Page 16 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter eleven

Burn or Behold

Nyomi

The next evening, Zo stood at the window, peering through the blinds like we were under surveillance.

He’d already dressed me to perfection.

A white strapless dress formed around my body and ended just above my knees. A black waist corset, intricately detailed with tiny beads carved with Japanese characters, hugged my center. Zo loved draping me in white; he insisted the color complemented my deep brown skin perfectly.

Granted, white was his favorite shade, so he'd find any reason to use it.

“Nyomi,” he called, not turning around. “I think. . .your ride just pulled up.”

I paused, halfway through fastening my long pearl earring.

My fingers trembled slightly. “He’s here already?”

“It’s exactly eight o’clock.”

“Damn it. I thought I had more time to panic.”

“Well, you don’t.” Zo pulled the curtain further apart. “Wow.”

I quickly finished the earring. “Wow. What?”

“It’s a Toyota Century Royal.”

I blinked. “What is?”

“The car waiting in front for you.”

“And that’s cool?”

“It’s literally the official car of Japanese royalty,” Zo whistled.

“Custom-built exclusively for the Imperial Family. Bulletproof windows, bomb-resistant armor, the whole deal. The interior has leather seats, wool carpets, even hand-made Japanese washi paper detailing. It’s longer than a limousine, about twenty feet. ”

“That’s a lot of detail.”

“I’m obsessed with them.”

“Then, get one.”

“Practically nobody outside the Imperial Household can get one.”

I looked myself over one more time in the mirror and was satisfied. “How much does something like that cost?”

“Approximately 52 million yen.”

I tensed. “Which is what in US dollars?”

“500k.”

“Damn,” I slipped into the six-inch heels that Zo had picked out for me to wear.

He had a thing about angles and dimensions when styling clothes. Due to my kinky curls being in a sweeping up-do, Zo demanded that I wear high heels.

According to him, the added height elongated my frame, drawing attention upward and complementing the vertical lines created by my hairstyle. It made perfect sense—in Zo’s precise, artistic mind, at least.

Judging by how I looked in the mirror, he was right, as usual.

Zo exhaled sharply. “The chauffeur is out now. Immaculate white gloves and everything. It doesn’t look like Kenji is in the back.”

Shit. I’m really doing this.

The room suddenly constricted, the walls inching closer with each thundering heartbeat. My mouth turned to sandpaper.

“Alright,” I reached for the two gifts I’d wrapped with Zo the night before—crisp gold paper crinkling under my touch, silky gold-and-black ribbons sliding between my fingers.

We’d spent hours researching what colors to use when giving gifts to a Yakuza boss, especially if you were trying not to offend.

Shimmering gold for prosperity.

Black for elegance, not mourning— Zo made sure of that.

It was a balance of respect and romance, danger and desire. The kind of message that said I see your power, and I’m not afraid to admire it.

My hands trembled slightly, sending tiny vibrations through the boxes as I clutched them to my chest. "Okay. Here I go."

I took a deep breath to calm myself.

Zo left the window. “I would help you take those presents to the car but. . .”

“You’re a scaredy cat.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Actually, my doctor examined me last month and told me that I have a medically documented allergy to becoming a Netflix true crime special."

“Wow,” I headed over to the door. “That’s an elaborate way to say you are a coward.”

“Please don’t disability shame. I don’t make the rules, Nyomi.” He hurried forward and opened the door for me. “Add the fact that my horoscope literally said, ‘stay indoors and don't provoke powerful men today, especially ones named after mystical creatures.’”

“Yeah. Yeah,” I rolled my eyes but I couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips.

I was nervous for sure but I was also excited in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

Like my blood was fire and my limbs were stardust.

Like the world was holding its breath and I was the one who got to exhale first.

I air-kissed Zo, exited his place, and made my way to the elevator.

The descent dragged, each second stretching into the next.

When the doors opened, the scent of night air rushed in—cool, electric, spiked with the smell of rain on concrete and Sakura petals curling on the sidewalk.

As Zo said, an immaculate car awaited me. The chauffeur stood beside it. Black suit. White gloves. Not a wrinkle, nothing out of place.

He spotted me approaching and offered a slight bow. “Ms. Palmer.”

“Good evening,” I replied automatically then I paused.

Am I supposed to bow back? Crap.

I couldn’t remember if it was rude not to—or worse, awkward to bow as a foreigner.

Zo and I had gone over gift colors and etiquette for the Yakuza world but not the choreography of me in it.

Still, the gesture felt so intentional, so steeped in quiet meaning, I couldn’t just ignore it.

So, I gave the chauffeur a small bow in return—nothing dramatic, just a respectful dip of my head and shoulders. A humble kind of: I see you. I respect the formality. I’m trying.

My heart thudded hard.

The chauffeur gave me a warm smile and extended both gloved hands toward me. “May I take those for you, Ms. Palmer?”

“Well. . .sure.” I hesitated, then carefully passed him the two gifts, suddenly hyper-aware of the crinkle of the wrapping and the flutter of ribbon against my fingers.

He accepted them. “This is a beautiful presentation. Mr. Sato will appreciate the care.”

Something about that—that quiet affirmation—soothed the wild fluttering in my chest.

“Thank you,” I got into the car and as soon as my butt hit the seat I understood why mainly royalty rode in this vehicle. The leather inside the car felt too luxurious to be real.

Soft as breath.

Cool as moonlight.

It hugged my body so perfectly that I knew I wouldn’t want to leave this car later.

I looked up.

The ceiling sparkled with embedded lights, tiny constellations above my head.

The air smelled expensive. Notes of sandalwood, jasmine, and something smoky I couldn’t place.

He shut the door, turned smoothly and walked to the opposite side of the car with the presents.

I watched him as he opened the other rear door and carefully placed the gifts on the seat further away.

“Ms. Palmer, if you need anything during the ride, just press the gold button to your right.”

I looked to my right and blinked. “Okay. Thanks.”

He closed the door and my attention remained there because on that side wasn’t just a button.

There was a panel embedded into the armrest, trimmed in gold and black enamel. Each button was labeled in delicate kanji and English and beneath the panel was a small touchscreen that lit up.

I brushed my fingers along it.

Options unfurled into a digital scroll: cabin temperature, lighting, music selection, massage seat settings, privacy glass.

Of course the seats massage you.

Beside the panel sat a slim remote.

Hmmm. Should I?

I hovered my finger over the “massage” setting on the panel.

Curiosity won.

I tapped the icon.

Immediately, the seat came alive beneath me—quiet at first, then a soft hum stirred at the base of my spine, warm and rhythmic.

Oh shit.

Skilled electrical fingers coaxed tension from bone and breath. Rolls of pressure moved up the length of my back, kneading slow circles into muscle I hadn’t even realized were tight.

Damn, Kenji. Is this really how you ride around the city?

This wasn’t just a massage seat.

This was a seductive experience.

My thighs tingled. My eyelids fluttered. The stress I’d carried for days melted. Each knot loosened.

Sighing, I let my head fall back against the rest, letting it all wash over me.

This man is so spoiled, and. . .I’m super jealous.

The chauffeur drove us away.

Enjoying my massage, I pressed another button on the screen.

Suddenly a small, curved television came on at the opposite wall.

I grinned.

Why yes. I would love some entertainment with my massage.

A Japanese pop music video played on the TV. Five women danced in stylish clothes. Behind them, the backdrop pulsed with red lanterns swaying in artificial wind. Fog curled around their feet.

I turned the volume up a little.

The music hit hard.

Alright now.

I couldn’t understand what they were saying but the song was bass-heavy and rhythmic.

Even more since the channel was on, I wondered if Kenji loved watching music videos as he drove around Tokyo.

I set the remote control down, checked out the screen again, and pressed on the glowing glass image.

A second later, a silver tray slid out from a hidden compartment in front of me and held a single crystal flute already filled with chilled champagne.

That settles it. I don’t know how many books I will need to sell but I am getting a car like this.

Keeping my balance with the massage, I took the crystal flute from its silver cradle. The chilled stem kissed my fingertips.

This is the life.

I leaned back into the seat.

The leather sighed beneath me.

Outside the vehicle, Tokyo shimmered. Lantern reds, neon golds, and icy blue-whites streaked past in blurs of electric color. Buildings rose in sharp angles and curved glass.

I took a sip of the champagne.

Mmmm.

It was cold, crisp, and delicious, slipping down my throat in a rush of silky bubbles.

My legs stretched out and my shoulders softened.

The stress I’d carried in my spine all day about this date began to unwind, unfurling with every mile the car put between me and reality.

In fact, the massage seat's pressure points found places inside me I didn't know could be touched, sending ripples of electricity across my skin that made me wonder what Kenji's actual touch might do.

The music video faded into another one showing a hot guy with muscles dancing in the middle of a busy street.

I exhaled, slow and deep, letting the luxury wash over me.

This experience is already crazy and the date hasn’t even started.

With champagne on my lips, music in my ears, and gold buttons at my fingertips, I put my view back on the window.

While the city pulsed with motion and desire, I now felt so far away from it, like I had just stepped into a dream.

Because I wasn’t truly in Tokyo anymore.

I was in his world now.

I shouldn’t have, but for a few seconds, I wondered how many other women had sat in this very seat, heading to him with their own gifts and hopes.

A tiny hint of jealousy hit me.

Next, the first chapter of When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon played out in my mind.

What a crazy story. . .

I’d devoured that chapter last night and hadn’t meant to fall asleep after reading it but I had.

And when I did, I dreamt of a dragon with wings like thunderclouds and eyes filled with ruin. He chased me through a burning and crumbling palace.

Right before he was about to catch me, I woke up.

Dragons. . .

I took another sip of champagne and pressed my palm against the door, grounding myself. The city outside still shimmered but it had faded into background noise.

My real focus was back on that book—in that scene I couldn’t shake.

Korin.

The god-dragon who’d burned a city for the sheer thrill of it.

Until he saw her.

That woman—a vision of calm amid carnage.

Standing barefoot in the square while everything else crumbled around her.

Her skin was deep brown like mine. Her hair long and wild.

She hadn’t flinched when the sky cracked open and death poured out of it.

She didn’t scream when his fire roared through the air.

She didn’t run.

She’d simply raised her hands and stopped him cold.

That image haunted me.

Because here I was, gliding through Tokyo in the most expensive car I’d ever seen, headed toward a man who commanded a fire of his own.

I wasn’t standing in a city square, facing down a beast but it sure as hell felt like I was walking into the dragon’s lair.

Was that what the woman in the book had felt, too?

Was she swooning inside, the way I was now?

Because if I was being honest, my knees had already turned to jelly just imagining Kenji’s voice again. The way he’d looked at me back at his office. The raw edge of danger he wore as a second skin.

Was that what the woman had seen in Korin? Not just a monster but a god? Something massive and mythic that maybe—just maybe—she wanted to touch even as she fought it?

I couldn’t tell.

I only knew that I wished I could be her.

Unshaken.

Grounded.

Magic in my bones.

Cold steel in my gaze.

Right now, I did not feel like her.

Not at all.

Right now, I just felt soft and breathless, drowning in leather seats and luxury, aching over a man I barely knew but my body already burned for.

A man I was bringing gifts to.

A man I was letting court me in a way no one ever had.

I wondered about the heroine again from that book.

Could I be like her?

I imagined myself raising my hands in front of Kenji but this wouldn’t be to defend myself. This would be to not give in.

Because it was one thing to stand before a dragon and be afraid.

It was another to suddenly. . .and desperately want him. To want all that danger, all that fire—and still refuse to kneel.

Maybe that was what Kenji wanted me to understand by sending this car.

But why the hell did he send that book?

It wasn’t just a story.

Perhaps, it was a mirror of this situation.

He was the dragon after all.

Was he watching me to see if I would stand my ground. . .or surrender?

I pressed my fingers to my lips, still tingling from the champagne.

The video screen flickered again, showing a new set of dancers, their bodies painted in red light.

I barely noticed.

This date is going to be intense.

I took another sip of the champagne.

I may have fucked up by saying yes. . .

I wasn’t used to wanting this deeply.

Wanting someone who scared me.

Someone I respected.

Someone I could lose myself to.

That’s what made this dangerous.

That’s what made this real.

My mother had always warned me about men with too much power but she'd never told me what to do when that power called to something equally dangerous within myself.

Shit. I’ll have to stay on my toes and not let the damn dragon devour me.

As the car turned onto a private road flanked by cherry trees, their petals illuminated by hidden lights, I understood that whatever happened tonight wouldn't just change my relationship with Kenji—it would redefine who I believed myself to be.