Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“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.