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Watching her reflection through the windows, her hips swaying, her body gleaming from head to toe, she slips between the sheets. She did her face routine, as I suspected, when she took longer than brushing her teeth required.
“I wish you a good night, wife,” I tell her, not trusting myself to go near her. In fact, I take a step back before I stop myself. My brother, Kiyoshi, would die of shame to see me hesitant to face my own wife. “I have some appointments for you tomorrow.” I wait until her shoulders sag in relief.
“Then your punishment begins.” I give her a brief bow, ignoring the look of abject terror on her face, and I leave.
Chapter
Two
Taylor
“Then your punishment begins.”
It's my fault I let my guard down. I knew better. I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d come for me. He never asked for a divorce. Never divorced me, as it was his every right to do after what happened. I knew he’d been lying in wait. But I let the years and the false assumptions he’d moved on, as the press reports of his dating various socialites indicated, to allow me to play with my life.
I sit in the palatial bed looking up at the crescent moon shining down on me. I love stargazing. It inspired much of my writing to be themed around perseverance and hope. Now, I can’t muster anything other than dread. He didn’t kill me immediately, like I thought he would. But that gives me little hope. He’s a monster who likes to play with his food. Proved that the first time we were together.
He’s not the same man I knew. He is a monster of an entirely different breed. A poshly, cold monster. His dead eyes flicked over me, taking me in, cataloguing every difference. I’m smaller than I was when we met when we had that whirlwind of a love affair before it all went to hell.
I saw appreciation, lust, no love. Was it ever love the first time or just an unhinged obsession? His need to own me?
Sleep is elusive. I’m caught up in the memory that started like a dream come true and ended in horror and blood.
Tokyo (ten yearsago)
“You must use your best Japanese,”Alexa, my graduate advisor, whispers to me as we enter the ballroom of the reception welcoming new students on fellowship at Sophia University. This is a black-tie event sponsored by the university so the elite who donate to the scholarship fund can feel good about who they are giving their money to. The elite from all over the world send their heirs here for the business and engineering program. If I hadn’t been raised to know God made me perfect, I’d be terrified, but having love and confidence poured into me from an early age, there is no gaze I will shy away from.
“Mochiron,” I say brightly. We both know my Japanese is better than hers. That’s why the tall blond has been clinging to me the last month since my arrival.
“Yes, of course.” She blushes prettily. She’s been here for a year and has been nothing but kind to me. However, she, like many others, tends to underestimate me when they hear my southern lilt.
I squeeze her hand, letting her know there are no hard feelings. We share a smile before releasing each other’s hands. Public displays of affection, even between friends, are still frowned upon by some, though Sophia University is probably the most progressive of all elite universities in Japan, the board of trustees and the administration aren’t nearly as egalitarian.
This is the elite of Japanese society. She whispers, “Be careful. One wrong word or flirtation will have you back on a plane to the States by morning.” Onlookers would never guess her dire warning from the way her cheek dimples highlight the hint of rosy blush she chose tonight.
We both look rather elegant. I have on a light lavender empire waisted formal gown my aunt made me with the help of my younger cousin Summer. When the ten-year-old showed me the design, I was so excited. She’s a genius when it comes to design. My aunt and uncle are okay with indulging her hobby since my aunt also enjoys making clothes, as long as she stays focused on being a vet like them. It’s a family tradition of sorts. Every second son in the Love family has been a vet since the time of Emancipation. Since they didn’t have a son, they figured both of their daughters would fit the bill. My cousin Valentine is already in vet school down at Tuskegee. But something tells me Summer, for all her sweetness, will not follow that path without more of a fight. And why should she? I think, looking down at this gorgeous creation she created. She is gifted.
“Wow.” Alexa tilts her head up toward the ceiling that looks like a fairy wonderland. Lights twinkle across the expanse of the high ceiling mounted on mixed silver branches that cover the broad expanse then cascade down to the side of trees that run along the side of the room. Other trees are sprinkled throughout the room save for the area designated for the dance floor, the tables strategically placed under each.
“We should mingle,” she whispers.
I can see several other students amidst the throngs of millionaires and billionaires that fund our education. Captains of industry already grooming their next corporate citizen. There are even members of the imperial family here as well as other royalty. I see the king of Morocco with his tall, beautiful wife making their way toward us.
I resist the urge to grab Alexa’s hand for support. Remembering the years of etiquette my mom taught me, I give them a slight curtsey in deference. “Your Majesties,” I murmur, waiting as Alexa does the same.
“Taylor Love?” The queen asks warmly.
“Yes, ma’am.” I can’t hide the surprise in my tone.
“I guess Thomas and Lilly didn’t tell you about the time they spent at our home,” Queen A’isha muses, looking at me indulgently. “You were very small and a toddler at the time.”
Dismayed, I shake my head, laughing a little. “No, ma’am. They don’t really talk about their work,” I tell them knowing they know full well why not. My parents on paper are diplomats and maybe Mom is to some extent but my father, Thomas Love, was much more before he took a desk at the State Department.
“It’s all very well. We couldn’t miss the opportunity to introduce ourselves after the great service your parents paid to our country,” the king tells me, scanning my features before adding, “The resemblance to your father is uncanny.”
“It’s the dimples,” the queen coos like she wants to squeeze my cheeks like she must have done when I was little.
“And how are the princes and the sultana?” I ask, having no memory of the boys who must have been only a few years older than me.
