It was Haru.
PrinceHaru.
The same Prince Haru who had visited Tooi what felt like a lifetime ago. The same Prince Haru who sat in our village and shared tea, who had seen Yoshi and me together and smiled—andknew.
He was the one who had so gently said, “Do not wait for your love to be written into song. You must seize it lest is slip free of your grasp.”
Haru looked exactly the same—still beautiful, still refined, still carrying himself with the easy confidence that came from never having to fear. His companion—Esumi—leaned into him like he was home.
They were happy. So clearly, so obviously happy.
And I was—
I was this—thisthingin sheer silk serving drinks in a pleasure house, trained to simulate the very intimacy they shared naturally, the one Haru begged me to enjoy lest it be torn away.
Haru didn’t see me. His attention was on Esumi, on the woman pouring sake, on the comfortable bubble of their privacy.
But if he looked up. If he recognized me. If he saw what I had become—
Terror seized my chest.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I could only feel the crushing weight of shame and horror and desperation. I turned and walked—not the refined glide nor the practiced grace—just raced as fast as I could without drawing too much attention. I abandoned the tray on an empty table, ignored a customer calling for more wine, even ignored Momoko’s sharp gaze from where she oversaw the room.
I needed to get away. I needed to hide. Gods, I needed to disappear.
I pushed through the sliding door to the back corridors and ran, my feet slapping against the polished floors, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. I reached my chamber and slid the door shut behind me, pressing my back against it as if I could physically bar the world from passing through its paper. My legs gave out, and I slid down to sit on the floor, my whole body shaking.
Prince Haru was here.
In this house.
Drinking and laughing and loving freely while I—
While I was a slave, a courtesan in training, a boy who had been captured and molded and taught to pleasure men for coin—a boy who had betrayed his one true love, even if at the point of a blade.
If he saw me, if he recognized me, what would he think?
Would he even remember me from Tooi? Would he recall the boy who had blushed and stammered when talking about his friend, the love he had yet to acknowledge? Would he see the connection between that boy and this thing in silk?
And if he did—would he pity me? Or would he be as disgusted as I felt in that moment? Or worse—would he simply not care?
I pressed my hands over my face, trying to control my breathing, trying to hide my shame, even from myself. I shouldn’t have run. Running made me conspicuous, made me memorable. It would’ve been better to have stayed calm, kept my head down, served drinks until my shift ended like nothing was wrong. Anything would’ve been better than to have fled like a child racing toward the safety of his mother’s skirts.
But I couldn’t have stayed in that room, couldn’t have risked him seeing me.
I couldn’t have borne the weight of recognition in his eyes, the weight of his judgement.
The door slid open.
I looked up sharply, expecting Momoko’s fury or Hana’s concern.
Instead, Sakurai stood in the doorway.
I searched his face, hoping to find pity or compassion or anything other than an icy glare. He hid behind his mask, the one he wore when he made his heart stone so it might bear the burden of his work.
“The mistress wants to see you,” he said quietly. “Now.”
My stomach lurched. I had abandoned my post, left the common area without permission. Worse, I had made a scene.
