Shes Divine
The private tatami room of the kaiseki restaurant overlooked a small, lantern-lit garden.
Sliding shoji screens softened the city noise to a distant hum.
The long low table was laden with seasonal delicacies: glistening sashimi, steamed abalone, grilled ayu fish, delicate yuba rolls, and tiny porcelain cups of sake that caught the warm glow of paper lanterns.
Christian sat at the head, dark suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows, posture relaxed for the first time in days.
Across from him, Mr. Tanaka (the lead negotiator) and his two senior partners raised their sake cups in another toast. The deal, saved at the last minute thanks to Melody’s adjustments, had closed. They were celebrating.
Christian’s assistant, Marcus, a tall, easygoing American in his mid-thirties with a boyish grin and a weakness for good food, sat to his right, already on his third sake and clearly enjoying himself far too much.
“To the Holt family empire,” Tanaka said, voice warm. “And to Christian-san’s brilliance in turning the impossible into the inevitable.”
The men laughed and drank. Marcus let out an appreciative “Kanpai!” louder than necessary, earning chuckles.
The food kept coming, small, perfect plates. Conversation flowed easily: golf handicaps, favorite Tokyo bars, the upcoming cherry blossom season. Then, as the sake bottles emptied and cheeks flushed, the talk drifted, as it often does among men, to women.
Tanaka leaned back, loosening his tie. “You know, I always say a woman should have elegance. Graceful neck, long fingers, the way she moves like she knows every eye is on her.”
One of the partners, Mr. Sato, nodded sagely. “For me it’s the eyes. Deep, knowing. A woman who looks at you like she already understands your soul.”
The third man, younger, grinned wolfishly. “I like curves. Big hips, full chest. Something you can grab. And lips... thick, red, the kind that promise everything.”
Marcus laughed too loudly, sake sloshing in his cup. “Gentlemen, gentlemen… legs. Long legs. And a little attitude. I want her to make me work for it.”
The table erupted in approving murmurs and filthy chuckles.
Tanaka turned to Christian with a raised brow. “And you, Christian-san? What makes a woman beautiful to you?”
The laughter quieted. All eyes turned to him.
Christian set his cup down slowly. He stared past them, through the shoji, through the garden lanterns, into some distant place only he could see.
His voice, when it came, was low. Almost reverent.
“A woman is most beautiful when she’s carrying a child,” he said. “The way her body changes. Softens. Becomes round and full of life. There’s something sacred in it. Something… divine.”
The table went still.
He continued, eyes unfocused, as if speaking to the air.
“But she’s even more beautiful after the birth.
Messed up. Exhausted. Hair wild. Face flushed and sweaty.
Body marked... scars, stretch marks, swollen.
That raw, undone moment when she’s just given everything she has to bring another soul into the world…
that’s when she’s closest to God. That’s when she’s divine. ”
Silence.
Marcus sank back in his chair, wide-eyed, the playful grin gone. He looked almost uncomfortable, like he’d witnessed something too private.
Tanaka cleared his throat softly.
“That is… a very profound way to see it, Christian-san.”
Christian finally blinked, pulling himself back to the room. He lifted his sake cup again, expression shuttered once more.
“To new beginnings,” he said quietly.
The men echoed the toast, but the energy had shifted. The conversation turned to safer topics... stock markets, golf again.
Marcus stayed quiet for the rest of the night.
And Christian stared into his cup, seeing not sake, but a woman in a dim room, combing long black hair with trembling hands, still beautiful in all the ways he’d refused to admit.
×××××××
Ashton’s advances didn’t stop.
They got worse.
Bolder.
Daring in ways that made my stomach turn every time I heard his footsteps in the hallway.
He started cornering me in elevators.
His hand would “accidentally” brush my thigh, linger on my lower back when he stepped past.
He’d lean in too close, whisper things like, “You’ll give in eventually.
They all do.”
I’d press myself against the wall, heart slamming, counting the floors until the doors opened.
I threatened him once.
In the break room, after he’d trapped me against the counter and slid his hand up my skirt.
I shoved him back and said, voice shaking, “Touch me again and I’ll call the police. I’ll go straight to HR.”
He laughed... low, amused, like I’d told a joke.
He stepped closer, towering over me, and said:
“I’m Ashton Holt, Melody.
CEO. Son of the founder. Do you really think HR will believe you over me?
You’ll only ruin your own career. You’ll be the one they fire.
The one they whisper about. The one no one hires again. ”
He was right.
I knew it the second he said it.
I’d seen how the company worked.
Ashton’s word was law.
Women who complained quietly disappeared... transferred to dead-end departments, passed over for promotions, eventually “encouraged” to leave.
So I stayed silent.
I started avoiding empty hallways.
I worked with the door locked.
I carried my phone in my hand like a weapon.
But he kept pushing.
The worst time, the one that still wakes me up shaking, was in his office.
Late. After hours.
I’d been called up to “discuss the new forecast.”
I should have known.
He closed the door behind me. Locked it.
I backed toward the desk. “This isn’t about work.”
He smiled. “It can be both.”
He grabbed my wrist, pulled me against him. His other hand slid up my thigh, under my skirt, fingers digging in.
I froze for one horrible second, fear locking my muscles, then adrenaline snapped through me.
I slapped him.
Hard.
Open palm across his face. The sound echoed like a crack of thunder.
He released me instantly, staggering back a step, cheek already reddening.
I stood there, breathing hard, hand stinging, tears burning.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” I said, voice shaking but clear. “Or I swear I’ll scream loud enough for the whole building to hear.”
For a moment he looked stunned.
Then furious.
He wiped the corner of his mouth where my ring had cut him, eyes dark with rage.
“You’ll regret that,” he said quietly.
I turned and ran, out of the office, down the stairs, out of the building.
I didn’t stop until I was blocks away, shaking, sobbing in an alley.
He never touched me like that again.
But the threats never stopped.
The looks.
The whispers.
The way he’d smile when he passed my desk, like he knew he’d already won.
He didn’t kill himself over me.
He didn’t die of a broken heart.
Something else happened.
I still have the scar on my palm from that slap.
A tiny crescent from my own ring.
I look at it sometimes and remember the girl who fought back.
She’s still in here.
Somewhere.
—Melody
×××××××
The hotel bar was quiet, dimly lit, almost empty except for the soft jazz playing from hidden speakers.
Marcus and Christian sat at a corner table near the window, the city lights sprawling below like scattered diamonds.
The rest of the team had gone up to their rooms hours ago.
Marcus nursed a whiskey neat, tie long discarded, sleeves rolled up.
Christian held a glass of water staring out at the skyline.
Marcus finally broke the silence.
“So…” He swirled the glass, glancing sideways at his boss. “What the hell was that at dinner?”
Christian didn’t turn. “What?”
“That whole… thing. About women being ‘divine’ when they’re pregnant and messed up after birth.
” Marcus let out a low whistle. “The table went dead quiet, man. Tanaka looked like he’d been hit with a poetry book.
Sato almost choked on his sake. And me? I sank so far into that chair I nearly disappeared. ”
Christian’s jaw ticked. He kept his eyes on the city.
Marcus leaned forward, voice dropping. “Come on, Chris. That wasn’t your usual ‘I like legs and confidence’ bar talk. That was… personal. Like, really personal. You were staring into the void like you were seeing someone specific.”
Christian exhaled slowly through his nose.
Marcus waited. Then, quieter: “Is this about Melody?”
Christian’s fingers tightened around the glass. He finally looked at Marcus, eyes shadowed, guarded, but not angry.
Marcus raised both hands. “Hey, I’m not prying for gossip. I’m just… I’ve worked for you three years. I’ve seen you cold. I’ve seen you ruthless. I’ve never seen you talk about a woman like she’s some kind of miracle. Especially not after everything.”
Christian looked away again. The city lights reflected in his hazel eyes like distant stars.
“She gave birth to my daughter,” he said finally, voice low. “Emergency C-section. Alone. Bleeding. Terrified. And she still… she still held on. She still looked at Symphony like the world hadn’t just tried to break her.”
Marcus stayed silent.
Christian’s throat worked. “I wasn’t there.
I should’ve been. But I wasn’t. And when I think about her.
.. scars, pain, hair wild, exhausted, body marked up from everything she went through just to bring my kid into the world…
it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And I hated her for it. For making me feel that. ”
Marcus let out a slow breath. “Jesus, Chris.”
Christian’s voice cracked. “She told me she loved me. That night before I left. Said she always did. That she turned Ashton down because of me.”
Marcus’s eyes widened. “And you…?”
“I shoved her. Told her she made it worse.” Christian laughed, short and bitter. “I told her she made everything worse.”
Marcus rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re a mess, boss.”
“I know.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Marcus finally spoke again, quieter. “You gonna fix it when you get back?”
Christian stared at the city.
“I don’t know if I can.”
He lifted the water glass, took a slow sip, then set it down.
“But I’m going to try. I have something in mind.”
Marcus nodded once. Didn’t push.
They sat in silence after that, watching the lights of Tokyo flicker on below them.
Somewhere across the ocean, a woman sat locked in a room, waiting for a child she couldn’t reach.
×××××××