"Yuki hates fantasy. Says it's childish escapism. She only reads medical journals and historical biographies."
I blinked again.
"Mami only reads art books and poetry. She thinks genre fiction is beneath her. She's told me multiple times that dragons are 'aesthetically interesting but narratively juvenile.'"
"And Hina?"
"She thinks the book is ridiculous." His jaw tightened. "She once told me she couldn't understand why anyone would want to read about monsters pretending to be romantic. She said it glorifies captivity. She would rather read about architecture."
"So this room is themed in a book that they don’t even like." I gestured at the paintings, the color scheme, the carefully curated details. "Did they do it for Kenji?"
“They try to like what he likes.”
“Yikes.” I lowered my camera.
He moved closer to one of the paintings—the one with Sol sleeping in the dragon's hoard. "When we were children, they memorized passages and would repeat them in front of Kenji, just to make him smile.”
“Did it make him smile?”
“Always. In fact, he would say, ‘Again, do it again.’ And they would do it with not one complaint.”
My throat tightened as I tried to imagine three little girls acting out a story they didn't even like, just to see him happy.
I looked at the paintings again—each one a scene from a book none of these women chose to love. This wasn't their home. This was a stage. A performance space designed to prove their devotion to something they didn't even believe in.
I thought of the bookmarks. The figurines. The candle holder shaped like claws. Every detail chosen not because it brought them joy, but because it might bringhimjoy if he ever came in and noticed.
I didn’t know if I could live in a space like that, covered in stuff that I didn’t enjoy.
This is crazy and sad.
I took one last look at the painting of Sol sleeping against the dragon, safe and treasured in his possessive embrace.
And I understood.
These three women had spent their entire lives trying to become worthy of being held like that.
By decorating their world in his dreams.
By memorizing his favorite words.
By erasing every piece of themselves that didn't reflect him back.
Even down to pretending to love a story about a woman claimed by a dragon-king who saw her as his equal.
The irony was devastating.
And now I was here, searching their rooms for evidence that one of them betrayed him. The woman he'd already chosen. The one he saw clearly enough that he didn't need her to perform.
Guilt twisted in my stomach. Not because I doubted the mission—if one of them was a spy, she had to be found. But because I understood, suddenly and completely, why she might have done it.
When you've spent your whole life being invisible to the man you loved, sometimes even bad attention felt like being seen.
If it is only one spy out of the three women, it is the one that feels the most ignored.
I considered the three women.
Something is off.
