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)
And right in front, Kenji’s black sedan was already waiting at the curb.
Glossy.
Sleek.
Probably armored.
The driver stood beside it. Every crease in his charcoal uniform appeared hand pressed. His hat sat perfectly centered, and his chin was lifted just enough to catch the sun on the gold trim. He waved his gloved hands at me.
I waved back. “No. Thank you.”
He frowned.
Zo gave a low whistle. “Now that is a car that says, ‘fuck around and find out.’ This is the one Kenji had waiting outside for you?”
“I think so.” I couldn’t help but wonder how long the poor man had been standing there. Minutes? Hours? Waiting like a statue while we argued over earrings and brunch drama.A flicker of guilt crept up the back of my neck.
Then irritation followed.
Would it have killed Kenji to ask before sending a full-blown security sedan like I was some secret mistress of state?
In the end, I felt bad for the driver. He looked like he took this job seriously—like standing there all morning was a sacred duty.
But I needed to send a message to Kenji.
Dude. I am not yours just yet. You need to calm down.
As the thought crossed my mind, the door was opened for me—gloved hand sweeping with quiet elegance, the interior glowing with stitched leather, chilled water, and scentless air.
Of course it was perfect.
The Dragon didn’t make plans, he orchestrated them.
I shook my head again and called out to him. “I really appreciate it, but we’re going to take the train today! You can leave now! Please tell Mr. Sato thank you for me!”
The driver opened his mouth in shock.
I hurried along.
“What?” Zo followed. “Why aren’t we taking the driver? We can go in style!”
“I’m proving a point to Kenji.”
“What point? That you like being poor? What the fuck is that about?”
“I’m telling Kenji that he can’t own me.”
“But he can. We all have a price, and he’s figuring out yours. I mean seriously.” Zo gestured to my clothes. “Your price is not a lot.”
“Boy, if you don’t come on. . .” I headed off and glanced over my shoulder.
The driver had jumped inside, pulled the car away from the curb, and was now following us several feet behind.
Zo laughed. “Your trip to Tokyo has become a soap opera. I just keep running out of popcorn.”
Then came more.
Two other guards appeared from seemingly nowhere—one eating onigiri like he wasn’t also carrying a gun under his jacket, the other pretending to scroll through his phone. By the time we reached the end of the block, there were four more guards trailing us.
Nonchalant.
Talking softly.
Laughing even.
Wow, Kenji. Just wow.
We continued toward the station.
Omotesandō shimmered in the morning light, all soft gold and architectural flex. Glass storefronts sparkled mannequins posed in couture worth more than my student loans. The sidewalks teemed with Tokyo’s fashion elite—pastel-haired influencers, men in oversized suits and leather skirts, women gliding in stilettos that defied physics.
Avant-garde boutiques flanked the sleek sidewalks. Models smoked while leaning on expensive cars.
A man in a silver jumpsuit and neon pink heels posed by a koi fountain as a photographer crouched beside a vintage Vespa.
Basically, Zo fit right into this scene, while I looked like I was headed to a library protest.
And yet. . . I smiled.
Zo glanced over his shoulder. “Well. . .”
“What?”
“The guards. The driver tracking our moves. Surely, this is what Beyonce feels like.”
“I’m sure it’s on a bolder level than this.”
“Either way, we should discuss the fact that if this is how the Dragon acts before sex, then you should prepare for a nationwide blackout and a full kidnapping.”
I snorted. “What?”
“I’m serious. I probably shouldn’t tell you this but. . .you were good in bed when we had our thing, but now. . .” He looked me up and down. “Now you got that old woman pussy.”
“Oh my God.”
Zo shrugged. “The pussy has now aged. It’s marinated in wisdom. By now, you probably got a Michelin star on the pussy.”
I nearly doubled over laughing. “A Michelin star?”
“Hell yes. By your age, the pussy should be a culinary experience.”
“You are stupid.”
“Yes, but I’m right.” He held up a finger. “When a woman gets a certain age, they’re able to turn the average man out. Have him cooking dinner with their name carved into a carrot.”
“No one has ever carved my name into a carrot.”
“Still, we may need to put some protections in place.”
“Protections?”
“Yes. Safety protocols. Backups. A group chat for rescue. A burner phone. A GPS in your earrings.”
“Zo—”
“Look. If the Dragon gets a taste and your ass disappears, I want it on record that I tried to save you.”
“Save me from what? Orgasms?”
He grinned. “From being kidnapped, kept in a diamond cage, and fed caviar while a nude butler fans you with a peacock feather. Which, depending on how you look at it, might not be so bad.”