22. The Journey
Chapter twenty-two
The Journey
Nyomi
In no time I was out of the bedroom and downstairs. Once I made it to the main level, I followed Hiroko’s instruction and took my time getting there.
My heels clicked against the polished floors of Kenji's mansion like tiny gunshots.
The sound echoed through the otherwise silent hallway.
Heads turned.
Servants paused.
A tattooed guard at the corner of the hall saw me and then quickly adjusted his stance—shoulders back, gaze right to the floor.
I moved on past two guards in mid-conversation. When I got close, they fell silent. One nodded at me. The other hit his shoulder and spoke hushed sentences in Japanese.
A young maid froze mid-step, her eyes widening before she quickly bowed and stepped aside.
I could feel her gaze tickling my skin, sliding over the sway of my hips, maybe confused by my stilettos since no one else wore shoes in Kenji’s house.
Alright. I’ve got it so far.
On the outside, I was a queen.
My back didn’t bend. My chin didn’t waver. My lips, painted in that deep, dangerous plum, parted just enough to look unbothered.
Unreachable.
My eyes didn’t dart. My heels didn’t hesitate. I walked as if I had carved the marble myself and told it where to lie.
Like the walls had been built to echo my footsteps.
Like the silence had been curated to showcase my entrance.
Like every head that turned was obeying some invisible command I’d given just by existing.
Even the air seemed to slow for me.
But it was all performance.
A perfectly constructed illusion draped over tension. I wore confidence like armor and power like perfume, hoping neither would crack beneath the pressure of what I was about to walk into.
Because I hoped to God that queens weren’t born.
I prayed that they were crafted.
And during this war, I would be studying the skills and hopefully passing the tests.
But on the inside?
I was a knot.
My stomach twisted into tight and tangled wires. My breathing was too shallow.
Still my heels were clicking, my hips swaying, and my breasts bouncing.
I didn’t know if I was pulling this off or just pretending, and maybe that was the whole point.
Pretend long enough, and the crown becomes yours.
I reached the long corridor.
It looked different in daylight.
Last night, it had been a tunnel carved through shadow. Now, afternoon light spilled through the arched windows, washing the stone floors in warmth and gold.
This wasn’t just a hallway.
It was a map of Kenji’s mind.
I passed the first closed door, his office. Next, I went by my writing room.
I still can’t believe that with everything going on. . .he thought of me and made sure I had a space to write.
It was a carved-out position in the center of his kingdom for my voice. My work. My dreams. It was mine. But now I saw more than just his affection. I saw his strategy too. Because on this corridor, there were only three doors—his office, my writing room, and the war room.
That was it.
He had placed me between the two halves of his world—between his power and his violence. Between the mind of the Dragon and the blood of the battlefield.
He’d made sure I was in the middle of everything.
Not locked away.
Not at the edge of his life.
But very fucking close.
It was a clear statement to me that I was his, and it was so sexy and disturbingly possessive all at the same time.
And I loved it.
The thought made my nipples harden against the lace of my bra. Just enough to remind me that I wasn’t simply loved—I was owned, adored, and permanently marked.
And still, I walked on.
A few steps ahead, the war room came into view.
Two guards stood in front of the door. Same ones from last night. I recognized the tall one with a scar across his eyebrow.
But it was the other one, the shorter man with a subtle mole near his jaw, who gave me pause.
He looked at me again, and I slowed my steps.
Hmmm.
It was that same unsettling glance from the night before—quick, but off in a way that stuck with me. I hadn’t thought much of it then, but now with the war happening. . .my mind was in stealth mode.
Last night, I remembered that this guard’s gaze had lingered not on my body, but on the direction I was walking.
Tracking.
Assessing.
I’d felt it at the time—an instinctual chill—but brushed it off. Too much was happening last night for me to think too deeply about it.
But this afternoon. . .I had the time.
What’s up with this guy?
Instantly, my journalist brain kicked in.
I’d learned to read body language early. It was vital in interviews—when people’s mouths lied, but their shoulders didn’t.
When someone swore they were innocent, but their left eye twitched just before they smiled. When another’s mouth said, "I’m fine," but their knees pointed toward the exit.
This man’s body was closed off. Hands behind his back. Chin up. But his weight shifted subtly when I got close. His pupils widened for a fraction of a second. And his nostrils flared before he masked it all with a blank face.
I think he is hiding something.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was just my nerves.
Maybe he was acting that way because the Dragon’s lover was walking toward a room full of killers, in six-inch heels.
But maybe. . .I’d have to tell Kenji that this guy was tripping my internal alarm.
I just hoped I wasn’t wrong about him. After seeing the bombs erupt across Tokyo on Hiroko’s screen, I knew what Kenji did to his enemies. And I would never forgive myself if I sent an innocent man to burn in the Dragon’s flames.
We’ll see.
A few steps ahead, I spotted others gathered near the war room door.
Huh?
I almost faltered, but my queen-stride held—heels lethal, spine straight—even while my gut cringed.
Who is this?
A woman lounged in a leather armchair that definitely had not been in the hallway last night. And she sat in it right across from the war room door like it was her throne.
Fuck. . .is that. . .her?
Her belly swelled beneath a blush-pink silk wrap dress. I guessed she was at least six months along. Maybe more. Her ankles were slightly swollen, though she wore open-toe slippers with pearl straps.
Yep. That was her. The maybe-mother of his twins.
Of course she would be on the island too, safe from any possible harm from his father. I just never considered the fact that I would be bumping into her so soon.
Goddamn it. I was ready to walk into the war room, but I was not ready for this.
And the alleged baby mama was holding court, had a whole audience.
One woman knelt at her feet, carefully filing and painting her toenails a soft coral pink.
Another stood to her left, waving a fan so large it looked like it belonged in an opera about a goddess being adored.
A third stood behind her, holding a porcelain teacup and saucer with the reverence of a priest presenting communion.
But it didn’t stop there.
Two other women stood near the walls—both elegant, dressed in flowing muted pastels. One of them giggled behind her hand when she saw me, eyes darting from my heels to the curve of my hips, like I’d shown up to the wrong kingdom.
Next to them stood a Japanese man in a sharp cream kimono, long hair slicked back, his features soft and beautiful— too beautiful, almost painted. His nails were glossy and perfectly shaped. His gaze skimmed over me with slow, open curiosity. . .and just the hint of a smirk.
Even more, it all felt. . .choreographed. Designed. Not a performance, but an ambush in blush pink.
They watched me walk like I was entertainment and they were the real royalty.
And his maybe-baby mama?
She didn’t even look my way. She just sipped her tea with the serenity of someone who believed the war was already over—and I was just some clueless bitch walking into her victory parade.
Tons of thoughts spun in my head.
What the fuck do I do? Nod? Say hello? Wave like an idiot? No. Just walk. You’re a queen. Stay Straight-backed. Keep those eyes forward. You’re not here to play her game. You’re here to win yours.
When I got two feet from the door and was about to address the guards, the maybe-baby mama raised her hand in my direction and then snapped her fingers.
Oh no she didn’t.
I shouldn’t have, but I looked her way just to make sure she was really snapping those fingers at me .
She was.
And even more, she snapped those fingers my way again.
The woman fanning stilled. The woman holding tea tilted slightly in my direction. The rest of the court hit me with wicked smirks.
Then, maybe-baby mama said something sharp in Japanese.
"I’m sorry," I shook my head. "I only speak English."
She smiled, and that smile was the kind of sweet that gets ants killed. "Oh, how charming, Kenji’s new maid speaks English."
Maid? Girl, bye.
“Anyway.” She placed a manicured hand on her belly, and splayed her fingers with pride. "The Dragon’s sons are hungry, I would like some okonomiyaki. That’s their favorite."
She stared at me the way a queen might study a commoner with good bone structure. There was mischief in her eyes. But also knowledge.
She knew who I was, and she knew damned well that I was not the maid.
And I had a thousand retorts loaded. I was a New York chick—I didn’t do meek. I had verbal grenades strapped to every nerve.
But then I heard Hiroko’s voice:
Queens don’t talk to peasants.
And more than that, I remembered what I’d read about pregnancies:
Arguing with a pregnant woman agitates the babies. And babies absorb their mother’s stress like it’s air.
Stress increases cortisol levels. Cortisol disrupts fetal development, especially in the third trimester.
Sure. . .that woman was a smug bitch, but she was also housing two innocent lives.
So I smiled. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes but still freezes the fucking room.
Silent and cold, I turned from her and stepped toward the door.
The shorter guard gave me that glance again—subtle, unsettling. Then his face returned to stone.
Behind me, I heard the pregnant woman sigh. "I suppose I’ll call the kitchen myself."