"I’m sorry," I shook my head. "I only speak English."
She smiled, and that smile was the kind of sweet that gets ants killed. "Oh, how charming, Kenji’s new maid speaks English."
Maid? Girl, bye.
“Anyway.” She placed a manicured hand on her belly, and splayed her fingers with pride. "The Dragon’s sons are hungry, I would like some okonomiyaki. That’s their favorite."
She stared at me the way a queen might study a commoner with good bone structure. There was mischief in her eyes. But also knowledge.
She knew who I was, and she knew damned well that I was not the maid.
And I had a thousand retorts loaded. I was a New York chick—I didn’t do meek. I had verbal grenades strapped to every nerve.
But then I heard Hiroko’s voice:
Queens don’t talk to peasants.
And more than that, I remembered what I’d read about pregnancies:
Arguing with a pregnant woman agitates the babies. And babies absorb their mother’s stress like it’s air.
Stress increases cortisol levels. Cortisol disrupts fetal development, especially in the third trimester.
Sure. . .that woman was a smug bitch, but she was also housing two innocent lives.
So I smiled. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes but still freezes the fucking room.
Silent and cold, I turned from her and stepped toward the door.
The shorter guard gave me that glance again—subtle, unsettling. Then his face returned to stone.
Behind me, I heard the pregnant woman sigh. "I suppose I’ll call the kitchen myself."
Her royal court laughed.
I didn’t turn around. “I would like to see the Dragon.”
Before the guards could speak, maybe-baby mama replied, “The Dragon is busy and he is not allowinganyonein.”
I refused to look at her.
Let them sip tea and snap fingers.
I kept my eyes on the guards, chin up, silent, poised, unbothered. I was playing the long game now.
The tall guard, the one with the scar across his eyebrow, shifted slightly. “I would need to get the Roar.”
I nodded.
Then he turned, opened the war room door, and stepped inside, leaving me alone in the hallway with my heartbeat, the suspicious guard, andthem.
Behind me, the maybe-baby mama and her royal court dissolved into a tangle of laughter and whispers in Japanese. I didn’t need to speak the language to understand.
They were talking about me.
Picking me apart.
I’d seen those looks and had heard that kind of laughter before. It was the sound that followed me through high school hallways after the news broke about my father.
