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)
Ever since Kenji’s personal chef showed up to make us lobster benedict and matcha mimosas, Zo had been floating through the building like royalty.
Word had gotten out.
Neighbors were whispering.
The building’s elite—artists, celebrities, influencers, gallery owners, and gossip columnists—had seen the Dragon’s chef exit our apartment in his custom-embroidered jacket. It didn’t help that the chef won a televised cooking competition just last year. One that had ended with him being snatched up by Kenji himself.
Apparently, the Dragon didn’t just kill for power. He hunted talent like treasure.
The chef now had a driver, a black card, and two homes paid for by Kenji’s empire.
Regardless, once he was spotted coming from Zo’s place, Zo had gotten four new invitations to Tokyo art elite events. Additionally, he’d been offered to co-host a top fashion podcast next weekend, and he’d received a scandalous brunch invite from a gallery owner who normally wouldn’t blink in his direction.
Kenji’s power didn’t just ripple.
It created tsunamis.
And Zo?
He was happily swimming in the tide.
“Alright. Alright. I am finished.” Zo emerged from his room dressed and humming—tight black jeans, gold-framed glasses, and a vintage Prince tee. On the front, Prince stood in high heeled boots. His guitar was slung across his chest. He had one gloved hand reaching toward the sky. Purple lightning cracked behind him, and a single lyric curved under his hips: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today.
Zo strutted forward like the shirt had given him divine permission to be iconic. “Did I disappoint?”
I grinned. “You did not.”
“So. . .” He looked my outfit over—blue jeans, old sneakers, and a faded gray shirt with a towering, weathered building printed across the front. My earrings were tiny, leather hardcovers that actually opened, revealing microscopic pages inside.
I did a turn. “And did I disappoint?”
“Oh.” He blinked. “You’re dressed.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you wanted me to give you time to get dressed.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m already dressed.”
“Still. . .we have time if you want to change.”
“I’m about to kick your ass.”
He pointed to my ears. “Why are you doing the ugly book earrings? What’s that about?”
“It’s the theme.”
“What theme?”
I gestured to my shirt. “This is a library. You see where I was going with that.”
He leaned closer to my chest, squinting at the shirt. “That’s a library? It just looks like an old gray building.”
“It is the famous Trinity College Library in Dublin.”
“No one knows that but nerds.”
“Eh, nerds are the only people I’m ever trying to impress. I don’t care about you fashion maniacs.”
“Well. . .” Zo stepped back dramatically, hand to his heart like I’d just confessed a felony. “I’ll give you a minute to get dressed. For real. I’ll wait.”
I tugged my shirt down. “I am dressed.”
He gave me a look so pityingly I nearly took off my book earrings and threw them at him. “Nyomi. . .you are not going out with me looking like that.”
Huffing, I twisted my hips as I walked past him, adding an extra sway just to spite his fashion-policing ass. “Watch me.”
He groaned.
“Whatever.” I grabbed my purse off the table, shoved my phone inside, and slipped on my old, paint-splattered sneakers by the door. A wicked laugh bubbled out of me. “Come on.”
He followed after me, slipping on his shoes by the door. “The sacrifices I make for our friendship.”
“Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river.”
We stepped into the hallway, and it smelled like expensive incense—amberwood and smoke drifting from somewhere unseen. Morning light filtered through the frosted glass at the end, painting the floor in soft gold and pale pink.
Even far off and around the corner, the elevator chimed like a majestic temple bell.
I sighed. “This building is too pretty for my sneakers.”
On my side, Zo spun like a runway model. “It’s Tokyo, darling. Ugly shoes are your sin to bear.”
I snorted.
Next, Zo immediately launched into a story like he’d been waiting all morning to drop it. “So last night, I was at that rooftop party I told you about—the one with the crystal sushi and the man playing harp with his teeth—”
I squinted. “Excuse me, what?”
“Not the point. Anyway, I’m sipping this lavender lychee cocktail when he walks up.”
“Who?”
He clutched his chest like he’d just been shot in a telenovela. “Takeshi fucking Mori.”
My jaw dropped. “Your archnemesis. The fashion editor you hate?”
“Yes! The same one who shredded Yuta’s fall collection in that viral column. The same one I collaborated with. And then—he wears the centerpiece jacket on his next cover shoot like a damn hypocrite.”
“I told you he was a hating-ass troll.”
“You never lie. Anytime I’m involved in something, he goes out of his way to shit on it in that damned magazine.”
“Listen, trolls stay pressed because deep down, they’re fans who hate that they’re fans. That man doesn’t despise you—he just wants to be you. That column? That was just a tantrum. With excessive punctuation.”