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Noriko

 

 

 

We reached a western-style door that swung on the hinges rather than a sliding one like the ones we had at home, painted pale blue, trimmed with cream. It wasn’t exactly the kind of bedroom door I imagined Mr. Blackwell would have.

He pushed it open for me. “After you, Mrs. Blackwell.”

“It’s surprising how you can be crude and yet, such a gentleman.”

“Why? Because I’m holding the door open for you?” He smirked at me as I passed him. “I just want to check out your ass.”

I gaped, my cheeks growing hot. If I wasn’t so distracted by the monstrous room I’d walked into, I’d turn and glare at him.

The room was massive, the high ceilings making it seem cave-like, the walls painted cream and pale blue to match the door. Elegantly shaped yet uncomfortable-looking cream chairs were arranged in the center of the room around a low glass table. More tables were dotted about with large empty Japanese vases placed upon them.

In the center of the room I spun around, frowning. Something vital was missing. “Where’s the bed?” I asked. I thought westerners slept on soft, high mattresses. Maybe I was wrong.

“This is your formal living area. Your bedroom is through your private living area.” He walked to another door and pushed it open.

Another living area?

It turned out that his “bedroom” wasn’t a room. It was a collection of several large rooms: two living areas, a guest bathroom, and a bedroom with a private en suite. His bedroom alone was bigger than the house that fit my parents and us three children. My stomach panged, craving to feel the warmth of my home again. Our house was barely big enough to contain us and our lives, but it was cozy and full of love.

One year. You just have to survive here for one year.

I stared at the giant bed in the middle of the bedroom sitting on a raised wooden frame, covered in sheets and pillows the same pale blue as the door. “Which side should I take?”

“Whichever side you want.”

“Which side is yours?”

“I don’t sleep here.”

“You…don’t?”

It hit me. This room was too feminine to be Mr. Blackwell’s. There were no personal items anywhere, no photos, no books on the bedside table. My own husband wouldn’t be sharing this room with me. I would be sleeping here alone. I didn’t know whether to sag with relief or cry.

My parents shared a room. But they were also in love.

“Well, not that kind of sleeping…” Mr. Blackwell closed the distance between us, his eyes simmering with hunger.

I stepped back, evading him. “I’d like to call my father. To tell him I’ve arrived safely.”

Mr. Blackwell frowned, obviously annoyed that I’d evaded his touch. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll have him alerted.”

“I want to speak to him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

“What? Why not?”

“It’ll make you homesick.”

“You would deny me to speak to my own father? My sisters?” Disbelief and horror welled up in me, damming up my voice box so it was hard to speak. Who did I marry? A beautiful yet cold monster.

“You’re not theirs anymore. You’re mine.”

“Yours?” I hissed, my composure cracking. “You might have bought this body, Mr. Blackwell, but I will never be yours.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your attitude will determine whether your life here is heaven or hell. I suggest you rethink it.”

Anger seeped from me. He was right. I needed him on my side. I grabbed at his shirt, my desperation overruling me. “One call. Please.”

“I’m not discussing this anymore.” He peeled my hands off him. “The answer is no.”

Something broke in me.

“You can’t… You…” Before I could stop it, tears blurred my eyes. He let go of me. I sank to my knees on the plush carpet and sobbed as my heart finally fell apart. After holding it all in. Of trying to be strong.

In the edges of my grief, I heard him back away from me, across the carpet. The door opened and shut. Asshole. Here I was having a breakdown and he just…left.

The room felt swollen. The chasm yawned open all around me.

I was all alone. So very alone.