Page 21 of Emperor of Lust

Scott Hiroyuki—a San Francisco transplant now living here in Kyoto— is, in many ways, the perfect accessory. He’s tall, good-looking, and just aloof enough to look mysterious in photographs. As the CFO of a prominent financial firm, he’saccomplished, wealthy, and—importantly—understands me and my life.

That is, he understands the “CEO of Mori Holdings” version of me, not the version that races street bikes late at night through the streets of Kyoto with her tattooed Yakuza twin brother, or brokers illicit deals worth billions of Yen with her other brother, anOyabun.

Scott’s been my pseudo-boyfriend for nearly a year now, our “partnership” carefully curated, our appearances together flawlessly executed. On paper, he’s the perfect fit for a girl-boss like me, and for his part, Scott seems content with our arrangement, too, each of us playing the role we’ve chosen without complications.

Part of that arrangement, which has worked outfinefor me, is that we don’t sleep together. In fact, I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the times we’ve kissed on the mouth. No tongue.

It’s possible Scott is using me for his image as much as I’m using him for mine. Japanese business culture can be…well, a bit less modern-thinking than in the US. I’ve even wondered at times if he’s gay, or simply asexual, both of which would necessitate a “cover” like me for him to keep up appearances in the Japanese business world.

But even aside from all that, something about Scott has always felt…hollow. Like he’s more a reflection of what I think Ishouldwant, not a person I truly desire. He’s polite, almost painfully so, and as he launches into a story about some unfortunate mishap with expense reports at his firm, I can’t help but feel for the millionth time that his version of polite istoopolite.

Soft. Neutered.

I only half-listen as he prattles on, his voice devoid of any passion or excitement.

“And then the accountant accidentally charged the vendor twice,” he sighs, pausing to take a sip of his tea. “It was a mess. I had to spend hours going over the numbers with him.”

I nod, my mind already drifting. I’m not sure if Scott has ever noticed the way my attention slips during these lunches. Probably not. If he has, he’s far too polite to say so because…well, see above.

Just as he gets into yet another detail about the accountant’s error, I cut him off, the words spilling out totally unplanned. “This isn’t working for me anymore, Scott.”

He blinks, pausing mid-sentence, a small frown twisting his lips. “Oh.” He sets down his tea, folding his hands neatly on the table. “I see.”

I take a deep breath, the weight of the decision I’veliterally just madesettling over me. “I’m going to Tokyo soon for work, and I’ll be there for some time.”

I mean, it’s not a lie.

Scott nods, his expression untroubled. “That makes sense,” he says with a calm acceptance that only underscores how right I am about this. He doesn’t look remotely upset; he’s not even surprised.

A faint smile touches his lips. “Thank you for telling me so directly, Hana,” he says, polite as ever. “You’ve always been straightforward, and I appreciate that.”

For a moment, I feel a twinge of guilt, but it quickly passes. This relationship was never built on anything substantial, and we both know it. Scott offers a small, respectful nod, as though we’re negotiating the end of a business partnership rather than a romantic relationship.

I give him a soft smile midway between gratitude and relief. “Thank you, Scott. For everything.”

He nods once more, taking a measured sip of his tea. “You’re welcome, Hana.” He raises his cup slightly, a gentle toast to what we had—perhaps to what we never truly had at all. “Good luck in Tokyo.”

I raise my own cup in return, inclining my head gracefully. And just like that, it’s over—as neat, polite and tidy as the man sitting across from me.

When Scott walks away, I remain at the table a minute longer. I reach into my bag, my fingers tingling as they find the pointed edges of the little origami crane tucked inside.

Maybe I’m not looking for neat, polite and tidy at all.

Maybe I’m looking for chaos and disorder, and sharp, violet eyes.

As dusk settles over Kyoto,I drive up the winding mountain road back home. Kenzo’s men nod when they see me, waving me through theToriigate outside our estate. Lanterns line the stone driveway leading to the main house, bathing the gardens and koi ponds in a soft glow.

The car rolls to a stop and I step out, breathing in the cool evening air. Annika calls to me through the kitchen window. She’s bravely trying to cook—well, either chicken or tuna, but it smells like pure soy sauce.

After promising her I’ll come back after I change, I make my way to the entrance to my private wing, carefully removing my shoes at the door and changing into slippers. My feet pad softly on the polished floor as I walk, the sound echoing quietly in the silence. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls frame the city below, the lights of Kyoto like distant, scattered stars.

I pause for a moment in the dark, minimalist hallway of glass and muted tones, frowning when I see a window slightly open. A soft evening breeze rustles inside as I walk over and shut it, how it’s supposed to be.

How I left it.

Stay the fuck out of my damn wing, Takeshi.

This is one of the reasons I like living here in my own private sanctuary: everythinginthe space is kept in place.

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