Page 444 of Hate Mates

I bow again, rolling my eyes once she turns her back. “Of course. I’ll be here at sunrise.”

It takes me over two hours to put the dresses back in Yua’s closet, carefully ordered by color just the way she likes them. By the time I’m done, I’m in a foul mood. My hands ache, my back is sore, and I can still hear her voice ringing in my ears. But then I think about my salary—the money I’m saving for my move—and the bitterness fades. A little.

The seamstress lets out a sigh as soon as she sees me walk in, her hands pausing mid-stitch. “What’s her problem now?”

I shake my head, feeling the weight of the question. “Her future husband is coming tomorrow. She needs her dress.”

“I haven’t even started it yet. It’s not due for another four days.”

I nod, letting my fingers trail over a scrap of discarded silk on the counter. It’s impossibly smooth under my touch, and I can’t help but wonder how it would feel to wear something so fine. So soft. Something that isn’t a uniform.

“It’s not really a request,” I say quietly, the words tasting bitter as I force them out. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I curse the flush of embarrassment that always betrays me. I hate doing this.

“I see.” The seamstress purses her lips, setting her needle aside with a sharp sigh.

“She’ll pay extra for it.”

“Of course she will!” she snaps, her tone brimming with mockery. “Tell her it’s double the price, and then when you bring the money, keep half of it. You deserve it for putting up with such an entitled demon.”

I can’t help but laugh. “That’s very kind of you.”

She looks at the clock. “Come tonight around nine. I’ll have it ready for you.”

By the time I leave the seamstress’s shop, the sun has dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and gold.

Our house is small, tucked into a quiet alley away from the grand estates of people like the Okudas. The exterior is plain, weathered by time, with a little garden out front where my mother grows herbs and flowers. The scent of lavender greets me as I step through the gate, a small comfort after a long day.

Inside, it’s humble but warm. The wooden floors creak under my feet as I slip off my shoes, and the faint aroma of miso soup wafts from the kitchen. The living room is modest, furnished with secondhand pieces, but it’s ours. Every scratch, every stain, every faded cushion tells a story of sacrifices made and love poured into this home.

“Ena, you’re back,” my mother calls from the table, her voice soft and soothing. She’s seated with her hands folded in her lap, her long brown hair streaked with silver and pulled into a simple bun. She looks up with a tired smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I’ve taken little from my mother—looking far more Japanese than Caucasian—but I do have her eyes. Light brown, almost gold. She calls it her “receding gene.”

I pause, watching my father at the stove. It’s always jarring to see him there—so different from the rigid hierarchies outsidethese walls. He hums softly as he ladles soup into bowls, his tall frame slightly hunched over the counter. The lines of his face are deep, etched by years of struggle, but his movements are easy, content. At home, he doesn’t cover his tattoos, even though they carry a stigma. I know what they mean, what he is. He’s a part of the organization that controls our lives. But reconciling the man who loves my mother and me so boundlessly with the yakuza? That’s harder.

He turns, balancing two bowls in his hands, and sets them on the table before leaning down to press a kiss to my mother’s forehead. She swats at him playfully, her cheeks flushing like a young bride.

“Stop that,” she murmurs, though there’s no real heat in her words.

He grins, a rare expression that softens his usually stern face. “Why? I can’t kiss my wife in my own home?”

I linger in the doorway, watching them with a bittersweet ache. They’ve endured so much—ostracized by a world that sees them as mistakes, punished for a love that defied the rules. And yet, here they are, finding joy in the smallest moments, building something real with what little they have.

“Ena?” My father’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He looks at me, his brows drawing together. “You look tired. Did Yua give you a hard time again?”

“When doesn’t she?” I shrug as I step closer to the table. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He nods, his jaw tightening. I know he hates that I have to endure it, that he couldn’t shield me from this life. But there’s no pity in his eyes—just understanding.

“Come sit,” my mother says, patting the cushion beside her. “Dinner’s ready.”

I lower myself to the floor, the tension in my shoulders easing as I take in the simple spread. Rice, miso soup, pickledvegetables—humble, like everything else in our lives. But the warmth in the room, the love in their eyes, makes it feel like a feast.

For a moment,I let myself forget about Yua and her demands, the Nishimuras and their arrival tomorrow, and the weight of my plans to leave. Here, in this little house with these two people, I can just be Ena.

After helping my mother clear the table and wash the dishes, I step outside and find my father on the terrace, a cigarette between his fingers.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his voice low and steady.

“I’m just going to the seamstress to pick up the dress for Yua.”

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