Desire

Momozawa Ai had her own interpretation of the phrase “inseparable.”

To her, it did not simply mean an intimate relationship, but rather that of a “master” and a “shadow.” Every lady and young mistress of the Fujiwara family had her own confidante—usually a maid who had grown up with her, bound by loyalty and secrets.

Momozawa Ai was Lady Murasaki’s shadow.

Almost everyone in the Fujiwara household was terrified of her. They greeted her with the utmost respect, their heads bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Butler.”

Momozawa Ai knew they were not greeting her, but the power she represented, the chilling aura of Lady Murasaki that clung to her like a second skin.

She returned to her private quarters to change for the evening’s banquet.

Her clothes fell away, and she stood for a moment, quietly admiring her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her skin was like a magnificent, unbroken mountain range of snow, a pristine landscape waiting to be explored, to be conquered.

She did not hurry to dress. Instead, she slowly, deliberately, pulled on a pair of black silk formal gloves that reached past her elbows, a ritual of containment. Only then did she step into her gown. It was a black, strapless evening dress, the expensive fabric clinging to her skin, outlining a figure that was nothing short of exquisite. Momozawa Ai pressed down on the back of the skirt with both hands and sat gently, the wooden chair beneath her seeming to gain a new elasticity under her weight.

She opened a box at her feet and took out a pair of high heels. They were stilettos, black as night with a flash of blood-red on the sole. As if afraid of being burned, she curled her toes slightly before slipping her feet into them. Her legs, like two lithe water snakes, coiled and then straightened, and she rose gracefully to her feet, a woman transformed.

She pinned a corsage of white orchids to her right breast, put on a small, elegant black formal hat, and quietly left the room.

Every servant and maid she passed on her way stopped and bowed, their eyes fixed on the floor.

“Good day, Mrs. Butler.” It was the phrase she heard most often, a constant, respectful murmur.

Occasionally, she would overhear snippets of whispered conversation, mostly praising her beauty, her elegance. The envy in their voices was a gentle breeze that tickled her ears. Everyone acknowledged her beauty, but they all lamented one thing—Momozawa Ai’s expression never changed. In the twenty-odd years she had been in the Fujiwara household, her face had been a constant, unchanging mask of serene competence. People thought she was paralyzed by a stroke, that her face was frozen.

Only Momozawa Ai herself knew the truth. She was simply, profoundly, bored. In the female-dominated world of the Fujiwara household, a world of quiet power plays and silken cruelties, there was no real pleasure to be found. The Fujiwara family was a large, gilded cage that had trapped her; her own body was another cage, locking away her desires.

When others looked at Momozawa Ai, it was as if they were looking through the gauze screen by the Old Mistress’s bed, unable to see what she truly wanted.

This cannot continue, Momozawa Ai thought, a cold resolve hardening within her. The Fujiwara family needs a man.

Her pace quickened.

She did not go to the dining hall. Instead, she turned, went up a flight of stairs to the private wing, and stopped in front of a heavy, lacquered door, knocking softly.

“Is that you, Momozawa?” The voice that answered was like a soft summer rain, a magnetic, husky sound that could make anyone swoon. There was nothing more captivating.

“It is I,” Momozawa Ai replied, her voice perfectly modulated. “My Lady.”

“Come in.”

Momozawa Ai gently opened the door and closed it just as gently behind her.

The room was dimly lit, with only a small, orange lamp in the corner casting a warm, intimate glow.

Lady Murasaki had her back to her, a silhouette of impossible elegance against the dim light. “Are the guests all here?”

“Most of them,” Momozawa Ai said. “Even Director Kurosaki and Director Hirashima from the real estate division have arrived.”

“Good,” Lady Murasaki said. “And Asou?”

“She has. In fact, she was the first to arrive.” Momozawa Ai’s gaze was fixed on the back of Lady Murasaki’s purple kimono, on the colorful, hand-painted butterflies that seemed to be dancing on the silk fabric.

“The first?” Lady Murasaki laughed, a low, throaty sound that would make a man’s skin tingle. “I imagine she’s in some kind of trouble.”

Momozawa Ai lowered her head. “I hear the hotel the Old Mistress entrusted to her is now deeply in debt. She owes the bank two billion yen.”

“Is that so? Put her at the second table. Let her think about what she’s done.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“No,” Lady Murasaki suddenly changed her mind, a flicker of capricious cruelty in her voice. “She is still a Fujiwara, after all. The second table is too obvious an insult. Let her stay at the main table. Have the Itous move down instead. They’ll understand.”

Momozawa Ai nodded, her expression unchanging.

Lady Murasaki looked at her reflection in the mirror, adjusting a hairpin. “Has he seen the Old Mistress?” she asked suddenly.

“He has, my lady. With the Second Young Mistress.”

“Did the Old Mistress speak with him alone?”

Momozawa Ai slowly lifted her bowed head. “He went in with the Second Young Mistress. They only spoke for a few moments before she was sent out. He was dismissed shortly after.”

“What did the Old Mistress say?”

Momozawa Ai hesitated for a fraction of a second. “The Old Mistress said… that Yukishiro Haruka’s mother is not his mother.”

“Yukishiro…” Lady Murasaki’s voice was distant, a ghost of a memory. “That annoying woman.”

“Her personality was certainly not very agreeable,” Momozawa Ai agreed smoothly.

“Are you certain she’s dead?” Lady Murasaki confirmed again, her voice sharp.

“She is dead,” Momozawa Ai said with finality. “As dead as can be. The doctor said it was lung cancer, but in the end, it was anger that killed her.”

“Anger?”

“The First Young Mistress told her that the Master had been dead for three years,” Momozawa Ai said, her tone devoid of emotion. “In her emotional state, Yukishiro Tomoe couldn’t catch her breath, coughed up blood, and died.”

“Foolish woman,” Lady Murasaki said without a trace of emotion. “I told her to leave. I offered her money. And she refused it all.”

“My lady gave her a way out. She chose not to take it.”

Lady Murasaki sighed, a sound of profound, weary boredom. “From the moment I met her, she was a stubborn, foolish person. But I’ve discovered that the more misfortune she suffers, the more I seem to gain. Her man became mine, and now even her son has been delivered into my hands. Have you ever seen such a ridiculous woman?”

“She only hoped her son could live a normal life,” Momozawa Ai said, her voice a neutral statement of fact.

“And I will not grant him that,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice turning hard as steel. “Whatever she hoped for, I will deny him. It is the last game I can play with her.”

“Yukishiro Haruka? Fujiwara Haruka?” Lady Murasaki stood up, her laugh a low, thrilling sound that could melt bones. “What does he look like? Is he clever?”

“He is even more handsome than the ‘Shining Prince’ Genji, my lady. But…”

“But what?”

“He is not an obedient child,” Momozawa Ai said deliberately, planting a seed.

“I didn’t ask if he was obedient,” Lady Murasaki repeated, her tone sharpening. “I asked if he is clever.”

Momozawa Ai could see that her competitive spirit, her desire to conquer, had been ignited. “He is an exceptionally intelligent child.”

“Good,” Lady Murasaki said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face as she turned around. “I will enjoy disciplining my new son.”

Momozawa Ai felt her own breath and heartbeat stop for a fraction of a second. Lady Murasaki’s charm was a physical force, so powerful that even she, a woman who was always by her side, was momentarily captivated, drawn into her orbit.

“If only you were a man, my lady,” Momozawa Ai said with a reverence that was both genuine and a carefully constructed part of her role.

“There is no need,” Lady Murasaki said, her charisma radiant and irresistible. “I already have a son.”

She intended to accept her rival’s son, to possess him completely. The process of taming him, she thought, would be very, very interesting.

Yes, Momozawa Ai thought to herself, a secret, dangerous plan forming in her mind. And the Fujiwara family will finally have a man.

The small lamp in the corner happened to flicker and go out, plunging the room into a sudden, deep darkness, obscuring the master and her shadow, their two separate desires now intertwined in a single, dangerous purpose.