Page 452 of Hate Mates

I hesitate, the question pressing against my chest. “That’s why I came to you,” I say finally. “I need your help.”

He raises an eyebrow, a glimmer of surprise breaking through his usual stoicism. “You’re asking for my help to fix this mess?”

“Yes,” I reply, swallowing my pride. “She doesn’t trust me. Her family doesn’t trust us. And after everything we’ve taken from her, can you blame them?”

His gaze sharpens. “So you want me to smooth things over with her father?”

I nod. “He respects your authority. He was born yakuza—he understands the power that comes with your word. If you vouch for me, if you can fix things for her family, it could make all the difference.”

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “And what do you expect me to say? That my son, the heir to the Nishimura empire, is chasing after a woman who doesn’t even want him?”

“She will,” I say firmly, though my voice softens. “She just needs to see that I’m different. That I’m not like the rest of them.”

His lips press into a thin line, and he cuts me off with a sharp look. “Not them, Takashi. Us. It’s not them—it’s us. You are yakuza. Don’t forget that.”

The words hit me like a blow, and for a moment, the enormity of what I’m asking feels insurmountable. But then his expression shifts—just slightly—and I catch a glimpse of something I don’t often see: understanding.

He exhales a slow, resigned breath. “Fine. I’ll speak with her father. But Takashi…” He steps closer, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that roots me in place. “If I do this, you cannot fail. Do you understand me? There will be no turning back.”

“I won’t fail,” I say, my voice steady despite the heaviness pressing down on my chest. “I’ll prove it to her—and to you.”

He studies me for another long moment before nodding, though his jaw remains tight. “We’ll see. Now send me your brother. I have a feeling he’ll be far more agreeable.”

FIVE

Ena

The reception hall buzzes with murmured conversations, the clink of glasses, and the soft strains of classical music floating through the air. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, their light glinting off the polished shoes of men in tailored suits and the sequins of women in opulent gowns.

I should feel invisible in this crowd, but I don’t. Not with whispers trailing me like ghosts, their judgments sharper than daggers.

“She doesn’t belong here,” someone had muttered earlier, loud enough for me to hear. Their words slashed through my composure, though I’d pretended not to notice.

My fingers fidget with the silk of myobias my eyes scan the room, drawn inevitably to the figure standing at the far end. Takashi Nishimura. I can feel his presence before I see him, like a magnet pulling me into his orbit.

I’m not comfortable being at this party. I was never asked to attend, not even as a companion to Yua or her chaperone. But here I am, dressed in dinner attire I’ve never worn—attire that made Yua scowl the entire way down to the reception room.

“Such a waste of good clothing,” she muttered, loud enough for me to hear, her lips twisted in disdain.

I tried to ignore her, but it was hard to shake the unease coiling in my stomach. Thefurisodeis stunning—too stunning for someone like me, with its scarlet silk base embroidered with delicate plum blossoms in soft pink and gold. The flowing sleeves feel foreign, almost impractical, and the weight of the perfectly tiedobiat my waist only adds to my sense of not belonging. Even my hair, styled into an intricate updo adorned with a single crimson blossom pin, feels like a costume.

I should be invisible, but I know I’m not. The second I stepped into the reception room, eyes followed me. Whispers. Glances.

I can’t decide which is worse—the attention or the looks of disapproval.

This is far too expensive for someone like me to wear, and in my gut, I know who arranged it. I hate the thought. And yet, I couldn’t ignore the flicker of excitement I felt as I slid into the soft material.

Takashi Nishimura—my enemy, for all intents and purposes—and yet, even in this crowded room, I feel him. I know he’s here. I can feel his gaze on me, like a tether between us. It’s as if my soul is calling to his, and he’s answering.

Something is happening. I don’t know what, but it tightens my chest. When I got home earlier, my mother told me my father had been called to speak with thefathers—the leaders of the yakuza. She was excited, as if something good could come from it. But nothing good ever comes from being involved with those men.

You better remember that, Ena. I chastise myself as a tightness coils in my lower stomach at the thought of Takashi.

A young man approaches, his polished smile disarming. “Good evening. I’m Akira Nishimura,” he says smoothly, hischarm almost too practiced. Despite myself, I perk up slightly under his attention, but something feels off. Isn’t it untoward for a man to flirt so openly with his brother’s betrothed?

I glance around the room, trying to shake the thought—and freeze.

Takashi.

---