Page 445 of Hate Mates

He nods, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “Let me come with you.”

“It’s only five minutes from here, Dad.” I raise a brow, hoping he’ll let it go.

He shrugs. “Humor me.”

We walk in silence most of the way, the cool evening air brushing past us. The streets are quiet, save for the occasional bark of a stray dog or the distant hum of a passing car. I can feel the weight of his unsaid words between us, thick and heavy, until finally, on our way back home, he speaks.

“Your mother told me you’ve been speaking with your grandparents.”

Ah. There it is. “Yes. I know they did you wrong.”

“No.” His voice sharpens slightly. “They didn’t domewrong. They did your mother wrong.”

I nod, the words catching in my throat. “I know. Rejecting their child is… it’s awful. Especially because she picked love. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I don’t condone what they did,” he says carefully, his tone measured. “And I’m not here to tell you what to do,musume. You’re twenty now. An adult. But be careful with those people.”

“I know.” I sigh, my chest tightening. “It’s just… I love you, and I love Mom, but I want more than this life. Do you understand? We’re being punished for something that didn’t deserve punishment.”

He stops, turning to face me as our house comes into view. The faint glow of light from the windows reflects in his eyes, softening their usual sternness. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Dad.” I shake my head firmly. “Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for. You treat Mom like a queen, and you love me. That’s everything.They’rethe ones who are wrong.”

He glances around quickly, his gaze darting to the shadows. The tension in his shoulders is unmistakable, and I know what I’ve done—what I’ve said—is bad. You don’t bad-mouth the yakuza. Not even in whispers.

After a beat, he exhales and says quietly, “Maybe… maybe it’s not a bad thing for you to travel for a while.”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

He doesn’t reply at first; he simply leans down to kiss the top of my head. The gesture is warm and protective, but as he steps back, he lowers his voice, his words brushing my ear like a ghost. “Stay away from the Nishimuras.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, short and sharp. “Don’t worry, Dad. I plan to do just that.”

But as we approach the house, his warning lingers, a weight pressing against my chest. Something about the way he said it, the edge in his voice, feels like more than just a caution. It feels like a premonition.

TWO

Takashi

Being here feels wrong, but I have no choice. This is my duty as the next leader of the yakuza in the US—I need a wife. A good, obedient wife trained for the role.

I’m only twenty-five. I thought I had more time. But my father, the man I once believed to be indestructible, is in stage 4 cancer. I’ll have to step into his role far sooner than I ever planned—or hoped.

The thought twists my stomach. I’m not keen on marrying a stranger, but in our world, personal preferences don’t matter. This is how my parents married. From what I can tell, there’s no love between them—just mutual respect and maybe a little affection. Enough to build a life together, I suppose.

“Why do we have to stay here?” Akira huffs from beside me, staring out the car window. “We’d be better off at home.”

My younger brother speaks my thoughts aloud, as usual. At twenty-two, Akira has all the training I’ve endured but none of the restraint. He uses his freedom recklessly, questioning everything, including our father’s decisions.

He’s not talking about our home in LA—the towering palace of glass and steel—but the Nishimura family estate, perched anhour from here with its breathtaking view of Mount Fuji. Its splendor feels wasted on this meeting.

“Because,” my father replies evenly, his tone measured, “we must show respect to Takashi’s future wife’s family by accepting their hospitality.”

Akira snorts, crossing his arms. “Respect,” he mutters under his breath like it’s a dirty word.

I keep my expression neutral, my jaw tight. Respect is everything in our world. It’s not just a matter of manners—it’s power, alliances, appearances. And yet, the mere mention of this wife, this stranger I’m expected to build a life with, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I glance at my father and mother seated across from us in the limousine. They’re silent, their faces unreadable, but I see the bleak reflection of my future in them: a marriage built on duty, not desire.

---