Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
She deserved seven condos with seven beds—one draped in crushed violet velvet, another slick with black silk. One carved low into cool marble, another warmed by underfloor embers. A bed for dreaming. One for surrender. Another for when she was being worshipped by me.
She would never be bored with where she slept.
How do I get her off of that fucking futon?
On the footage, the morning light spilled, touching the white lacquered table beside them where a tray held steamed lobster tails resting on ceramic, their shells cracked just enough to expose the flesh.
A carafe of rare yuzu mimosa fizzed beside a chilled bottle of Cristal.
Across the tray sat bowls of kaiseki-style tamago, shaved bonito over rice, and miso broth poured from a silver teapot.
I’d commissioned the breakfast with intent.
For her decadence and absolute indulgence.
But it wasn’t the food I’d been watching.
It was her.
The footage had come from a small camera tucked inside a vase filled with roses. My chef’s assistant had brought it over with the breakfast, under the guise as another one of my gifts.
There was a tiny lens disguised by the petals.
I’d instructed the assistant to place it just off to the side so I could watch the breakfast unfold.
The plan had been flawless.
Until her damn friend moved it.
Zo without the fucking e.
I frowned.
After the last dish was cleared, the idiot took the vase along with my secret camera and brought it into the bedroom like it was some casual centerpiece.
Now?
Apparently, so full of champagne and lobster, he’d called off from work. Therefore, all the footage showed for the rest of the day was him, sprawled out, oblivious, humming some stupid song as he scrolled through his phone.
No Tiger.
No sunlight.
Just the wrong person in the center of my screen.
My jaw ticked.
At least I have this earlier moment to continue to replay over and over.
On the screen, Nyomi leaned back, laughing at some joke he’d made. She had her head tilted. Those tiny, long curls bounced.
Zo sat beside her—too close, leaning over his bowl, flicking rice at her with chopsticks like he had the right to be that familiar.
Then he grinned and raised his hand.
She didn’t hesitate.
She slapped it.
Loud.
Joyful.
A high-five full of ease.
My jaw flexed.
I didn’t like anyone touching her. Not even like that. Not even with laughter.
Then, she laughed some more.
I smiled. “Pause it.”
Goro tapped the screen.
The image froze.
Her smile lingered—lips parted, lashes lowered, cheeks glowing from champagne, sunlight, and laughter.
How does one catch a Tiger?
This was the sixth time I’d watched the footage. And still, I didn’t have the answer to that question.
I stared at the screen as if it might whisper a strategy.
A secret.
A spell.
It gave me nothing.
Just her laughter.
I let out a long breath. “You’re dismissed, Goro.”
The man lowered the screen, bowed, and turned to leave.
I watched him go. “Hold on to the iPad. Don’t take it too far. I may want to see it again.”
“Yes, sir.” Goro left.
I thought back to the hotel card I’d given her. Top floor. Private elevator. Rose-silk sheets and dragon motifs etched in gold. A view of Tokyo Bay stretched beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows— Skytree etched like a blade in the haze, the Rainbow Bridge glowing in arcs of light, and the Sumida River glinting below.
Why didn’t my plan work?
I hadn’t chosen the suite just for her comfort. It had been my little, clever prison-palace disguised as a gift. The suite was to be my window, so I could see her whenever I wanted. So I could know when she opened the curtains, when she stepped onto the balcony, when she breathed.
But the men outside that suite said she hadn’t entered.
Not once the entire day.
I didn’t understand it.
Would she ever go? How do I lure her there?
I stood in silence for a long time after Goro left and looked around the room as if somewhere in this space there would be an answer.
A lacquered chair of blackened cypress sat near the window, where my silk robe waited, untouched. Folded like a blade.
What will I do about my naughty Tiger?
It was night in Paris, but Tokyo had now seen a new morning where she’d woken up on that damn futon again.
I can’t believe she didn’t take the suite.
The card remained untouched. The bed unslept in. The luxury curtains unopened.
It wasn’t the rejection that unsettled me, it was the indifference.
She was supposed to be curious by the suite. Drawn in. Lured by velvet, the view, and the silent pull of something decadent waiting for her just beyond the threshold.
Instead, she chose that fucking beat-up futon.
I paced.
How does one catch a Tiger? Perhaps. . .I don’t hunt her. I tempt her. I. . .entice her. I. . .build a maze so exquisite she walks in on her own, smiling, not even knowing what it truly is.
I paused from pacing.
But how the fuck do I do that? Do I use her need to finish that book? Why is no answer coming to me?