Chapter 1 - LIAR

The clink of porcelain cracked through the silence like a hammer on glass. I froze, spoon still hovering above the bowl, and for a moment even the steam seemed to hesitate. It curled upward in thin, wavering ribbons before vanishing into the vaulted ceiling—evaporating as easily as I wished I could.

The dining table stretched too long, polished to a shine that reflected the trembling candle flames. I felt small at its edge, swallowed by velvet drapes, silver candlesticks, and the oppressive hush of a room too elegant for me. Sitting here across from him was a mistake. Servants did not dine with their masters. Not like this. Not across from him.

“Asami, I—” My voice broke thin, as if ashamed to exist.

“Eat.” The word slid across the space like a blade. Not sharp, but final. He tore a piece of bread with unhurried hands, as though this arrangement were nothing strange. For him, perhaps it wasn’t.

My fingers trembled as I lifted the spoon. The broth touched my tongue—delicate, warm—but my stomach clenched instead of loosening. Every mouthful turned heavy under his gaze. His eyes weren’t cold, not even stern. They were simply there, steady, unwavering. Presence itself was worse than absence. Presence burned.

“Do you always eat so carefully?” His head tilted slightly, watching the way my hand hovered. “Like every bite might betray you.”

The spoon froze midair. Heat rushed to my face. “I… don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.” His glass caught the light as he leaned back, wine swirling dark against the crystal. “You act as though every move will be judged. Who told you you had to live like that?”

My eyes dropped to the table, cheeks prickling. “It’s just… habit.”

“Habits come from somewhere.” He tore the bread slowly, each pull deliberate. “From someone. Did someone make you believe you didn’t deserve to take up space at a table?”

The soup turned bitter on my tongue. My throat tightened. “I… I just don’t want to be a burden.”

“Burden,” he echoed, tasting the word as though weighing it. “That’s a heavy word.”

“I’m used to it.” The admission slipped free before I could stop it. Why did I say that? Aisha lingered nearby, silent but present, and shame flared hotter than the soup’s steam.

Asami’s gaze lingered, unreadable. Finally he asked, “Do you like it here?”

The question pierced. My chest seized around the truth. Yes. Too much. Because you’re here. I swallowed it down and said, “The garden makes me feel… useful.”

“Useful,” he repeated. “Not happy?”

The spoon rattled softly as I set it down, unable to steady my hand. “Happiness isn’t something I think about.”

Something in his eyes sharpened, but he let the silence swell between us. He left me there with my soup cooling, cutlery clicking faintly, and the pounding of my own heart filling the hollow room.

After dinner, he rose first. “Walk with me,” he said, already moving toward the hall. I followed without thought, like a tether pulled me.

The villa’s corridors were dim, lit only by low lamps. His footsteps were steady; mine faltered. He paused at the west wing, opening a door to a room heavy with dust and faded curtains.

“My mother’s parlor,” he said. His voice held a softness I hadn’t heard before. “She used to sit here in the afternoons. The light was kinder then.”

I hovered at the threshold, afraid to step on sacred ground. “It’s beautiful. Even now.”

He glanced back at me, eyes unreadable. “Would you help me restore it?”

My breath caught. “Yes. Of course. Anything you need.”

“Anything?” His tone dipped just enough to make the word dangerous.

I stammered, pulse spiking. “I—I meant the room. The curtains, the walls—”

He smirked faintly, turning away before I could see too much. “Relax, Ichinose. I was only speaking of the parlor.”

But the air between us stayed charged, heavy, as though both of us had heard something else.

We walked farther, through hallways lined with portraits. The faces stared down, judgment in their painted eyes. I kept my gaze low, but his voice pulled me back up.

“You never ask me questions,” Asami said.

“I… it isn’t my place.”

“Isn’t it?” He slowed his pace. “You look at me as if you want to. Then you stop yourself.”

“I don’t—” My breath hitched. “I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Then what do you mean?” He stopped walking, turning to face me. “Why do you watch me, Ichinose?”

My chest locked tight. Words crumbled in my throat. “I… I notice things. That’s all.”

“Notice,” he repeated. “That’s a dangerous skill.”

“It helps in the garden,” I muttered, grasping for air. “Plants need attention. Small details.”

“And people?” he pressed. “Do you give them the same attention?”

“I…” I faltered. If only you knew how much. “Not the same.”

He tilted his head, studying me too closely. “Liar.”

Heat surged through me. Why did he pull the truth out of me with a single word? I had spent years burying myself, and he unearthed me with one look. I hated it. I craved it. It made me feel alive and exposed all at once. Every second with him felt like standing on the edge of fire.

He turned toward another door, pushing it open. The library. Shelves rose high, thick with books untouched for years.

“You read?” he asked, stepping inside.

“Sometimes,” I admitted softly.

“What kind of books?”

I hesitated. “Ones about building. Craft. How to make things with your hands.”

“Practical, then. Nothing for pleasure?”

I shook my head. “Pleasure isn’t… for me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you keep cutting yourself away from life? From joy?”

“I just… don’t deserve it.”

The words tasted like ash the moment they left my mouth. I wished I could lie better, but around him everything slipped. Maybe some part of me wanted him to see me—even the broken pieces. Maybe because if he saw, he might still… no. No, that was impossible.

“Deserve has nothing to do with it,” he said firmly. “People don’t earn the right to breathe or to feel. They just do.”

I looked at him, startled by the steel in his voice. “You say that like you believe it.”

“I do.” His eyes softened for a moment. “But you don’t.”

I dropped my gaze again. “I can’t.”

If I let myself believe I deserved more, I would crumble. Hope was the most dangerous thing. It made you weak. It made you reckless. And God help me, he was the kind of man who could make me reckless with a single touch.

We moved on, the silence between us thick and uneven. His steps echoed through the hall, mine stumbled after. The tension clung like smoke, refusing to clear.

At the end of the corridor, he paused by a tall window. Moonlight spilled across his face, and my breath caught at how unreal he looked.

“Tell me, Ichinose,” he said quietly. “Do you ever want anything for yourself?”

The question pierced straight through me. “I… I want the garden to thrive.”

He shook his head slowly. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t know how to answer,” I whispered.

“Then learn.” His gaze lingered on me, heavy and sharp. “Because one day, you won’t be able to hide behind your work. Not from me.”

Every word he spoke carved deeper into me. I wanted to scream that what I wanted was him, only him. But how could I? It would ruin everything. It would ruin me. So I choked on silence, swallowing down the truth until it poisoned me.

We finally reached the guest room. Aisha was already gone. The space was quiet, waiting. He lingered at the door as I stepped inside.

“You’ll be comfortable here,” he said.

“Yes, Master Asami,” I murmured, keeping my eyes on the floor.

“Why do you never look at me when you answer?”

I froze. “I… I don’t mean disrespect.”

“It feels like fear.”

“I…” My voice cracked. “Maybe it is.”

“Of me?”

I couldn’t reply. Silence answered for me.

Fear, yes. Fear of him. Fear of myself. Fear of the way my heart hurled itself forward every time he was near. If he knew the truth, would he despise me? Or worse—pity me?

His gaze lingered a second longer, then he stepped back. “Rest well, Ichinose.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

The door closed softly, but the echo of his presence clung to the room like heat that refused to fade.

I sat on the bed, hands trembling in my lap. My chest felt too small for everything it held—shame, desire, longing so raw it hurt. He had walked away, but he had taken all the air with him. I couldn’t breathe without him. I couldn’t breathe with him. I was trapped in this hunger, this fire I had never asked for, and yet I couldn’t let it go. If this was living, then I was already burning alive.

A knock startled me—sharp, deliberate. My breath hitched.

“Yes?” I managed.

The door opened a crack. His voice slipped through, calm and low. “Are you comfortable?”

My throat went dry. “Yes, Master Asami. Thank you.”

A pause. Too long. Then: “Good. Rest well.”

The door shut again, his footsteps fading into the corridor. I stood frozen, pulse thundering in my ears. His voice lingered in me, smoke in my lungs. It should have been nothing. It was everything.

I sank back onto the bed, the sheets cool against my burning skin. My lips parted with all the words I would never say—Stay. Don’t go. Save me. Destroy me. None of them left me.

The night pressed on, heavy and endless, and I knew this was only the beginning. Even in silence, his presence burned inside me—hope and terror tangled, refusing to let me sleep.

I lay back, forcing myself to breathe slowly, as if stillness might quiet the storm inside me. The villa creaked around me, distant winds brushing the shutters. I closed my eyes.

And then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Stopping just outside my door.

My breath caught.

For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, low and steady, his voice seeped through the wood like smoke:

“Ichinose.”

The whisper curled around me, too soft to be meant as command, too deliberate to be accident. My pulse roared in my ears. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Silence followed, thick and suffocating, until the faint sound of his steps finally retreated down the hall. But the damage was done. His voice clung to me, more binding than chains, more dangerous than fire.

I lay trembling in the dark, sheets twisted in my fists, knowing with brutal certainty that he hadn’t wished me rest at all. He had claimed me—with nothing more than my name.

To be continued…