Page 118 of The Dragon 2

Ms. Hiroko tilted her head. “You think you’re planning a date. A clever seduction. A surprise.”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “No, what you’re planning is a ceremony. You are building a sanctuary for a god who has never known peace.”

Her words hollowed me out, filled me anew.

Every nerve in my body buzzed.

With a gentleness that unraveled something deep in my chest, she said, “we have time, and I see your spirit. I will teach you all that you must know. I will help you but understand this. . .”

I was completely captivated by her.

“If he falls to his knees, Nyomi. . .don’t meet his gaze with pride. Meet them withtenderness. With awe. Because that is not a man yielding to you—” she tapped a lacquered nail over her heart, “—that is a man trusting you not to destroy the boy he buried to become a king.”

I blinked hard. “Okay. I understand.”

She leaned back and for a long moment, there was only silence between us. Then she picked up her cup again, voice smooth and casual as silk. “Now, Zo told me that you are a bestselling author.”

“I am.”

“I have been working on my story. I have so many journals of notes. I wrote things down for years but I don’t understand how to put it all together.”

I grinned. “Now you’re speakingmylanguage.”

“Am I?”

“Every person in this world has a book inside of them. Really special people have a full library of stories for this world and I think you are one of those people.”

Ms. Hiroko studied me for a long moment then let out the softest sigh. “Many women in my world have told their stories. I’m not sure what mine would offer now. Perhaps, I should leave this dream alone.”

“Sure. Tons of stories about the BDSM scene have probably been told but guess what. You haven’t toldyours. And that matters. People think books have to be original but they don’t. They just have to betrueto the author. What readers want—what humans crave—isn’t novelty. It’s perspective. It’s voice. It’s the soul behind the story.”

Her brows lifted. “Interesting.”

I leaned forward. “Humans will never stop watching the same love and action stories unfold on screen over and over. We willnever stop listening to songs about heartbreak, celebration, or love over and over. We will never stop reading about power, grief, pleasure, and longing over and over. What changes? The directors. The actors. The singers. The authors. And why won’t we get tired of the same stories from different perspectives? Because we areravenousfor connection. For meaning. For more.”

She was very still now, her tea cooling in her hands.

I kept going. “I believe a large part of our purpose on this Earth is tied to storytelling. To witness and be witnessed. So ifyouhave a story to tell—whether it’s been told a thousand times or never at all—youshould write it. Because it hasn’t been told byyou. And that makes all the difference. Humansneedit. Wecraveit.”

A slow silence passed between us.

Then, Ms. Hiroko set her cup down. "You will help me write my story?"

“I will. It sounds like it would be an absolute blast.”

“Then, I want your name on it. You would know how to get it in stores.”

“My agent would put together the necessary paperwork for us and honestly. . .she will have publishers salivating over the pitch. This would be an easy sale for the both of us.”

Her expression brightened. “When we are done, I want my story to live in bookstores. I want women to see it and know they are allowed to want more. I want them to know that softness and power can live in the same breath. That we were never meant to just endure—we were meant to rule.”

“All that will happen and more,” a laugh bubbled out of me. “Are you prepared to be on camera? To be interviewed? To sit at book signings with me and make grown women cry?”

She didn’t hesitate, “I’ve made prime ministers cry in ropes. I think I’m ready.”

“Perfect.”