1. Ena
ONE
Ena
“ E na!” Yua’s high-pitched screech cuts through the air, sharp enough to reach the kitchen.
I roll my eyes and bite back a groan. “I can’t catch a break.”
“That’s because you can’t,” the cook quips with a smirk, gesturing toward the door with her ladle. “Go on before she bursts in here.”
With a sigh, I push away from the counter and brace myself. Yua’s tantrums are a part of my daily life as her lady’s maid. She’s groomed to be the perfect queen for a yakuza heir—poised and graceful in public but a tyrant behind closed doors.
I hate the yakuza and everything they represent. Their traditions keep people like me—a hāfu , a half-Japanese woman—stuck in positions of servitude. My father, once a kyodai , was demoted to aniki for marrying my American mother. The stain of their union follows me everywhere.
I step into Yua’s room, where a mountain of silk, lace, and chiffon sprawls across her bed. “You called, Miss Yua?” My eyes immediately land on the pile—enough for her to wear a new dress every day for six months and still have leftovers.
I’m an employee. I’m paid for this, but to her, I’m a slave. I grit my teeth and take it. She’s my ticket out. Not many people want to hire a hāfu , too worried they’ll anger the powerful—the yakuza or whoever else. I’m lucky in a way. I make decent money. Enough to stick it out for a few more months and then leave.
The image of my escape—the US, school, a life far away from this house—keeps me moving, even as I curse her under my breath.
“Yes!” Yua snaps, spinning toward me with her hands on her hips. Her face is flushed, and the sharp, floral scent of her perfume clings to the air. “Where is my blue dress?”
The pile of expensive fabrics on the bed could outfit a small village, but none of it is good enough for Miss Yua.
“The cyan one,” she snaps, her hands on her hips. “The one that makes my skin glow.”
“It’s at the tail?—”
“I need it! The Nishimuras are coming tomorrow. I must look my best.”
Great. More self-important men are coming here.
I know better than to argue with her when she’s like this. I’ve learned my lesson the hard way.
“I can try to pick it up in the morning,” I offer cautiously, “but the seamstress said it would take a few days.”
“I don’t care what she said!” Yua’s voice climbs to a pitch so high I’m sure only dolphins can hear her now. “Tell her I need it now. Pay her extra if you have to.”
I have no love for the type of man she’s about to marry, but part of me wonders if he knows what he’s getting himself into. In public, Yua is demure, poised, the picture-perfect princess. Behind closed doors? She’s a demanding brat. Then again, maybe he deserves her. A match made in heaven—or hell.
I bow my head. “I can go now and ask for it to be ready tomorrow.”
She straightens, pressing her lips together in a thin line. “You don’t ask. You demand.”
A snort escapes me before I can stop it. I try to cover it with a cough, but her narrowed eyes tell me she isn’t fooled. Thankfully, she doesn’t call me out.
“I’ll go right now,” I add quickly.
“No. Put my dresses away first. I have a session with the preceptor, but you can go after and make sure you’re back early tomorrow. We need to be ready before their arrival.”
I bow again, rolling my eyes once she turns her back. “Of course. I’ll be here at sunrise.”
It takes me over two hours to put the dresses back in Yua’s closet, carefully ordered by color just the way she likes them. By the time I’m done, I’m in a foul mood. My hands ache, my back is sore, and I can still hear her voice ringing in my ears. But then I think about my salary—the money I’m saving for my move—and the bitterness fades. A little.
The seamstress lets out a sigh as soon as she sees me walk in, her hands pausing mid-stitch. “What’s her problem now?”
I shake my head, feeling the weight of the question. “Her future husband is coming tomorrow. She needs her dress.”
“I haven’t even started it yet. It’s not due for another four days.”
I nod, letting my fingers trail over a scrap of discarded silk on the counter. It’s impossibly smooth under my touch, and I can’t help but wonder how it would feel to wear something so fine. So soft. Something that isn’t a uniform.
“It’s not really a request,” I say quietly, the words tasting bitter as I force them out. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I curse the flush of embarrassment that always betrays me. I hate doing this.
“I see.” The seamstress purses her lips, setting her needle aside with a sharp sigh.
“She’ll pay extra for it.”
“Of course she will!” she snaps, her tone brimming with mockery. “Tell her it’s double the price, and then when you bring the money, keep half of it. You deserve it for putting up with such an entitled demon.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s very kind of you.”
She looks at the clock. “Come tonight around nine. I’ll have it ready for you.”
By the time I leave the seamstress’s shop, the sun has dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and gold.
Our house is small, tucked into a quiet alley away from the grand estates of people like the Okudas. The exterior is plain, weathered by time, with a little garden out front where my mother grows herbs and flowers. The scent of lavender greets me as I step through the gate, a small comfort after a long day.
Inside, it’s humble but warm. The wooden floors creak under my feet as I slip off my shoes, and the faint aroma of miso soup wafts from the kitchen. The living room is modest, furnished with secondhand pieces, but it’s ours. Every scratch, every stain, every faded cushion tells a story of sacrifices made and love poured into this home.
“Ena, you’re back,” my mother calls from the table, her voice soft and soothing. She’s seated with her hands folded in her lap, her long brown hair streaked with silver and pulled into a simple bun. She looks up with a tired smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I’ve taken little from my mother—looking far more Japanese than Caucasian—but I do have her eyes. Light brown, almost gold. She calls it her “receding gene.”
I pause, watching my father at the stove. It’s always jarring to see him there—so different from the rigid hierarchies outside these walls. He hums softly as he ladles soup into bowls, his tall frame slightly hunched over the counter. The lines of his face are deep, etched by years of struggle, but his movements are easy, content. At home, he doesn’t cover his tattoos, even though they carry a stigma. I know what they mean, what he is. He’s a part of the organization that controls our lives. But reconciling the man who loves my mother and me so boundlessly with the yakuza? That’s harder.
He turns, balancing two bowls in his hands, and sets them on the table before leaning down to press a kiss to my mother’s forehead. She swats at him playfully, her cheeks flushing like a young bride.
“Stop that,” she murmurs, though there’s no real heat in her words.
He grins, a rare expression that softens his usually stern face. “Why? I can’t kiss my wife in my own home?”
I linger in the doorway, watching them with a bittersweet ache. They’ve endured so much—ostracized by a world that sees them as mistakes, punished for a love that defied the rules. And yet, here they are, finding joy in the smallest moments, building something real with what little they have.
“Ena?” My father’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He looks at me, his brows drawing together. “You look tired. Did Yua give you a hard time again?”
“When doesn’t she?” I shrug as I step closer to the table. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He nods, his jaw tightening. I know he hates that I have to endure it, that he couldn’t shield me from this life. But there’s no pity in his eyes—just understanding.
“Come sit,” my mother says, patting the cushion beside her. “Dinner’s ready.”
I lower myself to the floor, the tension in my shoulders easing as I take in the simple spread. Rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables—humble, like everything else in our lives. But the warmth in the room, the love in their eyes, makes it feel like a feast.
For a moment, I let myself forget about Yua and her demands, the Nishimuras and their arrival tomorrow, and the weight of my plans to leave. Here, in this little house with these two people, I can just be Ena.
After helping my mother clear the table and wash the dishes, I step outside and find my father on the terrace, a cigarette between his fingers.
“Where are you going?” he asks, his voice low and steady.
“I’m just going to the seamstress to pick up the dress for Yua.”
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 do me wrong. 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’re the 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.