enough to slice through bone.

This family owns history. Power distilled through generations into something lethal.

"The daughters are in the morning lesson room," Hayashi says as we walk. "Mizuki-chan is eighteen, Kohana-chan is thirteen, and Aya-chan is six. They are excited to meet you."

The way she says it makes me think "excited" might not be the right word. Curious, maybe. Skeptical. Ready to test the new foreign teacher and see how quickly they can make her quit.

I can handle difficult students. I've been teaching for three years, dealing with everything from helicopter parents to kids who think authority is a suggestion. A few privileged daughters won't break me.

We stop in front of sliding doors decorated with hand-painted cherry blossoms. Hayashi places her hand on the door but doesn't open it immediately.

"Williams-san," she says quietly. "Matsumoto-sama is particular about his household. His daughters are his greatest treasure. He will do anything to protect them. Anything to ensure their happiness."

There's weight in her words, warning in her tone. "I understand. I want them to be happy too."

"I hope so." She slides the door open. "For your sake."

The room beyond balances old and new—tatami mats on the floor, low tables for lessons, alongside a smart board and cutting-edge technology.

Three girls sit waiting in matching school uniforms despite being homeschooled—crisp white blouses, navy pleated skirts, knee-high socks, and polished black shoes.

Everything about their appearance speaks of discipline and tradition, even in the privacy of their own home.

The oldest one, Mizuki, sits perfectly straight, hands folded, expression neutral.

She's striking rather than pretty, with sharp features and dark eyes that assess me with uncomfortable intelligence.

Her uniform is immaculate, not a wrinkle anywhere, and she carries herself like someone who's never doubted her place in the world.

Everything about her screams future power.

The middle daughter, Kohana, has gentler features but the same dark, intelligent eyes.

Her uniform is equally perfect, though she holds a book in her lap and keeps glancing between the pages and my face.

Quieter than her sister, but there's something watchful about her that makes me think she notices everything.

And the youngest, Aya, is practically bouncing in her seat despite the formal uniform.

Her pleated skirt is slightly wrinkled from fidgeting, one sock is higher than the other, and her dark hair escapes from what was probably a perfect ponytail this morning.

She grins at me with gap-toothed joy that makes my heart twist unexpectedly.

"Hello," I say, setting down my portfolio. "I'm Paige. I'm very excited to be your new English teacher."

You're very blonde," Aya announces with six-year-old directness. "Like a Barbie! Are you American? Do you know any movie stars? Can you teach us to sound like Americans?"

"Aya-chan," Mizuki says quietly. "Manners."

But she's studying me too, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. Testing time. Time to see if the new teacher will last a week or break under pressure.

I realize with a sudden clarity that I know nothing about why my predecessor left.

I can almost see the previous teachers—a line of women who couldn't withstand the scrutiny, the isolation, the heaviness of this house with its expectations and traditions.

Women who left, unlike me, because they had somewhere else to go.

Bring it on. I've survived discovering my fiancé naked with another woman in my own bed. I've survived my father walking out, my mother's slow death, and the crushing knowledge that I'm one missed paycheck away from complete financial ruin. I can handle a few privileged teenagers.

"I am American," I tell Aya with a smile. "And yes, I can teach you to sound like Americans. Though your English is already very good."

"Daddy says Americans are loud and rude," Kohana says without looking up from her book. "Are you loud and rude?"

Definitely testing me. "I try not to be. What are you reading?"

She tilts the cover toward me. I recognize the manga from the cover art. "It's about a girl who can see demons and falls for one who wants to consume her. She knows he'll probably destroy her, but she can't stay away."

The words hit something uncomfortable in my chest. "How does it end?"

"She becomes everything she never thought she wanted to be," Kohana says, finally meeting my eyes. "And she's happy about it."

Before I can process that particular piece of wisdom from a thirteen-year-old, footsteps echo in the hallway beyond the room. Heavy, measured, commanding. Everyone in the room goes still—even chatty little Aya falls silent.

"Otou-san's coming," Mizuki whispers, and there's something in her voice that wasn't there before. Not fear, exactly. But awareness. The knowledge that when her father enters a room, everything else becomes secondary.

The footsteps stop outside the door.

My pulse hammers against my ribs, sudden and violent. This is it. Time to meet the man who will decide whether I stay in Japan or slink back to Chicago with my tail between my legs. The man whose money will fund my new life, whose children I'll teach, whose rules I'll follow.

The man whose compound I just entered through gates that lock from the inside.

The sliding door opens, and Kaito Matsumoto steps into the room.

My breath stops in my throat.

He's nothing like the middle-aged businessman I'd been expecting.

He's tall—has to be at least six-three, with shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the doorway.

His black hair is perfectly styled with distinguished silver threading through it, and when his dark eyes scan the room, everyone else becomes background noise.

He radiates authority. The charcoal suit crafted for his exact measurements. The purposeful way he moves. At his collar, black ink peeks against tan skin. Tattoos. Of course he has tattoos.

When his gaze lands on me, my stomach drops through the floor.

He doesn't just look at me. He studies me. He takes inventory of my blonde hair, my blue eyes, the way I'm sitting, the nervous way I'm gripping my portfolio. Like he's cataloging everything for future reference. Like he's already made some decision about me that I'm not privy to.

"Paige-san." His voice is quiet, controlled, with just enough accent to make my name sound like something intimate. "Welcome to my home."

He moves closer, and suddenly the spacious room feels too small. He smells expensive and masculine. Something that makes my mouth go dry and my brain forgets why I'm supposed to be professional.