Anika's knees trembled beneath her long skirt, and her breath came in shallow gasps. She had expected to deliver lilies, maybe a tip, not a body, not a blood-stained proposal.
"Y-Your wife?" she echoed, eyes wide.
The man didn't blink. Didn't explain.
Rai Kurosawa only tilted his head slightly, watching her the way a hawk might study a caged rabbit.
"Yes," he said simply. "Temporary. Convenient. Silent."
Her throat tightened. "Why me?"
He stepped back, and for a moment, she thought he'd changed his mind. But instead, he snapped his fingers. One of the suited men tossed a folder onto the marble coffee table. It slid open.
Inside were photographs.
Her.
Photos of Anika walking home from her part-time job. Cooking noodles in her apartment window. Hugging her little brother at the train station.
"You've been watching me?" she whispered.
"You were clean. Quiet. No family connections. Pretty enough for a wedding photo. And, most importantly…" He turned and met her eyes. "...disposable, if necessary."
Her mouth dried.
He continued coldly. "My enemies believe I'm marrying a politician's daughter. You'll wear the dress. Sign the papers. Nod and smile. Stay silent. You'll live in the mansion under guard, and in six months, you disappear. Alive—if you behave."
"And if I don't?"
The man next to him cocked a gun.
Anika flinched.
But Rai raised a hand. "No. Not tonight."
Then, as if she were nothing more than an errand to be checked off, he said, "Take her."
Two men grabbed her by the arms.
"No! Wait—please—!"
Her screams echoed against the expensive walls as she was dragged toward the elevator. Tears streamed down her face. Her fingers clawed at the air, the cold metal doors closing like the gates of hell.
The car ride was silent.
She sat between two guards, soaked in fear. Her hands twisted in her lap. Her mouth tasted of metal. She tried to memorize every turn, every road sign, hoping maybe—somehow—she could escape.
But by the time the car rolled through the iron gates of a black stone mansion outside Tokyo, she knew.
There was no escape.
The mansion was stunning in its cruelty—made of shadows and sharp corners, with silk-covered walls and doors that whispered when they closed. The staff wore blank expressions. The guards did not speak.
A woman in a tight black kimono appeared and bowed. "Miss Sato, I am Aiko. You will be the bride. Come."
Anika stared. "No. I— I don't want to—"
"You will," Aiko said calmly. "He has chosen."
The hallway opened into a massive bedroom—decorated in white, silver, and deep crimson. A robe lay folded on the bed. Beside it, a black rose hairpin, thorns dipped in gold.
Aiko turned and handed Anika a phone. A single voice message played:
"If you run, your brother dies.
If you scream, your brother dies.
If you marry me, he lives.
Sleep well, little bride.
—R.K."
Anika's heart shattered.
She didn't sleep that night.
She lay in a stranger's bed, under silk sheets that smelled like power and danger. Her hands clutched the robe like armor. Outside, the sakura trees swayed in the wind, and a crow cried somewhere in the distance.
Inside, only silence.
And a black rose on the windowsill.
She was no longer Anika Sato, florist.
She was a pawn in the game of kings.