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)
“We will return with the next courses,” the chef and server bowed.
Next courses? Damn, I’m already about to be full with these.
I swallowed down the duck and then looked at Kenji. “You’re spoiling me.”
“You should be spoiled.”
“Why?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying me like he was about to offer a truth I hadn’t earned—but one he was willing to give anyway. “Because. . .a woman like you should never lift a finger when you were born to be adorned, fed, protected, and worshipped.”
My breath caught.
He kept going, “you walked into my office and changed the air. You challenge me. You awaken parts of me that no one else dares touch. So yes—I'm going to spoil you, Nyomi. Because a king knows the worth of a queen and only a fool would let a goddess starve.”
The air around us thickened.
I felt those damned words—every cell in my body stood at attention. My skin flushed. My throat tightened. My pulse raced in places no one could see.
Before I could reply, movement stirred at the edge of the garden.
A Japanese woman stepped forward.
No.
Glided.
Who is this? There’s no way she’s a waitress.
She wore a long black silk robe that shimmered as she moved. Its hem trailed like ink along the stone. Her hair was pinned up in an intricate updo, the kind one saw in woodblock paintings. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, and her face was carved perfection—lips painted a muted rose, expression unreadable.
She was beautiful. Striking in that way that felt intentional, composed, and crafted.
At her side was a very handsome Japanese man in black clothes—tall and solid. His expression was blank. He carried something in his arms—something thick and coiled. It took me a moment to realize what it was.
Red rope. Why?
There was lots of it too. Coiled in looped bundles over his forearms. It was the kind of rope that didn’t belong to boats or packages or even construction sites.
Slowly, they walked right past our table and I couldn’t help it—I watched them with wide eyes, unsure whether to feel curious or breathless.
Kenji didn’t speak.
I glanced at him and he had a knowing smile.
Like he’d been waiting for this moment.
Like this was the true part of the date all along.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
Kenji didn’t answer.
He just tilted his head toward the stage.
And so, I looked.
The woman ascended the platform in silence, the man moved behind her.
She walked to the very center—right beneath the iron hook that had haunted me since I first stepped foot into this garden.
O-kay. . .
The man knelt at her feet, carefully setting the bundles of red rope onto the wooden floor.
And then. . .he rose.
The shamisen player stopped mid-song.
The garden held its breath. Silence spread like oil across water—thick and glistening with potential.
That was when I realized that I was finally about to learn why that hook was there in the first place.
I was hyped and hypnotized.
Every inch of my skin came alive, tingling with the thrill of the unknown. My fingers gripped the edge of the table. My breath slowed, synced to the stillness in the air.
Whatever this was going to be. . .I was ready for it.
At least. . .I think I was ready.
Chapter seventeen
Suspension
Nyomi
The shamisen player stood, bowed once, and disappeared into the shadows.
Oh. He’s leaving.
The man in black moved without sound.
He carried the coils of red rope, cradled across his forearms. They were thick. He crossed the stage and walked right to that hook.
What is he going to do?
The woman took several steps away from the hook.
The man remained right there.
With a steady hand, he reached up and began tying one end of the rope to the hook and knotted it several times.
Curiosity fluttered in my chest.
I sat forward slightly in my chair and checked the woman’s reaction.
She didn’t look afraid.
She looked willing and absolutely ready for whatever was going to happen.
The rope swayed gently as the man stepped back and checked the tension.
There was no rush in his movements.
No showmanship.
Just quiet ritual.
And yet, every nerve in my body was on edge.
Suddenly, a new sound stirred behind the stage, a new man stepped into the space and climbed onto the stage.
Who’s this?
He was small but composed, draped in a deep blood-red robe. He carried a cello as if it were a sacred object.
Without a word, he took his seat nestled the cello between his knees and closed his eyes.
The bow met the strings.
The first note spilled into the night air.
Low, dark, and blooming.
Heat rising from the earth.
And as the bow slid across the strings, the woman on stage stirred.
Her hands rose.
She untied the black silk robe at her waist. It fell along her body and pooled around her feet.
She stood there in the center of the stage; naked and breathtaking.
I widened my eyes.
What sort of performance is this going to be?