A low table held a tea set and a decanter of something amber. There were pillows. So many pillows. Some silk. Others brocade. All inviting.
But what made my heart stop was the nightstand. My copy ofWhen the Dragon Swallowed the Moonwas on the top with my wrinkled bookmark still tucked in at the last page I’d read.
I faced Sako. “My stuff is already here?”
“Yes. Your friend, Mr. Patterson brought them with him.”
My eyes widened. “Zo is already here too? In this house?”
“Oh no. Mr. Patterson is in the villa with Hiroko and her assistants.” Sako checked his watch. “He requested a masseuse for this evening. I believe that is happening now. His mani/pedi is scheduled next, but I can let him know that you are here when he is done.”
I laughed. “Oh no need. We wouldn’t want to interrupt the king at his duties.”
Sako chuckled. “As you wish.”
I shook my head, trying to picture Zo living like some pampered royal while I had been crawling through the emotional minefield of war, intimacy, and legacy.
Dude, I was worried for you and you are on this island living your best life.
“This is your closet.” Sako turned and walked to a hidden door I hadn’t even noticed.
When it opened, I gasped.
It was less a closet and more a private boutique.
Lights rose slowly, illuminating an aisle flanked by dark wood wardrobes and glass display shelves. On the left: Kenji’s clothes. Sharp suits, custom leather jackets, pressed shirts in black, wine, and gray. Belts. Watches. Silk ties in a rainbow of masculine elegance.
On the right…
My things.
My clothes from Zo’s house. Folded and hung with care. Organized by color and season like someone had studied the exact rhythm of my wardrobe.
My favorite wrap dresses steamed and ready.
Even the tank tops I wore to sleep were pressed.
Damn.
But beyond that. . .there were new items too. Dresses I’d never seen before, each one draped on satin hangers—structured silks, hand-beaded details, labels I’d only ever typed into search bars, never worn. A capsule collection in rich, moody tones: forest, wine, obsidian, storm gray.
Lingerie too—delicate sets in lace and satin, still bearing price tags in currencies I didn’t recognize.
French.
Italian.
Japanese.
A few bras were more architecture than clothing, boned and laced, something from a couture runway.
One shelf held sleepwear in pure silk, folded into careful thirds. Soft knit loungewear in cashmere and merino, each set wrapped in tissue.
Sako stepped in with me. “Please let me know if there is anything that you do not want in here. We rushed with the private stylists to getting as many items on the island.”
“This is. . .” I blinked. “Amazing. I have no complaints at this time.”
“I am happy to hear that.”
