Chapter 7
Seven
“ T he penthouse is three floors, with the top floors being the main part of the house,” Ai, Kenzo’s personal assistant, informs me as she takes me on a tour of the three-story bachelor pad. And that is exactly what it is. A bachelor pad. It has a soaring main hall, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows with ceiling heights that reach at least thirteen meters. “This first level is set up with a lounge area with a bar, two dining rooms, a state-of-the-art kitchen, as you’ve seen, Mr. Nakamura’s music room and cigar lounge that doubles as a game room for billiards night, a movie theater, and a fully stocked library with panoramic views of the French Quarter.”
Who the hell needs two dining rooms?
She leads me room by room, telling me what is off-limits, like the cigar room, and what I can use as my shared space with my new husband. I want to argue that, since I’m now his wife, nothing should be off limits to me, but I don’t have much use for a cigar or billiards room, so I let it go. The movie theater, however, will get plenty of use. Along with the library.
The entire first floor of the penthouse is an open-air concept, including the dark glass spiral staircases that lead to the entry balcony of each upper floor.
“The second floor has eight full bedrooms and bathrooms, along with a large family room and a den that can be converted into a playroom when the time comes.”
The coffee in my cup nearly makes an appearance through my nose. I’ve been so caught up in the fact that the fucker kidnapped me and signed the marriage certificate while I was unconscious that I didn’t think about children. It was in the contract my father and Kenzo signed. I am responsible for giving the head of the Yakuza an heir.
Another plate to add to the pile of tipping dirty dishes I need to figure out how to get out of.
“The third floor is strictly off limits.” She tips her head toward the last staircase.
“Why?” I ask sourly. “Is that where he keeps his mistresses and porn?” Ai doesn’t take kindly to my joke. She’s young, probably only a few years older than I am, but with the stick she has shoved up her ass, you would think she is older.
“Mr. Nakamura’s business offices are on that floor,” she chastises harshly, her dark eyes flashing with disgust. “The second elevator has a separate code from the main elevator and is the only one that travels to that floor. The main elevator is only programmed for the first, second, and roof levels.”
“What’s on the roof level?” I ask curiously.
“There is a private pool, a gym, a sauna, a modified Onsen, and a lounge area.”
And here I was looking forward to a private movie theater and library, and he has an Onsen on the roof? Onsens are hot spring inns and bathing facilities that are found all over Japan. She mentioned that it was modified, so I am assuming that the space is styled to look like an Onsen, but the water is heated in a way that’s similar to an American hot tub.
“Those are areas you are permitted to use, of course.” She gives me a fake customer service smile.
“Of course,” I mumble somewhat bitterly. A small bell sounds overhead, and Ai smiles as she taps on her phone.
“The stylist is right on time,” she says. “I’ve modified the sitting area so that you will be able to try on items in there.”
True to her word, when we walk into the sitting room, she has a large screen set to one side that will easily keep prying eyes off me while I change. The elevator dings and out strides an entire army of people hauling clothes racks and bags. I sit on one of the chaise loungers as I wait. It takes them four trips back down to wherever they parked to get everything in the penthouse.
“Mrs. Nakamura,” the stylist greets me, holding out his hand. He’s a friendly man, about six-two, with frosted tips and a feminine-tipped southern accent. “It is so nice to meet the woman who snagged the ultimate New Orleans bachelor. I can’t wait to get my hands on you.”
“Umm, it’s nice to meet you, too…” I wait for him to introduce himself.
“Peter.” He winks at me.
I give him a small smile. “It’s a pleasure, Peter.” It really isn’t. Not that he doesn’t look like he’d be a fun guy to have as your wingman at the bar, but I don’t need someone deciding what I will and will not be wearing. I have a style I like, and I don’t want to change that.
“Mr. Nakamura wants the works,” Ai informs him, handing him the tablet in her hand. “Clothes, hair, makeup, everything. She needs to look the part of a society wife.” Her eyes narrow on me as if I’m not her choice. The urge to tell her that this isn’t exactly my choice either, burns at my tongue, but I know better than to say anything in front of the stylist.
“My hair is fine,” I tell her, more curt than I planned, but I am beginning to feel the frustration bubbling up inside.
“It’s Mr. Nakamura’s request that we return your hair to its natural color.” Ai sniffs and raises her chin, obviously not a fan of my blond balayage.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You can tell Mr. Nakamura to shove it up his ass,” I hiss at her, my voice low. “I like my hair blond, and that is exactly how it is staying.”
“He’s busy. Providing you with this lavish lifestyle.” She types away on her phone, no doubt tattling on me to her boss. “This is what he wants, and it is what Mr. Nakamura will get.”
Ai’s lips purse, her gaze penetrating mine, daring me to argue. She thinks she is going to win against me, but she won’t. I’m not some na?ve little girl who is going to submit to everything Kenzo demands. He may have been able to force me into this marriage, but I won’t let him change me or dictate how I am to look. That isn’t going to happen. Ever.
“Still not happening.”
Ai bestows me with a calm, peaceful smile I don’t trust.
“Of course, Evaline,” she murmurs, congenial. I notice that she doesn’t call me Mrs. Nakamura. It could be that she thinks I am moving in on her territory. I’m guessing Ai has been the one running the house and Kenzo’s daily schedule. She’s clearly not happy about having me in what she considers to be her space.
“Now,” Peter exclaims excitedly, either unaware of the palpable tension in the room or really great at ignoring it. He flutters his hands at me, herding me toward the fireplace, where he’s set up a cozy area with catalogs and coffee. “Let’s talk about your style.”His gaze flickers from head to toe, his mouth twisting slightly at my appearance.
I didn’t have any clothes of my own. These are clothes that one of the maids was kind enough to purchase for me on her way in to work. She got my size right, but the style is all wrong. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt and a blue blouse that is tucked in the front and loose in the back. It’s uncomfortable and not something I would normally wear. Business isn’t my style. I’ve always been more about comfortable and chic than formal and a stick up my ass.
“I take it from the uncomfortable way you are sitting that this isn’t your choice,” he chuckles as he takes in my uneasy posture while I struggle to remember to keep my legs together so that I’m not flashing him my panties. Not that he’d be interested. From the flamboyant tone of his voice and those frosted tips, he very clearly bats for the other team.
I give him a tight laugh and shake my head. “These are borrowed,” I tell him honestly. “My clothes were…lost in a luggage mishap.” Peter puts a hand on his chest, flabbergasted.
“You poor thing.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Those airlines can’t do anything right these days. But don’t worry. We will get you all sorted.” He hands me a few of his catalogs.
“Tell me, what is your go-to style?”
Flipping through the pages, I say, “Comfortable and casual.”
Peter nods, pulling out his tablet to take notes. “Go on,” he urges, his eyes on me, listening intently.
“Um.” I run my tongue over my dry lips. “I guess I’m more like this—” I point out a section of one of his catalogs that features an edgier fashion with black leggings and jeans, with tucked in T-shirts, long coats, and black blouses. Peter’s gaze darts to Ai before he bites his bottom lip and nods as he takes down more notes. My brow furrows at the slight exchange, so small I almost missed it.
“I don’t have much of that style,” he admits, swallowing audibly. His voice has become less flamboyant and more nervous. I can’t help the roll of my eyes as I cast a nasty look at Kenzo’s assistant. “But let’s take your measurements and find a few things you like today. Then we can go more into the catalog. We’ll need to pick out some business outfits in your style, of course, as well as cocktail dresses.”
Wonderful.
For the next half hour, he measures, pokes, and prods, having me change from one outfit into the next, none of which is my style. Not really. Most of the outfits he is putting together are wide legged black pants and colored lacy blouses with long overcoats. Fine for business meetings, but I don’t see myself attending many of those. I don’t want to be wearing work clothes when I am in the house and relaxing. One of the outfits is a bright blue power suit with a white blouse.
“Let me ask you something, Peter,” I seethe, ripping the outfit from his hands and tossing it on the stack of hell no outfits that is growing by the second. “Why ask me my style if you were just going to ignore everything I tell you? Apparently, my opinion isn’t good enough for you, because you keep throwing me shit that Jackie O thought was acceptable. The woman was well known for wearing bright or pastel colors with bows and hats.”
“I do value your style, Mrs. Nakamura,” he tells me earnestly. “I just don’t have anything of that style with me. No one informed me of your likes and dislikes. These are just a few things I’m having you try on so that you have something while I piece together your wardrobe.”
Another glance at Ai.
I mutter a string of curses under my breath as I stomp behind the partition, desperate to escape from the torture that is trying on clothes for Peter. The last outfit he squeezed me into was beyond ridiculous, and I refuse to subject myself to any more of his questionable fashion choices. I can feel my temper rising as I change into my own clothes, knowing that this whole thing is ridiculous. It would have been better to just go out shopping at the mall. At least I would have gotten what I wanted.
“I will not sit here and do this. You have my measurements, and I’ve told you what I want. You don’t need me to keep trying on things I’m not going to wear. I’ll take the pile I said yes to until you can find me clothes I like.”
Peter bites his lower lip, his face filled with shame as he glances over at Ai for guidance. Great, she’s the one pulling his puppet strings. In hindsight, I should have seen it before. He’s been sneaking glances at her after I’ve tried on every outfit.
Just as I’m about to storm out of the room, Ai stands up from her seat and strides toward us, her eyes narrowing disapprovingly at me. “Evaline,” she begins, her tone condescending. “I don’t think Mr. Marks here is finished assessing your wardrobe.”
Gritting my teeth, I turn to face her, our faces almost touching. “I don’t give a damn,” I hiss. “Neither of you care about what I am comfortable in. I can see that, and I’m not going to play this game.”
Pushing past her, I head toward the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor, craving some peace and quiet away from these two. But of course, Ai can’t resist getting in one last jab.
“I’m not finished speaking to you, Evaline!” she calls after me. “As the lady of the house?—”
I whirl around to face her, my eyes flashing dangerously. “You are not the lady of this house, Ai,” I remind her icily. “I am. Remember that next time you try to lecture me.”
Without waiting for a response, I quickly make my way up the stairs, but Ai’s parting words follow me up.
“I will be informing Mr. Nakamura of this situation.”
Fuming, I can only hope that my husband will see through Ai’s manipulations and not fall for her attempts to paint me as a spoiled brat. Then again, maybe if he thinks I am too difficult and spoiled, he won’t want me. I’ll be too much work. But deep down, I know that won’t be the case.
This sham of a marriage will continue, no matter how much I detest it.