Page 20 of Kotori

I've barely reached the ground when I hear them—footsteps, multiple sets, moving quickly through the garden toward me. Security guards, responding to the alarm.

Footsteps pound behind me. Multiple sets, moving fast.

"Williams-san!" A male voice, sharp with authority. Security.

I spin around, trapped between the wall and the approaching guards. Three of them, moving with purpose, faces grim.

"What are you doing?" One steps forward, hand extended like I'm a spooked animal. "Come back inside. The alarm is disturbing everyone."

"I—I needed some air," I stammer, clutching my suitcase like a shield.

Their eyes move to the suitcase, then back to my face. No one believes me.

"Please come inside, Williams-san. This door is for emergencies only."

They're being so polite. So careful. That somehow makes it worse than if they just grabbed me and dragged me back. This pretense that I have a choice when I clearly don't.

I let them usher me back inside, the alarm silencing as soon as the door closes. One guard takes my suitcase—"Let me carry that for you"—while another walks beside me, not touching but close enough to catch me if I bolt.

They don't take me back to my room. Instead, we move through unfamiliar corridors until we reach an office—traditional Japanese design but with modern elements. A desk. Computers. Security monitors showing different parts of the estate.

"Please wait here," the lead guard says, gesturing to a chair. "Hayashi-san will speak with you."

They leave, taking my suitcase with them. The door closes with a soft click that sounds very much like a lock engaging.

I sink into the chair, defeat washing over me. They were watching the whole time. Knew exactly where I was going, what I was trying to do. The alarm wasn't triggered by the door—it was triggered by me.

I'm still sitting there, numb with shock, when the door opens and a man enters.

I recognize him immediately—Takeshi, Kaito's right-hand man.

The one who's always hovering at his shoulder during business meetings, who watches everything with cold, calculating eyes.

I've only seen him from a distance before, but up close, he's even more intimidating.

Tall, immaculately dressed in a tailored black suit despite the early hour, with a face that gives away nothing.

"Williams-san," he says, his voice surprisingly soft for a man his size. He sits across from me, movements precise and controlled. "I understand there has been a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" I manage to choke out. "I'm being held prisoner."

"You are a guest in Matsumoto-sama's home." His tone remains pleasant, but his eyes harden slightly.

"Guests can leave."

"Ah." He nods, as if I've made an interesting point in a casual debate. "But you are not merely a guest, are you? You are an employee. A ward. A woman under Matsumoto-sama's protection."

The way he says protection makes it clear that's not what this is at all.

"He can't just keep me here against my will."

"Matsumoto-sama can do many things that would surprise you." He doesn't phrase it as a threat, just a statement of fact. "His reach extends far beyond these walls."

He opens a drawer in the desk and removes a folder, placing it between us. Inside are papers—official-looking documents with government seals.

"Your visa to enter Japan was sponsored by Matsumoto-sama.

It is a special category for household staff and family associates.

" He turns a page, revealing more documents.

"Your employment contract, which you signed, places you under his direct authority for the duration of your stay.

Your housing, your communication, your transportation—all provided at his discretion. "

"I never signed anything like that." But even as I say it, I remember the stack of papers his Tokyo lawyers had me sign the day after I arrived. Routine paperwork, they'd said. Standard agreements for international employees.

"You did." He points to my signature at the bottom of a page filled with Japanese characters. "The English translation was provided, as required by law."

But I remember that too—how the English version was dozens of pages, how I'd skimmed most of it, focusing only on the salary and benefits sections. How I'd trusted that it was a standard employment contract because who would think to look for clauses about personal freedom?

"This is illegal," I whisper. "It has to be."

Takeshi actually smiles at that, a small quirk of his lips that doesn't reach his eyes. "Legality is a flexible concept, Williams-san. Especially for a man of Matsumoto-sama's... position."

The implication is clear. Kaito operates above normal laws. The kind of power that means no one would question why a foreign woman has disappeared into a remote estate.

Takeshi leans forward slightly, his voice dropping.

"Let me be direct, since you seem to appreciate candor.

The authorities will not help you. The embassy will not help you.

Should you somehow manage to contact them—which you won't—they would receive documentation showing you are here legally, of your own free will. "

He taps the folder. "Furthermore, should you become... problematic, there are provisions for your immediate deportation. Without your passport. Without your belongings. Without any resources to help you once you land back in America."

A chill runs through me. "What does he want from me?"

"That is not for me to say." Takeshi closes the folder and returns it to the drawer. "But I will tell you this, Williams-san. Your situation can be comfortable or difficult. That choice is yours."

"I want to go home."

"This is your home now." He says it simply, like stating that water is wet. "The sooner you accept that, the sooner you will find peace."

He stands, smoothing his already perfect suit. "Your belongings will be returned to your room. I suggest you rest before dinner. You've had a trying morning."

"My phone," I say suddenly. "I want my phone."

"Of course. It will be returned as well." He pauses at the door. "Matsumoto-sama values you, Williams-san. That is not a small thing. Many would consider it an honor."

The way he says it—like I should be grateful for my captivity—makes me want to scream. But I stay silent as he leaves, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds like a lock engaging.

But when I get back to my room—escorted by a guard who now stands outside my door—I find my phone has been reset. No contacts. No email. No social media apps. Just a basic device that can only call numbers within the estate.

And my suitcase, when I open it, contains a surprise.

All my clothes are gone. Every piece of clothing I brought from Chicago.

The jeans with holes in the knees that David hated.

The concert t-shirts from college. The sundresses I wore on weekends.

The pajamas with cartoon cats that made me feel young and silly and like myself.

All of it. Vanished.

In their place, neatly folded, are clothes I've never seen before. Conservative blouses in muted colors. Knee-length skirts in navy and charcoal. Cardigans that would make a librarian proud. Everything in my exact size, everything perfectly appropriate for a teacher in a traditional household.

Everything chosen by someone else.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at the foreign wardrobe that's supposed to be mine now. My fingers shake as I lift a gray blouse, feeling the expensive fabric that's nothing like the soft cotton t-shirts I actually chose for myself.

There's no note. No explanation. Just the systematic removal of everything that made me feel like Paige Williams from Chicago and its replacement with clothes for whatever he wants me to become.

I check the bathroom. My shampoo, conditioner, body wash—all replaced with expensive brands that smell like jasmine. Even my underwear has been switched out. Nothing lacy, nothing bright, nothing that suggests I have desires or preferences of my own.

But at the bottom of the neatly folded stack, there's something different—a simple black dress, modest neckline, knee-length, but the fabric feels expensive under my fingers. Nothing flashy, just quietly elegant in a way that screams money.

Tucked beneath it is a small card in precise handwriting:

Wear this tonight. - K

My hands shake as I hold the card. Not even trying to hide it anymore. Not bothering with plausible deniability or staff intermediaries. Just his initial, his command, his expectation that I'll comply.

The dress looks like something for a family dinner, perfectly appropriate and understated. It's also a collar disguised as courtesy. A visible symbol that I'm being dressed for his approval, shaped for his vision, claimed piece by piece until nothing of the original Paige remains.

I look at my bedroom door, now with a guard outside. At the windows that don't open. In the beautiful room that is, in every way that matters, a cell.

Kotori .

Little bird.

The pet name makes terrible sense now. I'm not just caged. I'm being collected. Kept. Possessed.

And I have absolutely no idea how to escape.