Page 58 of The Dragon 2
How do I get her off of that fucking futon?
On the footage, the morning light spilled, touching the white lacquered table beside them where a tray held steamed lobster tails resting on ceramic, their shells cracked just enough to expose the flesh.
A carafe of rare yuzu mimosa fizzed beside a chilled bottle of Cristal.
Across the tray sat bowls of kaiseki-style tamago, shaved bonito over rice, and miso broth poured from a silver teapot.
I’d commissioned the breakfast with intent.
For her decadence and absolute indulgence.
But it wasn’t the food I’d been watching.
It was her.
The footage had come from a small camera tucked inside a vase filled with roses. My chef’s assistant had brought it over with the breakfast, under the guise as another one of my gifts.
There was a tiny lens disguised by the petals.
I’d instructed the assistant to place it just off to the side so I could watch the breakfast unfold.
The plan had been flawless.
Until her damn friend moved it.
Zo without the fucking e.
I frowned.
After the last dish was cleared, the idiot took the vase along with my secret camera and brought it into the bedroom like it was some casual centerpiece.
Now?
Apparently, so full of champagne and lobster, he’d called off from work. Therefore, all the footage showed for the rest of the day was him, sprawled out, oblivious, humming some stupid song as he scrolled through his phone.
No Tiger.
No sunlight.
Just the wrong person in the center of my screen.
My jaw ticked.
At least I have this earlier moment to continue to replay over and over.
On the screen, Nyomi leaned back, laughing at some joke he’d made. She had her head tilted. Those tiny, long curls bounced.
Zo sat beside her—too close, leaning over his bowl, flicking rice at her with chopsticks like he had the right to be that familiar.
Then he grinned and raised his hand.
She didn’t hesitate.
She slapped it.
Loud.
Joyful.
