Page 14 of Kotori
The words hit me like cold water. Not a request. A command delivered with the calm certainty of someone who's never been refused.
I meet his eyes, seeing something there that makes my mouth go dry. Patient authority that expects obedience, quiet power that doesn't need to raise its voice to be heard. The kind of controlled dominance that could crush resistance without breaking a sweat.
"I just think—" I start, but he cuts me off with a slight tilt of his head.
"You think." The words sound almost amused, but there's steel underneath. "How refreshing. Tell me, what exactly do you think gives you the right to refuse?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications that make my chest tight. He's not asking about the phone anymore. He's asking about authority, about who makes decisions in this house, about what happens when someone tells him no.
"I'm not refusing," I say carefully. "I'm just asking if I could—"
"You're negotiating." His tone remains perfectly calm. "With me. In my home. About my instructions."
The way he says it makes my protest die in my throat. Because he's right. I am trying to negotiate, trying to maintain some small piece of control in a situation where I'm clearly not the one with power.
"Your phone, Paige-san." He extends his hand with the casual confidence of someone who's never doubted he'll get what he wants. "Now."
My fingers shake as I fumble in my purse, every instinct screaming that I'm making a mistake. But the alternative, defying him directly, seeing that patient expression turn into something else—makes my stomach clench with fear I don't want to examine.
What would happen if I said no? Really, truly refused?
The thought makes my hands tremble harder as I pull out my phone. I don't want to find out. Something about the way he sitsthere, completely still, completely certain, tells me that testing his authority would be a very bad idea.
"Ii ko," he says softly when I place the phone in his palm. "Good girl." The praise in his voice shouldn't affect me the way it does. I've never reacted like this.
I place the phone in his outstretched palm, watching as his fingers close around it with casual possession. Just like that, my last connection to the outside world disappears into his control.
"Was that so difficult?" he asks, slipping my phone into his jacket pocket like it's always belonged to him.
"No, Matsumoto-sama."
After his dismisses me, I escape his study on unsteady legs, sliding the door closed behind me with hands that won't stop shaking. In the hallway, I lean against the wall and press my palms to my flushed cheeks.
My pulse pounds in my ears. My skin feels too tight. The new iPhone sits heavy in my pocket next to the envelope of money—gifts that feel more like shackles.
I push off the wall and walk toward the lesson room. Three bright girls wait for their English practice, and I need to pull myself together before I face them.
But I can't stop thinking about the moment when his hand covered mine and every rational thought evaporated.
I slip into the lesson room, where Aya's laughter already echoes through the corridors.
Outside the window, early summer sunlight glints off distant mountains, highlighting the isolation of this place. The compound sits like an island in time, disconnected from the modern world beyond. Standing in this room, with eager young faces turning toward me, I feel something shifting inside me—like the first loose stone in a landslide.
Part of me recognizes I should be terrified by how easily I yielded that phone, by how quickly I said "Yes, Matsumoto-sama" without questioning. But a deeper, darker part whispers that maybe there's freedom in surrender, safety in belonging to someone powerful enough to protect what's his. And beneath that rational thought is something more primitive—the memory of his hands on my shoulders, the way his voice dropped when he said "good girl," the intensity in his eyes when I submitted to him. My body's reaction to him terrifies me more than any of his rules or demands.
Because against all logic, against everything I thought I knew about myself, part of me wants to kneel before him again, wants to feel that rush of heat when he touches me, wants to surrender to whatever this is becoming.
4
Paige
Theclassroomputseveryelite private school I've worked in to shame. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook gardens where morning sunlight sets dew sparkling across grass.
I arrange my teaching materials. Three distinct stations—one for each daughter, tailored to their ages and English proficiency. Mizuki at eighteen is practically fluent but needs help with complex idioms and writing nuance. Kohana at thirteen reads at college level but struggles with speaking confidence. Aya at six needs foundational building blocks, though she speaks at a level that would shame most American first-graders.
The sliding door opens with whisper-quiet precision. Hayashi appears, standing as if a steel rod replaced her spine. Behind her, the three Matsumoto daughters enter in age order, dressed in designer versions of Japanese school uniforms.
"The young ladies are ready for their instruction," Hayashi announces.
