I didn't able to sleep the whole night. My mind was restless, fluttering like a trapped bird, and my hands wouldn't stop trembling as I prepared lots of things to welcome him. Every plate, every cup had to be perfect. My heart raced with both fear and anticipation.
Suddenly, I heard the distant growl of a luxury car engine breaking the stillness of the morning air. Only the elite class in Japan could afford such a car. Cars were not common that time, and that sound alone carried the weight of status and power. My chest tightened. I ran towards the door to open it, my bare feet barely touching the wooden floor.
But before I could reach, my father's hand came across my face. The sting burned my cheek as he slapped me and said, "Do you really think that you are that capable to welcome the most elite man of Japan? Get out of here and prepare lunch." It hurt—of course it hurt—but I was used to it. That kind of pain had become a daily lesson in my house. I knew I could never be at that level to meet the elite class of the country. I wasn't meant to.
My dad took him to the guest lounge of our house. They both started talking, their voices muffled behind the sliding doors. I couldn't have a glance of his face; I only managed to see his back, straight and commanding. I was in the kitchen when I suddenly heard my father's voice calling me. I knew what it meant—he was asking me to serve tea.
I put a kettle and two tea mugs on a tray, my hands shaking. I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me as I glanced down at my kimono—it was old, torn in many places, and smelled faintly of smoke and oil. Still, I grabbed the tea tray and walked toward the guest lounge. My eyes stayed fixed on the floor. I wanted so badly to have a glance of him, but I wasn't allowed. My mind was drowning in thoughts as I entered the room.
I served the tea tray in front of him and started pouring tea into the mug."She looks beautiful like your wife, Mr. Tarozaki. She must be your daughter," the General said to my father. My heart softened for a brief second. It was the first time someone had ever called me beautiful. My father's voice, sharp and cold, cut the air. "Yes, she is my daughter. A disappointment of our house."
I was listening to their conversation, lost in that single word—beautiful—and didn't notice the mug was overflowing. The tea spilled over the tray, dripping onto the floor. My father stood furiously, his eyes blazing, and raised his hand to slap me again. But before his hand could reach me, the General caught his arm firmly.
And then, I saw him. My first glance of his face. He was exactly how people described him—handsome, strong, with long, dark hair that framed a calm yet fierce expression. But I couldn't understand—why did he stop my father from hitting me?
"Mr. Tarozaki, how could you raise your hand on your daughter? I'm sure you're using her as your slave. I'm not blind—I can see the old kimono she's wearing, the bruises on her face and arm," the General's voice thundered through the room.
My father's reply came in a disgusted tone. "It's better you don't interfere in my house matters. She looks innocent to you, but she's a bitch."
"Hold your tongue, Mr. Tarozaki. It won't take me a second to forget that you belong to an elite family of Tokyo," the General's deep voice replied, cutting through the silence like a blade.
My heart was pounding so fast it hurt. Shame, fear, confusion—all tangled inside me. I wanted to disappear, to melt away into the floor. I had made a huge mistake, and now everything was spiraling out of control.
"I'm buying her, Mr. Tarozaki," the General said suddenly. My father snapped, "You can't buy her, she's my daughter! Just keep away from my house matters!" The General's next words were cold, deliberate. "What about a hundred thousand yen?"
My father froze. "A hundred thousand yen for a bitch like her!?" he spat, but his eyes gleamed with greed. The General threw the money on my father's face. The crisp sound of the notes hitting his skin echoed in the room. He didn't move a bit. I knew that look—my father's greed for money had always been stronger than anything else.
The General grabbed my wrist, firm but not rough, and led me toward the exit door. My heart was racing faster than ever. Part of me felt an unexpected sense of relief—relieved to escape that living hell—but another part of me felt hollow, like a tool that could be bought and sold. My thoughts were a storm. I was shocked at how my entire life had flipped in a matter of minutes—all because of spilled tea. Life truly was unpredictable.
"Please, step into my car," the General said gently.
I couldn't explain the flood of emotions inside me. He bought me. He was my owner now. I had to obey him. My body moved automatically, following his words.
He turned his head toward my father, who still stood beside the door, and said in a deep, commanding voice, "She was your daughter, not a slave. You just care about money, so take it. Never come to see her again. And thanks for your welcome."
My father's face twisted with fury and humiliation, but he stayed silent. Money had shut his mouth. I looked back at him one last time—he didn't even glance at me. I never thought I was worth a hundred thousand yen. It was a huge amount for that time, but my heart felt empty.
I didn't know what the General was going to do to me. I only knew one thing—I was no longer a daughter. I was something bought, something owned. A product that could be sold for money.