The dining room of the Kurosawa estate was a palace of tradition—shoji screens casting golden light, lacquered wood gleaming beneath chandeliers shaped like blooming lotuses. But tonight, it felt like a stage.
At the head of the table sat Rai Kurosawa, black suit pressed sharp as a blade, his face unreadable.
To his left, members of the Kurosawa-gumi—men with cold eyes and bloodied hands. To his right, Anika, dressed in crimson silk, her hair pinned with the black rose hairpin he'd forced on her.
And yet… she didn't sit like a bride.
She sat like a fuse.
The conversation hummed around her—Japanese, business jargon, hushed laughter—but she was drowning. They spoke of territories, weapons, bodies like business assets. She was expected to smile. To nod and sip her tea.
Instead, Anika set her cup down, the sound too loud in the silence.
"You're discussing murder over soup," she said softly, in English.
The room paused.
Chopsticks hovered mid-air. Heads turned. Someone cleared their throat.
Rai didn't move.
"Excuse me?" he asked, voice low.
Anika looked directly at him.
"You brought me here to play the bride. Fine. But I won't pretend this isn't madness."
Rai's jaw clenched.
"Outside," he said.
She didn't move.
"I said—"
"No."
Gasps followed her defiance.
His chair scraped back.
She barely had time to breathe before he was in front of her, gripping her wrist with bruising force. His voice was a whisper sharp enough to cut skin.
"Get. Up."
Anika stood, chin high. The moment they were in the hallway, he shoved the door shut behind them with a slam.
She stepped back—but not far enough.
He advanced, caging her against the wall with one arm.
"You want to die?" he hissed. "You think I won't let them see you bleed for that stunt?"
Her pulse thundered in her ears. His body was too close, his breath warm against her skin.
"I think," she said through trembling lips, "you brought me here to be your puppet. But I'm not a doll, Rai. I don't break that easily."
His hand hit the wall beside her head. She flinched—but didn't look away.
"You're my wife because I allowed it," he growled. "You breathe because I let you. You will not shame me. Not in front of them."
Her eyes stung.
"Then stop pretending this is a marriage."
Silence fell like a bomb.
His gaze burned into hers. His hand curled slightly at her waist… and then stopped.
"You really have no idea," he murmured.
"About what?"
"What it means when I choose someone."
For a heartbeat, she saw something in him: not cruelty, but torment. Rage mixed with restraint. Like he wanted to destroy her—or destroy for her—and hadn't decided which.
He leaned closer.
"Careful, little bride," he whispered. "Keep pushing, and I'll make you scream. And you won't know if it's from pain… or something else."
Anika's breath caught. Her body reacted before her brain could process it—fear, heat, adrenaline.
But before she could speak, he backed away.
Coldness slammed back into his eyes.
"Go to your room."
She stood frozen.
"I said go."
And this time, she obeyed.
But as she reached the top of the staircase, she whispered to herself:
"You can control my body, Rai Kurosawa.
But I'll make damn sure you never own my soul."