Page 4 of Kotori
"Aya-chan," Mizuki says quietly. "Manners."
But she's studying me too, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. Testing time. Time to see if the new teacher will last a week or break under pressure.
I realize with a sudden clarity that I know nothing about why my predecessor left. I can almost see the previous teachers—a line of women who couldn't withstand the scrutiny, the isolation, the heaviness of this house with its expectations and traditions. Women who left, unlike me, because they had somewhere else to go.
Bring it on. I've survived discovering my fiancé naked with another woman in my own bed. I've survived my father walking out, my mother's slow death, and the crushing knowledge that I'm one missed paycheck away from complete financial ruin. I can handle a few privileged teenagers.
"I am American," I tell Aya with a smile. "And yes, I can teach you to sound like Americans. Though your English is already very good."
"Daddy says Americans are loud and rude," Kohana says without looking up from her book. "Are you loud and rude?"
Definitely testing me. "I try not to be. What are you reading?"
She tilts the cover toward me. I recognize the manga from the cover art. "It's about a girl who can see demons and falls for one who wants to consume her. She knows he'll probably destroy her, but she can't stay away."
The words hit something uncomfortable in my chest. "How does it end?"
"She becomes everything she never thought she wanted to be," Kohana says, finally meeting my eyes. "And she's happy about it."
Before I can process that particular piece of wisdom from a thirteen-year-old, footsteps echo in the hallway beyond the room. Heavy, measured, commanding. Everyone in the room goes still—even chatty little Aya falls silent.
"Otou-san's coming," Mizuki whispers, and there's something in her voice that wasn't there before. Not fear, exactly. But awareness. The knowledge that when her father enters a room, everything else becomes secondary.
The footsteps stop outside the door.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, sudden and violent. This is it. Time to meet the man who will decide whether I stay in Japan or slink back to Chicago with my tail between my legs. The man whose money will fund my new life, whose children I'll teach, whose rules I'll follow.
The man whose compound I just entered through gates that lock from the inside.
The sliding door opens, and Kaito Matsumoto steps into the room.
My breath stops in my throat.
He's nothing like the middle-aged businessman I'd been expecting. He's tall—has to be at least six-three, with shouldersbroad enough to block out the light from the doorway. His black hair is perfectly styled with distinguished silver threading through it, and when his dark eyes scan the room, everyone else becomes background noise.
He radiates authority. The charcoal suit crafted for his exact measurements. The purposeful way he moves. At his collar, black ink peeks against tan skin. Tattoos. Of course he has tattoos.
When his gaze lands on me, my stomach drops through the floor.
He doesn't just look at me. He studies me. He takes inventory of my blonde hair, my blue eyes, the way I'm sitting, the nervous way I'm gripping my portfolio. Like he's cataloging everything for future reference. Like he's already made some decision about me that I'm not privy to.
"Paige-san." His voice is quiet, controlled, with just enough accent to make my name sound like something intimate. "Welcome to my home."
He moves closer, and suddenly the spacious room feels too small. He smells expensive and masculine. Something that makes my mouth go dry and my brain forgets why I'm supposed to be professional.
"Thank you for having me, Mr. Matsumoto" I manage, standing up and immediately regretting it because now I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He's close enough that I can see the fine lines around his eyes, the fullness of his mouth, the way his suit jacket strains slightly across his chest.
"Your daughters seem wonderful."
He extends his hand, and when I take it, his fingers close around mine with deliberate pressure. His hand is warm, calloused in a way that suggests he's not afraid of violence, and he holds on just long enough that I start to wonder if I'm supposed to pull away first.
"They are my greatest treasure," he says, still holding my hand. "I would do anything to protect them. Anything to ensure their happiness."
The words are perfectly appropriate for a father, but something in his tone makes them sound like a promise meant specifically for me. When he finally releases my hand, my fingers tingle.
"I understand," I say, hoping he can't hear the slight breathlessness in my voice. "I want them to succeed."
His smile is slow, knowing, and absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that suggests he's aware of exactly what effect he's having on me. "I'm certain you do."
