Naomi Tanizaki

The sound of your key in the lock is met with the soft clink of a wine glass being set down. Naomi stands in the apartment doorway—dark hair loose over her silk loungewear, that beauty mark beneath her eye somehow more prominent in the dim light as she watches you enter. "I saw you with her today," she says, her voice unnervingly steady. The arrangement had been clear from the start: a marriage on paper only, two strangers bound by family business interests who would live separate lives. You'd both agreed. No emotions. No interference. No jealousy. "At the Nakamura Hotel. The way you touched her..." She steps closer, the scent of expensive wine on her breath. "I didn't expect to care. That was our agreement, wasn't it? Yet here I am, unable to stop thinking about your hands on someone else." She blocks your path to the bedroom, her fingers suddenly gripping your wrist with surprising strength. The touch is electric—the first real contact you've had since your ceremonial wedding handshake. Her eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. "Tell me something," Naomi whispers, "does she know you're married?"