Page 23 of Kotori

Paige

My hands shake.

I grip the teacup, trying to hide the tremor as Kaito studies my face with dark eyes that miss nothing. His injured shoulder shows only the slightest stiffness beneath his impeccable shirt, the wound from the fight is nearly healed.

God, what's wrong with me? Why did I pour his tea without being asked? Why does his approval feel better than my own independence?

"Paige-sensei," Aya says, "you're very quiet. Are you thinking about Papa's business again?"

I nearly choke on my tea. She's referencing the night I confronted Kaito about his "business," when he confirmed what I'd pieced together about his position in the yakuza hierarchy. The casual way his daughter mentions it still startles me.

"Not exactly," I say, glancing at Kaito. He listens carefully, amusement lurking in his eyes. "Just thinking."

"About what?" Kohana asks, setting down her book.

About how I served your father tea without thinking. About how comfortable this feels when it should terrify me. About how your family routine absorbed me without my consent. About how I know what your father is capable of, and I'm still here.

"About how different everything feels now," I say instead. "Now that I understand more."

The unspoken words hang between us. Now that I know who your father really is. Now that I've seen the scars on his body, heard the coded phone calls, watched his men move through the compound with weapons hidden beneath suits.

"Understanding brings clarity," Kaito says as his girls look at him with adoration. "But adaptation requires patience. Trust the process."

Trust the process. Like I'm a project he's completing, a problem he's solving. Like my knowledge of his criminal empire is just another step in my integration into his world.

"Speaking of adaptation," Kaito says, setting down his tea cup with his good arm, "we need to arrange proper wardrobe consultation tomorrow. Cultural appropriate attire for various occasions."

My chest tightens. He already got rid of my clothes after the incident in the garden when I tried to leave. Everything I brought from Chicago, everything that made me feel like myself, vanished and replaced with his vision of appropriateness—a clear message about what happens when I defy him.

"Formal kimono for ceremonies, conservative dress for business functions, appropriate casual wear for family activities," he continues like my wardrobe isn't already under his control.

Family activities. Business functions. Ceremonies. He plans my life weeks, months ahead like my participation is guaranteed, like my knowledge of his yakuza position hasn't changed anything.

"That's very generous," I say carefully, "but after what happened—"

"It's not generosity." His tone suggests the matter is decided. "It's a necessity. You represent this household now, especially given what you know. Your appearance reflects our values, our status, our commitment to tradition."

"Paige-sensei," Aya says, bouncing in her seat, "will you be here for my birthday next month? Now that you know about Papa's special business, you won't leave us, right?"

The eager question makes my chest tight. Special business. What a gentle euphemism for organized crime.

"I, well, that depends on many things, sweetheart."

"What things?" Aya's face scrunches with confusion. "You live here now. You're part of our family. Papa said especially after what happened, you belong with us."

You belong with us. Said with such casual certainty, like my inclusion was never in question. Like everyone accepts I belong here permanently. Like knowledge of their father's criminal enterprise has only bound me closer to them.

"Aya-chan," Mizuki says quietly, "Paige-sensei might have other commitments."

"What other commitments?" Aya interrupts. "She works here. She knows our secrets now. She eats with us. She sleeps here. That means she's family, right Papa?"

All eyes turn to Kaito, who sips his tea with infuriating calm while my future hangs in the balance. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle but absolute.

"Paige-san's commitments are to this household now," he says. "Her place is here, with us. Especially after what she witnessed. Isn't that right, Paige-san?"

The question hangs in the air.

Say yes, and I admit defeat. Say no, and disappoint three girls who've done nothing wrong, who've welcomed me with innocent trust. Not to mention the implicit threat—that having seen what I've seen, knowing what I know, leaving is no longer an option.

"I'm grateful to be here," I say finally, which isn't an answer but isn't a lie.

"Gratitude is wisdom," he murmurs, and something in his tone makes my pulse quicken. "Recognition of blessing received."

Blessing. Like being trapped in a beautiful cage is something I should thank him for. Like knowing I'm living with a yakuza boss and his family is some privilege.

"Girls," he says when the tea service is complete, "time for your evening routine. Paige-san and I will review tomorrow's lesson plans."

The dismissal is gentle but absolute. The daughters rise with perfect obedience, offering polite bows before filing out of the dining room. Aya pauses at the door to wave goodbye with both hands, and my heart clenches at her innocent affection.

Suddenly, we're alone.

The dining room feels smaller without the girls' chatter, more intimate. The lamplight casts shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones, the way his dark eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity.

"You handled tonight well," he says, rising with only the slightest wince betraying his healing wound. "Better than I expected, given what's transpired since our last formal dinner."

Better than he expected. Like this was a test I passed without realizing I was being graded. Like my knowledge of his true identity was just another hurdle to overcome.

"Thank you," I say automatically, then catch myself. "I think."

His smile is slow. "Uncertainty becomes you. Humility is attractive in a woman who knows too much."

Humility is attractive in a woman who knows too much. The casual threat wrapped in sexism should make me angry, should spark the feminist rage that got me through college. Instead, I feel myself flush under his approval.

"Come," he says, extending his hand. "I'll walk you to your quarters."

The gesture looks polite, gentlemanly even. But when I take his hand, his fingers close around mine with unmistakable possession. He's not escorting me—he's claiming the right to guide me, to decide when our evening ends.

We walk through corridors lit by traditional paper lanterns, our footsteps echoing off polished floors. The compound feels different at night. More isolated. The soft lighting creates pools of warmth surrounded by shadows, making every corner feel secretive and private.

"You've adjusted well since discovering my position," he says as we walk, his thumb tracing across my knuckles. "Most would have run screaming."

"I tried running," I remind him quietly. "It didn't work out."

His chuckle is low. "Yes. And now you understand why leaving isn't possible. Not just for my sake, but for yours. The world I inhabit isn't forgiving of loose ends."

Loose ends. Like I'm a dangling thread that needs to be either woven in or cut off. The implication is clear, and my mouth goes dry.

"You wore the dress I selected," he says, changing subjects with dangerous ease.

"Yes." The word comes out softer than I intended.

"How did it feel?"

How did it feel? Like putting on someone else's identity. Like stepping into a role I never auditioned for. Like surrendering pieces of myself I didn't know I was giving up.

"Different," I say carefully.

"Different how?"

We stop outside my door, but he doesn't release my hand. This close, I can smell his cologne, see the silver threads in his dark hair. When he looks at me, it's like being studied by a predator who's already decided I'm worth keeping.

"Like I was playing a part," I admit, then immediately regret the honesty.

"Or like you were becoming who you're meant to be." His free hand rises to cup my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone. "Some women spend their lives fighting their nature. Others have the wisdom to embrace it."

Embrace my nature. Like submission is written into my DNA, like serving him is my biological destiny. Like knowing he's yakuza should make me more compliant, not less.

"I don't know what my nature is anymore," I whisper. "Not since finding out about you. About all of this."

"I do." His voice drops to something intimate and commanding. "You're a woman who craves structure, protection, purpose. Someone strong enough to clean a bullet wound without flinching. Someone who confronts the truth rather than hiding from it. Someone wise enough to let herself be taken care of."

Taken care of. Such gentle words for what's really happening here. For being kept like a prisoner with knowledge too dangerous to let go.

"The girls adore you," he continues, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. "They've been happier these past weeks than they've been in years. They trust you, even knowing you've learned our family's secrets. You give them something they need."

Something they need. The guilt hits perfectly, designed to make leaving feel like abandoning children who depend on me. Children who trust me with their family's darkest truth.

"They're wonderful," I say, meaning it completely. "They deserve—"

"They deserve stability. Consistency. A maternal figure who won't abandon them when things become complicated." His grip on my face tightens almost imperceptibly. "Can you be that for them, Paige? Now that you know exactly what complicated means in this household?"

Can I be that for them? The question is a masterpiece of manipulation. He's making my captivity about their needs instead of his wants, my submission about their welfare instead of his control. Making my knowledge of his criminal life a bond rather than a reason to flee.

"I want to help them," I say quietly.

"Then stay." The word is simple, direct, absolute. "Embrace what you're becoming. Stop fighting what we both know is inevitable."

Inevitable. That word again, following me like a promise and a threat.

"What am I becoming?" I ask, though I'm terrified of the answer.

His smile is slow, possessive, certain. "Mine." His hand slides from my face to my throat, not threatening, just claiming the space, establishing ownership over the most vulnerable part of my body. "The woman who knows all of me. The keeper of my secrets and my daughters' hearts."

The implication is clear. I've seen too much to ever be free again.

"Sleep well, kotori," he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath crosses my ear. "Sweet dreams. I'll be watching over you. You're too precious to lose now."

The words send ice through my veins. Watching over me. Not protecting. Watching. Because I know too much, because I've seen behind the veil of his perfect family life to the yakuza reality beneath.

Then he's gone, disappearing down the corridor with silent footsteps, leaving me alone with the scent of his cologne and the weight of constant surveillance.

I slide into my room and close the door, leaning against it while my heart hammers against my ribs.

His words echo in my mind, I'll be watching over you, as if that's some kind of revelation.

As if I haven't known about the cameras for weeks now.

As if I haven't felt those electronic eyes following my every move since long before I discovered the truth about his business.

I don't bother scanning the room anymore. I already know where they are. The carved wooden panel near the ceiling. The traditional scroll painting with its too-thick frame. The antique vase positioned just so. The hollow bamboo piece on the windowsill pointed directly at my bed.

I move through my evening routine without acknowledging them.

What's the point? Fighting the surveillance is as futile as fighting everything else in this beautiful prison.

The cameras are just another layer of control, another reminder that privacy doesn't exist here.

That I'm always performing, always observed, always his.

Any sign of defiance now feels pointless, exhausting. I've already lost this particular battle. He knows I know. I know he knows I know. The game of pretending otherwise is over, and there's something almost liberating in the defeat.

I don't look at the bamboo piece. I don't stare defiantly at any of the hidden lenses. I simply undress with my back to where I know the primary camera is positioned, a small, meaningless gesture of resistance that changes nothing.

In the mirror across the room, I see myself in his chosen dress, looking like someone I don't recognize. Someone who belongs in this world of hierarchy and beautiful submission. Someone who knows the truth about the powerful man who rules this household and is still here anyway.

Just existing under this constant surveillance is its own kind of exhaustion. Standing here in his chosen dress, in the room where he replaced my clothes with his selections, always aware that nothing is private. No reaction, no moment of weakness, no fleeting expression goes unrecorded.

I step back, wrapping my arms around myself. In the mirror, I catch sight of my reflection and look away quickly. I don't want to see what I'm becoming.

Someone who poured his tea without being asked and felt proud when he approved.

Someone who's starting to want the cage as much as she fears it.

Kotori. Little bird.

The pet name follows me as I go through the motions of my nightly routine, ignoring the cameras I know are recording every moment.

I brush my teeth without looking too long at the mirror.

I change into the silk nightgown he provided with mechanical efficiency.

I slide between expensive sheets and turn my face toward the wall, away from the most obvious cameras.

But even with my back turned, I feel them. The constant awareness of being watched has become background noise, a low-level anxiety that never quite fades. Another thing I'm learning to live with in this place.

The beautiful trap is closing around me one thread at a time, and the most terrifying part is how safe it's starting to feel inside. Even when I know he's watching. Even when I know exactly what he is.