Episode 3: A Dance of Lies

The sun dipped low, spilling gold over the rooftops of Kyoto as the Sakamori estate stirred with unusual life. Servants moved briskly, carrying lacquered trays and polishing porcelain cups until they gleamed. The faint aroma of freshly brewed tea floated through the corridors, mingling with the perfume of spring blossoms arranged in elegant vases.

Chiyo stood at the center of it all, her kimono a river of crimson silk embroidered with golden cranes. Her hair was coiled high, her jade hairpin glinting under the lamplight. Every movement, every smile was calculated—an illusion of grace masking the sharpness beneath.

“Hana,” she called without turning, her tone like the ring of a temple bell—soft, yet unyielding.

“Yes, Mother.”

Hana approached, bowing her head. She wore a simple kimono of pale lavender, her hair drawn back with modest restraint. The faint dusting of powder on her cheeks could not hide the hollowness in her eyes, the weariness that clung to her like a shadow.

“You will serve tea tonight,” Chiyo instructed, her voice cool and even. “And nothing more.”

Hana’s lips parted, a protest trembling on her tongue, but she swallowed it down. She lowered her gaze instead. “Yes, Mother.”

Chiyo smiled, a curve of satisfaction that never reached her eyes.

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By the time the guests arrived, twilight had settled, painting the sky in hues of violet and rose. The soft strains of shamisen music drifted from a corner, played by a hired musician to lend the evening a note of refinement.

Haruto entered first, tall and striking in his Western suit of charcoal gray. The lamplight caught the smooth sweep of his hair, the quiet strength in his posture. Hana’s heart clenched at the sight, her breath catching like silk on a thorn.

Behind him came his parents—Mr. Takeda, dignified in a dark haori, and his wife, a woman of elegant bearing with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“Welcome,” Chiyo said, her voice warm honey as she bowed gracefully. “It is an honor to have the Takeda family in our humble home.”

“The honor is ours,” Mrs. Takeda replied, though her tone carried the cool weight of judgment. Her eyes flicked over the room, assessing every detail—the fading screens, the worn tatami edges—and then landed on Ayame.

And Ayame did not disappoint.

She glided forward like a butterfly on spring wind, her Western gown a cascade of pale pink satin that shimmered softly in the lamplight. A string of pearls kissed the hollow of her throat; her lips glowed the color of camellias in bloom. When she smiled, it was a work of art—demure yet dazzling, as if the world bent toward her light.

“Mrs. Takeda,” Ayame murmured, her voice sweet as ripened fruit. “What a pleasure to meet you. Your kimono… such exquisite taste. It suits you perfectly.”

The older woman’s expression softened, a faint smile curving her lips. Praise, Chiyo knew, was the key to every door.

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Hana knelt quietly by the low table, her hands steady as she poured steaming tea into porcelain cups painted with cranes. Her sleeves trailed like whispers across the tatami, her movements graceful yet invisible.

Every laugh from Ayame was a blade slicing through her composure. Every glance Haruto gave—to Ayame, to her mother—was another wound she could not staunch.

Still, she did not falter. She served with the quiet dignity her father had taught her, even as humiliation burned through her like fire.

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A Dance of Seduction

The conversation flowed like sake—smooth, intoxicating. Ayame spoke of music, of fashion, of the Western films she adored. She laughed softly at Haruto’s every remark, her hand brushing his sleeve in feigned innocence as she leaned closer.

Haruto… Haruto did not push her away. His smile was polite, his voice warm as he replied, yet in his eyes—Hana saw it, a flicker of conflict, a shadow of something unspoken.

Once, just once, his gaze lifted across the table and met Hana’s. The world stilled, a breath suspended in time. Her heart leapt—and then fell, shattering—when he looked away, as though the sight of her brought him pain.

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When the last of the tea had been poured and the evening stretched like a silken thread ready to snap, Chiyo struck.

“Haruto-san,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying like the gentle ripple of water. “It brings me such joy to see harmony between our families. Ayame has always admired your kindness… and your strength.”

Mrs. Takeda’s lips curved faintly. Ayame lowered her lashes, feigning modesty even as triumph danced in her eyes.

And Haruto—Haruto said nothing. His silence was heavier than words, a chain Hana felt tightening around her heart.

Chiyo’s gaze flicked to Hana briefly, sharp as a blade beneath velvet. Her meaning was clear: Know your place.

Hana bowed her head, her vision blurring as she stared at the polished tatami, its surface gleaming like frozen tears.

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Outside, the wind rose, scattering cherry blossoms across the darkened garden. They spun and fell, fragile and fleeting—just like the hope Hana had dared to hold.

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