Over the next couple of days, Kuroda Haru made a habit of showing up at our villa unannounced—minus the jittery assistant this time. One glare from Mother had clearly left the man traumatized; not everyone could handle the Silver Lotus Queen's presence when she turned cold.
At first, Mother received him with visible irritation, but diplomatic pressure from the trade ministry forced her to maintain basic courtesy. Since he no longer pushed contract details, she allowed herself to dress down—silk blouses, flowing skirts, nothing too formal.
By the third visit, the conversation unexpectedly shifted. They discovered shared ground in classical history and mindful movement practices.
Mother had always been fascinated by powerful women of antiquity—figures like the iron-willed regents of old empires, warrior queens who bent courts to their will, shaman-rulers who commanded through mystique. In her teens she'd even dressed as legendary female generals and sword-wielding heroines for private photoshoots. Later, she embraced Vaelin Flow not just for physical discipline but for its philosophy: every posture, every breath could reframe suffering into strength, turning reflection into quiet power.
Kuroda, it seemed, had prepared. He matched her references effortlessly, offering thoughtful interpretations that occasionally surprised even her. For the first time, a flicker of genuine interest crossed Mother's face when she looked at him.
That evening their discussion stretched well past dinner. Mother asked the housekeeper to prepare a light selection of regional delicacies—delicate rolls, grilled skewers, subtle flavors—to keep the mood flowing.
The following morning, Mother was humming softly while choosing her outfit, holding up dresses and asking Xiao-Yu and me for opinions with an almost playful energy.
She eventually settled on a deep indigo cheongsam-style dress—sleeveless, high-collared at the back but plunging daringly low in front. The silk hugged her torso like liquid night, the deep V exposing generous swells of pale skin and the inner curves of her 34H chest, which seemed perpetually on the verge of escaping their confinement.
The side slits rose scandalously high, flashing smooth thigh with every step and occasionally revealing thin straps of matching indigo lingerie. She paired it with strappy heels the same deep hue, and let Xiao-Yu paint her nails a glossy crimson.
Hair swept into a sleek chignon, designer frames perched on her nose—she looked every inch the lethal blend of executive poise and forbidden allure.
When she turned, the fabric proved semi-sheer in direct light. No bra underneath; her firm, high breasts needed none. Lower down, the faint outline of lace panties teased through the silk, accentuating the perfect roundness of her hips and rear.
The doorbell chimed.
Mother picked up a slim clutch and glided to the entrance. The housekeeper opened it to reveal Kuroda—today in a fitted black tee and slim tactical pants that did nothing to hide the slab-like muscles of his arms and chest. Tattoos peeked from under short sleeves: stylized waves and mythical beasts in heavy ink.
He looked every bit the predator—dark, imposing, dangerous.
Yet he produced a single deep-red orchid from behind his back. "For the queen who outshines every garden."
Mother's lips curved. Being addressed with imperial titles clearly stroked something deep inside her—echoes of the empresses and regents she'd idolized since girlhood.
"You clean up… impressively," she said, accepting the flower with a graceful nod. "And today the queen feels generous. Shall we escape these walls for a while?"
She turned, hips rolling in that slow, confident sway, and walked out ahead of him.
I watched them leave, a strange tightness in my chest. Mother hadn't dressed like this—hadn't looked this alive—in years. And now this man, of all people, was the reason.
Xiao-Yu sidled up beside me, eyes gleaming. "Jealous already?"
"I'm not—" My face heated instantly.
"Liar. Come on, we're tailing them." She grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the garage.
"I don't have a license yet," I protested.
"Who cares? Hop in." She vaulted into the driver's seat of the sleek silver SUV Uncle had gifted her last birthday.
"You can actually drive this thing?" I asked, buckling in as she revved the engine.
"Watch and learn, big brother."
The SUV surged forward with surprising smoothness. Within minutes we were shadowing Mother's crimson coupe through traffic.
When we pulled level at a light, I caught Mother's profile—lips parted in easy laughter, cheeks faintly flushed, looking almost girlish. Kuroda leaned close, saying something that made her cover her mouth and giggle again.
Eleven years. It had been eleven years since I'd seen her smile like that.
How had this killer managed to crack through her armor in mere days? Perhaps because, beneath the ice-queen facade, Mother was lonely. Outside her handful of lifelong confidantes—like Yue's mother—she had no real companions. Every day was strategy, negotiation, dominance. Kuroda, whatever his sins, spoke her language: history, power, discipline. He filled a void she hadn't admitted existed.
Yet the contradiction gnawed at me. Grandfather drilled hatred for that nation's aggressors into her from childhood. Kuroda wasn't just a businessman—he was the blade that stole her husband, widowed her, orphaned her emotionally. How could she laugh with him?
They parked at the city's largest luxury mall. We followed at a distance.
Inside, Mother became magnetic. Heads turned; phones lifted—then quickly lowered once people registered the towering, tattooed man at her side. No one wanted trouble with someone who looked like he bench-pressed cars for fun.
The pair drifted toward a pop-up cultural event on the west wing: cosplay booths, vendor stalls featuring historical warrior costumes, replica weapons, fan art of legendary female rulers and generals.
Mother lit up. She pointed excitedly at armored heroines, regal empress cosplays, shaman-queens with ceremonial staffs—whispering animatedly in Kuroda's ear, cheeks pink, eyes bright. She looked like a teenager discovering her passion all over again.
"Brother… Mom's blushing," Xiao-Yu whispered, tugging my sleeve. "I've never seen her like this."
"Neither have I," I admitted. "We thought we knew everything about her."
"She doesn't want dolls or idols—she wants the archetype. The women who ruled through sheer will. No wonder she became who she is."
Nearby, three college-aged guys had frozen, staring openly at Mother's swaying figure.
"Bro… that ass is criminal. Look at it move—like it's got its own gravity. I'd risk it all just to—"
"Measurements," the one with thick glasses interrupted analytically. "Hip circumference easily 106–108 cm. Paired with her height… 175 cm barefoot, probably 178–180 in heels. Proportionally flawless."
"Bust?"
"Minimum H-cup, possibly pushing toward I. Waist looks snatched—maybe 60–62 cm. Classic hourglass, elite genetics or insane discipline."
"Padding?"
"Doubt it. Natural lift and separation like that? No bra needed. She's walking art."
"Can't be real. Women like that are either paid for or photoshopped."
"Shut up. Look at the posture, the jewelry—vintage high-end. She's old money, raised to command rooms. Probably finds this whole scene amusingly quaint."
Xiao-Yu snorted softly beside me, delighted by their clueless worship.
One of the guys noticed her—a petite-yet-tall 15-year-old with twin tails and a knowing smirk—and immediately tried to rope her into the conversation.
"Hey cutie, you agree she's top-tier, right?"
Xiao-Yu tilted her head, playing innocent. "She looks about thirty, wears limited-edition sapphire earrings from an old atelier collection, and moves like someone used to being deferred to. Definitely aristocratic upbringing. Elite education. Untouchable."
The guys gaped.
"Rich girl confirmed…"
Xiao-Yu spun on her heel, smug. "Come on, brother. Let's keep moving."
We trailed the pair from afar. At one point Xiao-Yu ducked into the restroom, claiming she needed to "freshen up." I lingered nearby.
Minutes later Mother approached from the opposite direction. I ducked into the stairwell. Shortly after, the fire door banged open—Kuroda stepped in, phone to his ear, expression thunderous.
He spoke rapidly in his native tongue—clipped commands, then scorn, then barely restrained fury. He lit a cigarette, exhaled hard, and left.
I waited until his footsteps faded before emerging.
Mother exited the restroom moments later, composed as ever. She rejoined Kuroda with a polite smile, and they continued.
Xiao-Yu appeared beside me, eyes sparkling. "I heard her on the phone too. She's playing him. Lulling him into comfort so he drops his guard. Then… she arranged for a 'traffic accident.' Car out of control. Aims to end him today."
My stomach dropped. "She's really going through with it?"
"Of course. He's the enemy, remember?" Xiao-Yu shrugged, disturbingly calm. "She's luring him to the open plaza across the street. Truck comes barreling in. Stay sharp."
We shadowed them to the square. Mother steered subtly toward a quieter edge—fewer witnesses.
Kuroda seemed distracted, glancing repeatedly toward the main road.
Then I saw them: six or seven rough-looking men moving fast through the crowd, straight for Mother.
She stiffened. Kuroda snarled and stepped in front of her, fists clenched.
But before he could engage, a delivery van erupted from the landscaped divider—tires screaming, engine roaring—hurtling directly at him.
Kuroda twisted at the last second, throwing himself aside in a heavy roll. The van skidded past, clipping a bench before security swarmed in.
Xiao-Yu clicked her tongue. "Slippery bastard."
Mother's expression flickered—brief disappointment—before she masked it with wide-eyed shock. "What in the world… first those men, now this? We need to leave—now."
Kuroda rose, dusting himself off. Rage simmered in his eyes, but he forced concern. "Are you hurt, Madam Su?"
She pressed a hand to her chest theatrically. "My heart's racing. Let's go."
The plan—both plans—collapsed in chaos. Police sirens wailed in the distance.
Back home, Mother stormed to her study, fury radiating. Kuroda had surely retreated to curse his luck as well.
Later that night, Yue called—her family was back from the trip and wanted me over tomorrow.
As I prepared for bed, Xiao-Yu slipped in wearing bunny-print pajamas, claiming the day's "violence" had scared her and she needed big brother to hold her.
I sighed. This was the same girl who'd sighed in disappointment when no one died.
Some things never change.