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)
What will happen next?
Chapter twenty-five
Where Kings are Uncrowned
Kenji
As soon as I stepped through the black door, it shut behind me with a hush that felt final.
I stood in a small room, no bigger than a prison cell, painted in the same matte black as the exterior. Black walls. Black floor. Black ceiling with a red-light bulb, casting a sensual glow.
I exhaled slowly, adjusting my grip on the gift box.
The scent hit me next—rich, smoky, and slow, like something coaxed into flavor over hours, not minutes.
Mmm. What is cooking?
The smell didn’t match any menu I knew. Not French. Not Japanese. Not Italian. No hints of miso, no delicate citrus, no truffle or foie gras. This was heavier. Earthier.
My brow furrowed as I inhaled again.
Whatever is cooking. . .I want to eat it.
My stomach growled in anticipation.
She definitely cooked for me.
My heart ached.
I tried not to get my hopes up—but it was too late. I’d already turned into a spoiled kid in a toy store. If she cooked for me. .God, I would lose it.
The only woman who ever had was my mother.
And I didn’t realize how much I missed that until now—the simple grace of someone making something warm just for me.
Not a chef.
Not a servant.
Not a paid-for performance.
Just her.
Just butter, heat, and care.
That kind of gift?
It would undo me.
Just as I was adjusting my stance, a soft click echoed through the tiny chamber.
What was that?
I tensed.
A seam in the back wall I hadn’t noticed before—one disguised perfectly in the matte black—began to glow faintly red along its edges.
Then, a hidden door appeared, and with a soft hydraulic hiss, it opened inward.
Warm, golden light spilled from the other side, diffusing the red hue in the cramped room like a sunrise pushing through fog.
Framed in the glow stood a woman.
Regal.
Poised.
Her presence alone altered the air.
This is not my Tiger. Who is this?
The woman stepped in and recognized me first.
"M-Mr. Sato?" The voice, while composed, held a note of surprise—maybe even awe.
I studied her.
Aww. Hiroko Watanabe. Now things are making sense.
Tonight, she wore a rich kimono of crimson, gold, and obsidian black. Her hair was pinned. She was elegant as always and radiating feminine power.
This is the so called “old woman” the guards saw having tea with Nyomi? They made a foolish mistake.
The last time I’d seen Hiroko, she was negotiating a man’s fate with a smile and a whip—poised, merciless, and glittering with venomous charm. He’d been a corporate tyrant with generational wealth and a god complex.
He thought he could possess her.
He was wrong.
When he began to stalk her—threatening to buy the building her club was housed in and take it away unless she surrendered to him—she didn’t fold.
Hiroko came to me.
Not in tears.
But with fire in her eyes and pride in her spine.
She asked for my assistance, and I obliged.
Hours later, I had the man dragged into my office—stripped of his suit, his power, and his delusions. He knelt on imported marble, sweat clinging to his skin as I carved the lesson into his flesh.
It all spilled out.
Blood.
Spit.
Broken sobs of apology.
Hiroko stood next to me, holding her whip and smiling the whole time.
He never returned to bother her again.
Since then, Hiroko served as my Eyes in this district. She cultivated secrets with silk gloves and tea.
Her club was my listening post for the kinky elite. The kind of place where politicians lost their inhibitions, heirs revealed addictions, and foreign diplomats whispered betrayal into the mouths of their mistresses.
She reported it all. Without ego. Without embellishment. Always with names, dates, and—when needed—photos.
Last year, it was Hiroko who warned me of a Chinese shipping magnate smuggling weapons through the Gilded Port under false emerald manifests. No one in my inner circle had caught it. Customs was paid off. Officials swore ignorance.
But Hiroko?
She’d spotted the truth by scent.
Literally.
“His bodyguard wore Bleu de Chanel,” she told me at the time, sipping from a teacup. “But his luggage reeked of gun oil, sweat, and salt. You should probably look into it.”
Hiroko’s instinct was right. We intercepted the cargo two nights later. Twelve crates of unregistered rifles. Two of them engraved with a former Yakuza clan’s insignia.
I rewarded her with an old ochaya estate on Kuroyama Hill—a discreet, elevated property that overlooked the city but sat cloaked in privacy.
Now, here she was, staring at me like I’d walked into the wrong book.
Her lips parted delicately. “I’m so sorry, Kenji, but did we. . .have a meeting this evening? I apologize if I forgot. However. . .I do not see how I would have forgotten a meeting with you.”
I raised a hand. “No. I was invited here. For a date.”
She blinked.
Once.
Then again.
“A date?”
I nodded.
“You are. . .Nyomi’s guest?”
“Yes.”
Another pause came as if she was still not quite believing what was going on. “You?”
“Yes.”
A third blink. Then, “Oh my.”
A dark chuckle slipped from me.