Page 112 of Kotori
She draws a shaky breath, meeting my gaze with desperate courage. "The messages and pictures that Daichi-sempai showed you. I did send them. But Otou-san, he made me believe it was normal. That it was education." Her voice cracks, and understanding crashes through me with devastating force. "He convinced me it was educational," she whispers, the words emerging like broken glass. "That I needed to learn these things to be worthy of marriage."
The words detonate in my mind. Vision blurs at the edges. The whiskey glass in my hand shatters from the pressure of my grip, amber liquid and crystal fragments scattering across expensive wood.
Groomed. My eighteen-year-old daughter. Someone systematically, methodically manipulated her innocence while I remained blind to her suffering. While I believed the lies and punished her for being a victim.
"Otou-san?" Mizuki's voice sounds distant, muffled.
The rage building in my chest burns cold and absolute. My vision tunnels, focusing on her tear-stained face while everything else fades to irrelevant background noise.
"He told me it was education," she continues, each word driving the knife deeper into my chest. "That I needed to understand men to be worthy of marriage. Made me send pictures, write messages. Convinced me it was normal preparation between people who would be married."
Education. The word ricochets through my skull. Someone convinced my innocent daughter that exploitation was learning, that degradation was preparation for adulthood.
"I'm sorry," she sobs. "I'm so sorry I was stupid enough to believe him."
"No." The word emerges with such controlled violence that both women flinch. "You were hunted by a predator who specializes in destroying innocence. This is not your fault."
My hands shake with barely contained need for violence. Every instinct screams for immediate, brutal retribution against the animal who dared to corrupt my child's understanding of love and trust. But beneath the rage lurks something darker. Shame. Self-hatred so pure it threatens to choke me.
I believed him. I looked at my daughter's terror and saw guilt instead of victimization. I was cruel to her at dinner, punished her for being exploited, made her carry additional shame on top of what that bastard had already inflicted.
"How long?" My voice sounds foreign, distant.
"Since Tanabata festival." She draws her knees up, making herself smaller. "He said since our families had been discussing marriage anyway, it was practical preparation. That understanding my body was important for being a good wife."
Three months of psychological torture while I praised her maturity, her growing sophistication. Three months of shame she carried alone because a predator convinced her it was herfault. Three months while I remained blind, then actively cruel when the truth was presented as lies.
"What exactly did he do?" The question emerges with lethal quiet.
Paige's hand finds Mizuki's, offering strength as my daughter explains the methodical grooming. How childhood familiarity became assumed authority. How marriage expectations became weapons of exploitation. How natural curiosity was twisted into compliance.
With each detail, my rage crystallizes into something pure and deadly. But threading through the fury is sick recognition of patterns I should have seen, manipulations I should have recognized because I've used similar tactics myself. The power imbalance. The isolation. The gradual normalization of inappropriate demands. The way he positioned himself as educator and guide while systematically destroying her boundaries.
"When did you realize the truth?" I ask when she finishes.
She looks at Paige with gratitude that makes my chest tighten. "Tonight. Paige helped me understand that what he did was called… grooming. That I was targeted because I was innocent, not because I was mature. That choice requires honest information, and he lied about everything."
I study my daughter's face. Still tear-stained, still fragile, but no longer carrying the crushing weight of imagined guilt. This American woman restored something essential that the predator had stolen. Something I failed to protect. "You understand that none of this was your fault?"
"I'm beginning to understand," she says quietly. "Paige helped me see that he lied about everything."
"I owe you an apology," I tell Mizuki quietly. "At dinner tonight, I was cruel. I believed accusations without understanding the truth. I punished you for being victimized."
"You didn't know," she whispers.
"I should have. I should have seen the signs, should have recognized that you were in pain rather than assuming guilt." The admission tastes like ashes. No words I say will ever be enough to atone for what I did. "I failed to protect you, then failed to believe you when protection was what you needed most." I turn to Paige. "Thank you," I tell her, the words carrying weight far beyond simple gratitude. "For helping her find the truth. For giving her back her voice when I took it away with my accusations."
"She deserved to know it wasn't her fault," Paige replies with absolute conviction.
The analysis is correct, but academic understanding pales beside the reality now crystallizing in my mind. Someone hunted my daughter like prey, exploited her innocence through calculated psychological manipulation, then used that exploitation to set political traps designed to force my compliance.
They made one catastrophic miscalculation.
They assumed I wouldn't discover the truth.
"Mizuki." My voice carries gentle authority balanced with love. "You were brave to tell me this. Braver than you know."
"I was afraid you'd be disappointed," she admits.
