Months of meticulous groundwork for every single step, nearly prohibited data — all of it for one powerful ally.
Hayato Mishima. A heavyweight on the Japanese scale.
A predator who never invests in “mercy” unless it pays dividends. Charity, to him, is a tool: a tax lever, a reputational move, a way to sit closer to the circles that truly matter. He loves money more than peace, more than a good name, more than the morning fog over Tokyo.
Mishima’s interest: us — a direct gateway to massive markets, to new audiences, to the image of a “man of the future,” the first to bring a children’s system of the new world to Asia. For him, we are a delicious, profitable long-term asset.
Our interest: in Japan you can spend ten years banging your head against closed doors trying to enter the education market and get nowhere — the country does not tolerate outsiders, does not like quick decisions, and values not the project, but the person who brought you in. Mishima’s name is a password. Say it — and doors that are usually locked begin to open on their own. Through him, we enter East Asia almost automatically: Japan gives access to South Korea, Singapore, Taiwan, Hong Kong. From there — to family elites, corporations, government programs.
We need him to open the East. He needs us to inscribe his name into a new era. No emotions. No illusions. Pure calculation on both sides.
The Aristocrat worked day and night,
summoning us in the middle of the night,
and waking us so early the night blurred into day.
His office turned into a kind of headquarters — diagrams, notes, arrows, lists of names on the walls.
I lost all sense of time, lost track of sleep and wakefulness —
everything blended into one long march.
A truly jeweler’s kind of labor — every movement, every expression, every angle of the body.
For weeks, the Aristocrat polished in us what is natural for the Japanese — respectful restraint, the silence between words, the subtle shift of the torso during a bow.
We practiced holding a pause for exactly three heartbeats, so we wouldn’t cut into the other person’s breath.
We learned not to look directly into the eyes.
Even the gesture of invitation had to be relearned: palm down, not up.
We broke down the shades of bowing — eirei to begin a conversation, saikeirei to end it, and that barely visible incline that expresses agreement without a sound.
He assigned tea ceremonies as part of training — so our hands and breath would adapt to precision.
We adjusted the length of the sleeve so the cuff covered the wrist without tightening it.
Even the perfume had to be changed: no sharp notes, only cleanliness and green tea.

The Aristocrat staged “accidental” dinners in the restaurants where Keidanren gathered — the old-school titans of business.
Every meeting was engineered down to the millimeter: the time, the place, the color of the tie, even the distance between the chairs (forty-five centimeters, no more).
He taught us to read gestures — to judge from the angle of a bow whether there would be further contact, from the length of a silence whether the person was ready to move to the point.
That’s how we gradually rebuilt ourselves: voice, rhythm, gestures.
Even the smile changed — softer, respectful.
And when the day of the deal finally came, we walked into the room as people who could think in a Japanese way without losing who they were.
The negotiations lasted an eternity — endless, heavy, viscous, almost nauseating four days.
Different locations, different faces, different room temperatures.
Tea we had to drink out of respect for the culture.
Bows that made our backs ache.
Silence in which one wrong breath could cost a month of work.
Tons of stress tests — for us, for each other, for the entire system.
The final meeting — at a round table.
And finally…
The room exhaled for the first time.
The silence that had held us for weeks dissolved like ritual smoke after a ceremony.
Fingers trained for precision trembled slightly from the simplest gesture — closing a laptop.
Everyone smiled quietly, with that particular expression that appears only after a long marathon, when the body is already exhausted but the soul is still running forward out of inertia.
I felt my back release,
felt something alive unfold inside me.
This deal wasn’t just a victory — it was an exam.
The long Japanese silence and the endless bows made us softer, quieter, more attentive.
Now we could allow ourselves a human movement — a smile, a breath, a joke… the smell of coffee instead of green tea.
“If I slam my balls on this table right now — it’ll ring.
Just like those little Japanese souvenir balls that chime when you shake them.
Now I finally understand what zen means.” — the Aristocrat.
He cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, ladies,” he turned to me and the Chess-player, inclining his head by a hair.
Cody leaned forward — like a dog who just heard her name.
But the Aristocrat, the bastard, didn’t even glance at her.
“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” she hissed.
He held the pause just long enough to infuriate her even more,
then added lazily:
“Cody… come on, you’re not a lady.
You’re Cody.
By the way, you might want to check your own balls too.”
“Why you little—!”
In a fit of rage she hurled a ring of keys at him and then bolted after him down the hallway, smacking him with a folder so hard the echo ricocheted off the walls like a tiny storm.
The Aristocrat, fleeing for his life, darted toward the elevator, practically sliding across the floor:
“Open it! OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!”
By the elevator stood the Chess-player and Jonathan — posed like two parents whose teenagers fight nonstop and who’ve long stopped reacting.
Completely calm.
Unmoved.
Both typing on their phones without lifting their eyes.
Jonathan lazily pressed the call button, as if oblivious to the full-scale World War II reenactment rushing toward them down the corridor.
When the Aristocrat skidded into the corner and slammed into the wall beside them, and Cody raised her arm for another hit, the Chess-player yelled over her shoulder without looking up:
“Guys, we’ll be waiting downstairs!”
Cody whacked him across the back again:
“Say it ONE more time — that I’m not a lady!”
“You’re not a lady, you’re— OW!”
The folder struck squarely between his shoulder blades again.
“Guys, waiting downstairs!”
“Got it!” — I shouted back, cheerful.
I pulled out my compact mirror, touched up my lips, and started humming under my breath:
“I’m a superstar, yeah-yeah-yeah, I’m a suuuperstar, who’s the cool one? I ammm…”
Making faces at myself in the mirror and laughing at my own ridiculous grimaces.
“Ugh… why does the corner of my mouth always look like it belongs to a different person?
It’s the same mouth.
On the same human being…”
I waved at my reflection.
“Eh, whatever.”
“Nate?”
He had been ready for a while — standing there, waiting for the little mouse to finally understand what was happening.
He gave me a head start, a chance.
He was preparing to play with me the way a cat plays with a mouse — purely for the wild, natural, ruthless thrill of it.
I jolted.
My eyes widened instantly.
No explanation needed.
Run, mouse, run.
“Oh God…”
He moved toward me quietly, savoring every second — tie loosened, gaze a little hazy, steps confident, unhurried.
He knew exactly who the cat was in this room.
“Nate, don’t you dare!”
I screamed and darted to the right — the sound of my heels like gunshots in a huge empty hall.
“Oh, I absolutely dare,” he growled and charged after me.
One jump — and he was right there.
I screamed so loudly the walls were laughing.
“Get away from me, you lunatic!”
A couple more clever maneuvers —
and the mouse was trapped.
The cat pleased and glowing.
He moved in closer, sliding his hand under the hem of my skirt, higher and higher, then stopping.
I nearly blacked out.
My God, he can’t leave me like this— why did he stop—
I cracked my eyes open for just a second — and he instantly bit my neck.
I moaned.
“Nate—” almost choking, begging him for mercy, while he enjoyed the show completely.
He was in control.
He led the game.
“Oh my God… what if someone sees us?”
“And then what?” Nate. Calm. Not a hint of embarrassment.
“What will you do, baby?”
“My God, I don’t know, I don’t know!”
“You know, my gentle little mouse… sometimes you’re such a straight-A student…”
He inhaled my hair sharply.
I flushed.
He kissed my neck and bit down so hard my knees buckled against my will,
and my thinking switched off like a light.
From the hallway came the sound of the elevator.
Footsteps.
“Oh God…”
He was kissing me so intensely he didn’t even notice someone approaching.
The Adventurer walked into the meeting room.
I jumped away from him so abruptly I heard myself gasp.
She looked from me to Nate.
I was flushed, barely standing on my feet.
One more painfully awkward second — and:
“Guys, are you coming or what?”
“Uh… yeah-yeah, of course, just a second.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I started fussing around, trying to remember where my bag was, where the air was, where I was.
“Just— just let me grab my bag…” I giggled nervously.
“Sure… by the way, Nate, great lipstick,” the Adventurer cut in and walked out.
I covered my face with my hands.
He laughed.
“You’re insane. You’re completely insane. What if it wasn’t her? Oh God…”
I smacked him with my bag:
“You devil, you absolute tempter! Everyone thinks it’s me, but it’s actually you! No one believes me, they all think you’re some kind of saint!”
He stepped in closer, pretending to be genuinely sorry,
but I already saw the shine in his eyes.
He pinned me against the wall again.
“God… Nate…”
He was breathing fast, low —
and I lost control again, again, again.
God…
My rhythm collapsed into one.
I was barely breathing.
The wall was cold; his body was heat.
I knew exactly what he wanted to hear, the bastard.
So I hit him with it:
“Fine, yes, yes — you’re the winner! You closed the deal flawlessly! You were absolutely brilliant! Happy now?!”
And secretly I prayed
that he wouldn’t stop.
But this was Nate —
a maniac.
That would never be enough.
I hated that I couldn’t resist him.
Not even a little.
Not a grain of strength.
But when he was near…
that was it.
There was no point trying.
The elevator doors shifted again.
“Sweetheart, we need to go.”
“You can’t just leave me like this…” — I was almost crying.
“I’ll try to redeem myself soon,” he purred — so low my knees actually trembled.
We rode down alone.
I rested my head on his shoulder, still trying to catch my breath.
“I can’t believe we did it…”
He kissed the top of my head.
A second before the door opened:
“Nate?”
He turned.
I ran my  tongue slowly from his neck to his ear and bit his earlobe.
He groaned.
A very pleased little mouse, I straightened my skirt — and we stepped out of the elevator.
“Woman.”
He let out a low growl.
I stuck my tongue out at him and ran ahead, happy that I at least win sometimes.

The road.

The cold air hit so sharply it felt like the city was testing our strength.
The space opened up in front of us, making room.
The cars were already waiting.
Not just cars — three Audi A8 Long, lined up in a perfect row, like a personal CEO escort after successful negotiations.
Black as fresh mascara on lashes.
Sleek, elongated, carrying that silent luxury you never need to show off — it simply exists.
The headlights — sharp, cold, scanning the street as if assessing every detail.
The body gleamed like the glossy cover of an expensive magazine.
Chrome lines — precise, uncompromising.
You could see the interior even through the glass:
soft lighting, deep leather, those “quiet” details that make you feel you’re about to enter not just a car — but a refuge, a small world crafted for important people.
“Guys… finally,” someone exhaled behind us.
And it was true: it felt as if the cars hadn’t been waiting for us —
we had been fighting our way to them through an entire eternity.
Nate took my hand — calm, steady,
as if this kind of luxury were his second skin,
and the city itself stood at attention while he walked.
The drivers were already waiting.
One of them stepped out first, circled the car softly and silently,
opened the door with a precise, perfectly rehearsed motion —
no sharpness, no rush, just the service of “we know exactly who you are.”
Nate unbuttoned his jacket immediately,
as if after sealing a deal the air had become freer.
“In the trunk.”
The driver nodded and disappeared behind the car.
We slid into the back seat.
The soft door closed by itself,
as if the car wrapped its arms around us.
The moment it shut,
the electrochromic tint on the rearview mirror
sealed the glass —
and the city dissolved.
The space closed in,
leaving only us and that warm, dense air of victory.
The driver activated privacy mode —
and became “blind”:
no turning his head,
no catching reflections in the mirror,
no hint that he could hear a single word.
A professional.
Nate leaned closer,
not even pretending to hide the force in the movement:
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Karaoke?”
He looked at me as if it were our secret deal.
“Yes. Let’s go sing.”
I lit up and stared out the window.
Tokyo glimmered beyond the glass like a giant box of lights:
billboards humming with color,
bridges spreading their wings,
neon brushing the wet asphalt with light flicks.
The city lived with its loud, nocturnal soul —
and inside the car it was so quiet,
you could hear the leather seats breathe.
I looked out the window,
as if trying to catch hold of that bright river of light,
give myself a few seconds—
A couple of breaths
to hide the trembling.
Only when I tore my gaze away
did I realize:
he wasn’t looking at the city.
At all.
Nate sat turned fully toward me —
elbow on the armrest,
fingers slightly tense,
his eyes dark, certain,
as if all these streets, lights, bridges
were nothing but decoration
for one thing only:
whatever was unfolding in his head.
He leaned in a little closer,
his voice low, almost lazy:
“Well, little mouse… there’s nowhere to run here.”
I swallowed.

KARAOKE
The bar was supposedly “elite.”
Columns, lighting, menus with gold embossing.
But honestly,
the whole place looked more like a neatly polished dumpster:
someone had clearly tried to make it luxurious
and ended up with… well…
The music was playing like a complete maniac —
every track sounded like it had broken off its leash.
The Japanese were trying to sing in English,
and I glanced at my people, gesturing: just shoot me now.
The Adventurer was already scanning the menu.
“Vodka?”
I nudged her with my elbow:
“Just because I’m from Russia doesn’t mean I only drink vodka!”
Everyone burst out laughing.
The Aristocrat raised a brow, serious as death:
“Of course, my dear, forgive us.
Vodka and Schweppes?”
He said it absolutely deadpan —
as if we weren’t discussing a drink,
but a strategy for entering the Asian market.
The team froze.
Stern faces.
Not a hint of a smile.
Everyone waiting for my decision —
as if it determined whether we were going wild tonight
or sitting in cocktail-polite decency.
I inhaled.
“Shot.”
“YES!” — the whole group exploded.
Decision made.
Team satisfied.
Ahead of us: fun, chaos, and absolutely zero responsibility.
Finally.
And the Sagittarians…
those two lunatics — Nate and Jonathan —
were screaming into the microphones
as if this were their personal hunt,
and every new verse — a shot fired.
They felt each other through skin,
one roared — the other picked it up,
both completely free,
both wild, both ecstatic.
Shots were flying in a cascade,
as if someone had opened a heavenly bar shelf
and forgotten to close it.
Waiters running,
people jumping,
the bar turning into a typhoon.
I climbed onto the table.
The music cut out instantly —
the DJ saw me and lost all orientation,
his hands shook, the switch flipped.
The room held its breath.
“Heeey guuuys…” I smiled, bending toward the mic.
“Hi everyone. I’m from Russia.”
Pause.
“We kind of invented vodka.”
Another pause.
“So consider me an ambassador. An expert.”
The crowd exploded.
Nate let out a groan —
a mix of pride and absolute horror.
The Japanese stared at me
as if a new religion had just materialized in front of them.
“The recipe for tonight is simple!
Fifty percent vodka, fifty percent Schweppes!
On top — a napkin!
THREE hits on the table!”
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The crash — like a war drum roll.
Napkins fly.
Shots flare.
And I scream:
“While the cocktail is alive — get it in your mouth!!!”
The crowd ROARED.
The DJ cranks the music so hard
the floor trembles.
Nate and Jonathan rush back to the stage —
two wolves catching the scent of blood.
The Aristocrat has nearly overturned the bar counter
trying to keep up with us.
I quietly slid toward a shot —
half vodka, half Schweppes…
Didn’t even get to lick the lemon —
the Adventurer yanked me by the sleeve so sharply
the shot hung in the air, offended.
“What the—!”
“Oh my God, why the rush?!”
“I need to tell you something,”
she said in a voice that wasn’t hers —
serious like an exam.
“Right now?!”
“Uh-huh.”
She dragged me by the elbow toward the bathroom.
On the way I managed to throw back the shot
and lick the lemon.
The guy by the door looked at me strangely.
“WHAT?!!”
I threw my hands up.
We were in the bathroom.
I was peeing.
She was standing next to me talking
like we were holding diplomatic negotiations
at a UN summit.
“Tell me… how do you two always keep that level of tension?”
She said it so loudly
even the doors trembled.
“You two have sex all the time.”
I choked on air.
Even the stream faltered.
“Um… honestly… I didn’t think it was that obvious…”
She made a face:
“Seriously? Are you kidding me?”
I tried to gather myself.
Okay… let me think…
And my thoughts pulled me straight back to him:
his smile,
his bites,
his boyish arrogance,
his certainty that I’m madly in love with him…
and—
“God, you’re here?!”
“Um… sorry,” I whispered to her.
“How do I even explain… Cody… I think it’s love.
When you love someone,
you want to give them everything you have.
And I don’t even know, sweetheart… it just… happens.”
And besides, you’ve seen Nate—
oh, there I went in my thoughts again,
my God, how I adore that arrogant smirk of his,
and he’s just… oh, he’s just Nate, what else is there to say—
She grew sad so quietly
that even the mirror seemed to turn away
not to embarrass her.
“Come on… don’t be sad.
Tell me instead… did you meet someone?”
“Not exactly…
I like this guy…
But I don’t even know…”
I couldn’t help smiling —
she was fragile for the first time,
as if she had lifted off her armor plates.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
She seemed offended.
“God, sorry…
It’s just—I’ve never seen you like this…
I think you really do like him.”
A knock on the door.
“Yes-yes, just a minute!”
the Adventurer shouted as if the two of us were in here saving the world.
We walked out.
I leaned toward her:
“We’ll talk later.”
In the hallway —
Jonathan was already on his phone,
as always absorbed in numbers, charts,
the shadows of the world.
I came up to him,
stopped him for half a second,
and gently kissed his cheek:
“Stop working, darling.”
Where was Nate?
I found him outside.
He was smoking.
And I swallowed the urge—
There was something about it
that pulled me in so dangerously.
Nate doesn’t smoke.
But he can sometimes, like now —
and that boldness, that fearless almost-destructive flare
revealed his darkness.
He’s flawless,
so proper in public,
but when we’re among our own or alone,
he stops restraining his masculine force.
Even the smell of his body shifts.
He stands near —
and everything in me hums,
as if my nervous system remembers
its primordial purpose.
My head spins.
When he’s hungry,
he’s dominant,
almost dangerous.
The Aristocrat snuck up behind us.
“What, dreaming about sex with Nate again?”
I smacked him:
“Don’t be jealous!”
We hugged and headed back inside to keep the night alive.
I glanced into the distance —
and something felt off.
Jonathan didn’t look just focused —
he looked like he was solving something.
“Uh… guys? Anyone aware of what’s going on with Jonathan?”
Everyone froze like fish.
“Okay…”
I gently pulled Jonathan away from his phone.
He covered the receiver with his hand.
“Darling, are you okay?
You don’t look well.”
He ran his hands through his hair —
the gesture he always did
when he was truly nervous.
Got it.
“Let’s go.”
“No.
Come on, and don’t argue.”
I took his hand, and we went to the bathroom.
“Talk.”
He only sighed — and I was already furious.
“Oh no. Don’t you dare tell me it’s her again!”
He ran his hand through his hair.
I was beside myself with rage.
“Jonathan, damn it— how is this even possible…”
And then I softened immediately —
not because it was something terrible,
but because with him I always saw the boy.
He’s so strong, so extraordinary,
and still — to me —
he’s a boy,
a little boy
who always needs me.
“God, Jonathan…
you can’t be this kind,
especially with her.
What happened this time?”
Jonathan divorced his wife a few years ago,
and ever since then she’s been having endless adventures —
each one costing him more
than he ever wants to admit.
In every sense.
He’s kind.
Too kind.
And that guilt — the belief that the divorce was his fault —
eats him slowly.
For years.
“Unbelievable…”
“Fucking witch,” the Adventurer spat out.
“Thank you,” I replied automatically,
before even understanding how she ended up in the bathroom
if we had closed the door.
Fine.
With her it’s always like that:
appears like a ghost.
Disappears the same way.
There was no decent word I could ever use to describe Meryl.
None.
And my people couldn’t either.
This woman —
a poisoned, venomous, filthy cocktail,
a cocktail nobody ordered,
yet Jonathan always ends up paying for it.
“What is it this time?” I asked.
He grew embarrassed.
I did with him what I always do with children —
the only language that works with souls
caught between strength and pain.
I took his hands:
“Forgive me, my love.”
“Forgive me for judging you.”
“It’s just… I love you so much.”
“That’s why I get angry when that…”
“Fucking witch,” the Adventurer prompted from behind the door.
“Thank you,” I nodded automatically again.
“…behaves like this.”
“I want to protect you, but I don’t know how.”
“And it hurts me.”
He sat down.
I sat on his lap.
He hugged me so tightly
as if it were the only thing holding his spine together.
I stroked his hair,
again and again,
until he felt lighter,
until his breath evened out,
until his shoulders stopped shaking.
I’d always felt nauseated by Meryl.
The first time I saw her,
I barely held myself back from spitting in her face.
But I had to squeeze out a polite little smile
through clenched teeth.
The way polite people behave in hell.
So.
Meryl doesn’t have an illness.
No.
She has something much worse:
she got “stuck” at home.
Physically.
And not because something broke.
But because she created the problem herself
so she could call him to “save” her.
So.
Here’s how it actually happened:
She decided to install a “new door” —
some TikTok review promised “a sense of safety and feng shui.”
She took off the old door.
Installed the new one.
Installed it crooked.
It slammed shut.
And the lock jammed.
From the inside.
She panicked.
Alone in the apartment.
In slippers.
And with one thought:
“Who’s my man?”
Correct.
Jonathan.
He starts getting voice notes.
All of us were already gathered around.
The first one — thin, stretched, with that familiar tragic tone:
“Jooooooon… I… I… I’m trapped… inside the house…”
We all leaned toward the phone.
The second:
“The door won’t open… I’m in a trap…”
We all exchanged glances —
as if this was already a long-running series
and we’d somehow missed the previous episode.
The third:
“I’m scared… I’m alone… you won’t abandon me, right?..”
And at that point we were standing so close
it felt like someone glued us together
with a kindergarten glue stick.
The circle was so ridiculous it should have been photographed:
The Aristocrat with a glass, leaning in like a crow.
The Adventurer squatting on the floor to “catch the vibrations.”
Nate with his brows knitted,
as if listening to a classified intelligence briefing.
And me — pressed against all of them with my whole body.
The final voice note:
“Only you can save me…”
We froze,
stretched our necks forward,
straining to hear even a single consonant
through the music, the laughter from the next table,
and our own alcohol-soaked state.
And that’s when I realize:
Nate’s hand is on my breast.
It wasn’t resting there by accident — not a slip, not a graze.
His hand was holding my breast with full confidence,
as if it were a volume knob helping him hear the voice notes better.
“Nate!”
He jolted as if electrocuted.
Jumped back, hands up:
“I— I— I… thought it was—”
His face looked like he’d just been accused of treason
and the jury had already reached the verdict.
I burst out laughing.
And I swear — one second passes.
One.
And his hand is already on my butt.
I didn’t even believe it at first.
I looked down.
Then at him.
“Nate!”
He looked at me with the expression of a man
utterly convinced of his righteousness down to the last millimeter:
“Woman… stop distracting everybody over nothing.
Can’t you see? The man is unwell.”
His tone was so serious
he might as well have been chairing a national security council
while we debated evacuating a continent.
“You fool.”
I laughed again.
The Adventurer exhaled.
And then the Aristocrat — theatrically,
with the disgusted grace of an opera diva —
moistened a napkin
exactly the way people do when they know they’re being watched
and decide to play their role an octave higher.
He held it out to Nate:
“Here. Wipe yourself, my friend.
You seem… drunk.”
I smiled.
I’m not implying anything, but—
The Aristocrat looked like a man
who’d been living in an alternate reality
for the past two hours.
His shirt was unbuttoned — not just one button, no —
unbuttoned far deeper than decency, gravity, or the structural integrity of fabric should allow.
The smooth line of his chest rose and fell too quickly;
he was breathing louder than usual,
as if his lungs were competing for “Best Dramatic Effect of the Evening.”
His gaze…
He was losing focus every ten seconds.
His eyes drifted somewhere off to the side,
then lazily returned to me,
then wandered away again —
like two passengers who stepped out to smoke between stations
and forgot which carriage they were supposed to return to.
And the most astonishing part:
he was still gorgeous as hell.
A kind of drunken aristocratic peacock
who had forgotten why he opened his tail,
but continued standing there so as not to lose dignity.
Nate took the napkin,
looked at the Aristocrat slowly, suspiciously:
“Are you serious?”
The Aristocrat tried to mimic innocence.
It resulted in something between “I am a saint”
and “I’m not entirely sure where I am.”
“Absolutely,” he said, looking toward the lamp.
“You two are drinking. I’m not. I’m controlling the situation.”
We all looked at his unbuttoned shirt,
his drifting eyesight,
his dramatic posture,
his napkin,
his internal dialogue with the ceiling light.
And burst out laughing in perfect sync.
Jonathan simply closed his eyes and whispered:
“God… please… pretend I’m not here.”
And then—
“A real bitch.”
Cody spat the word out as if it were burning hot,
perfectly capturing the collective outrage
and summarizing the widely known truth —
and pulling us back to Jonathan’s ex.
“Yes, Cody, thank you. We all got that,”
I drawled, barely holding back laughter.
I stifled a giggle —
because she had also already drunk so thoroughly
that one of her false lashes
had decided to live its own life:
it had slid halfway down
and was currently floating in her cocktail
like a ridiculous little caterpillar
desperately trying to swim to the shore of the lime.
“Cody, sweetheart, you may want to… well, powder your nose a bit.”
I gently pointed toward her face.
She blinked, looked at me with a foggy stare:
“What? Do I look bad?”
She paused, leaned forward.
“And what about feminism? What did we fight for? What did we march for? What did I break those damn heels for?”
And off she went.
She was already waving her arms, persuading all of us that women should have the right to look however they want — even if their eyelashes have drowned in a margarita.
And we exchanged glances: first me, then Nate, then Jonathan, who was already holding the bridge of his nose as if prayer might save him.
But Cody — is Cody.
She was already standing on a barstool, giving a toast to “strong men who know how to tell their exes to go to hell.”
“Cody, please get down,” Jonathan asked quietly, tired, almost pleading.
“No!” she said, jabbing a finger into the air.
“Not until you send that damn witch exactly where she’s been begging to go.”
Jonathan gave up.
The three of us covered our faces with our hands, suffocating with laughter.
When everyone finally returned from their drunken orbits, we went back to gathering facts:
The woman got STUCK in her own apartment,
a place with at least four windows,
a balcony,
a phone,
neighbors,
a building manager,
and even a dog that could’ve fetched help faster than she could.
But no.
She needed him.
To come.
Break down the door.
“Free her from danger.”
And, preferably —
feel guilty about it.
Fucking…
Two calls —
and a private charter was already flying us home.
Nate was snoring.
Loudly.
As if he were dreaming of wars.

Plan.

We were training Jonathan not to react
to the entire circus
she starts every single time.
Although “training” is putting it generously.
“Hey, who wants to watch a squirrel ride a skateboard?” — the Aristocrat.
“Josh! Not now!” I groaned.
“Of course, of course, sorry,”
he repented immediately
and sat down to watch videos with the Adventurer.
Both of them quiet, like two children in the corner of the airplane.
I laughed:
“What am I supposed to do with you two…”
Everyone knew her tricks:
Throw herself at his neck
as if he’d just pulled her off a noose.
Then invite him home —
to “remember how happy they once were.”
Someone kill me.
I paced back and forth.
These awful days, weeks,
had drained me to the limit.
I was exhausted.
I needed to change clothes — as if shedding a skin.
I opened the door quietly, and the lamp’s glow immediately lit up Nate.
The room was warm,
Irish in its spirit —
and he fit into it so naturally,
as if someone had painted him directly into that space.
As if the entire interior adjusted itself to him:
the blankets, the tartan patterns, the soft wallpaper,
the lamps glowing like fireplace embers —
all of it seemed to know exactly whom it existed for.
Everything created for endless comfort.
Nate always looked a little Irish in interiors like this —
his calm,
his predatory ease,
his gaze,
as if he could read everything you feel
without even trying.
He was asleep.
Quietly.
Heavily.
The way only men sleep after a night with too much laughter,
too much whiskey,
and far too much karaoke.
After our Tokyo rampage he simply collapsed —
not elegantly, not cinematically,
but exactly the way strong men fall
when exhaustion finally catches up to them.
The shirt…
the shirt was unbuttoned in such chaotic fashion
that it was immediately clear:
he hadn’t gone to bed on purpose.
He had simply fallen onto the mattress.
I smiled.
His hair was tousled —
not in the sexy way,
but the truly real way:
as if one minute ago he had fought a war with the pillow
and lost.
He smelled like Tokyo:
a little smoke,
a little sea,
a little sweet sake,
and a great deal of — me.
And in that Irish bedroom in the heart of the plane
he seemed impossible:
so strong,
so relaxed,
so alive.
I kissed his shoulder —
my favorite shoulder in the entire world.
I took off my heels and my toes finally exhaled.
I carefully unbuttoned my skirt,
and it floated down to the floor like weightless fabric.
The full-length mirror —
and I admired myself in it:
scarlet lipstick,
wild, free curls the way Nate loves them,
the slender neck,
the full curves of my chest.
I adore French lingerie —
they truly know how to make it,
what can I say.
Soft silk guarded the treasure in its firm but gentle embrace,
replacing Nate’s warm palms
for the moments when he isn’t holding my breast.
The garter belt traced my waist and—
The panties were almost transparent —
a few ruffles,
a thin delicate line down the center.
I smiled at my reflection.
Then the stockings —
inevitably black,
clipped to the garter with strength.
I own a million pairs and… remembering…
he always tears them off,
with force,
sometimes tearing the garter belt too —
and that alone makes me tense
and barely able to breathe.
The memories wouldn’t let me exhale,
wouldn’t let me steady myself…
when he’s hungry,
when he’s wild—
and my finger slipped into my mouth against my will,
and I bit down on it.
Nate, my angel.
My spirit demanded freedom;
even the lingerie felt like a burden then.
I took off everything that was left
and put on a robe —
a beautiful, soft pink robe with ruffles and frills.
And the heels —
I simply cannot give them up,
even when I’m deadly tired.
A breath—
and I was ready for battle.
The Adventurer had passed out,
curled up like a kitten right on the chair,
cheek pressed to the armrest,
one leg in the air,
drool and snoring all in the same place.
The Aristocrat lay beside her,
his shirt unbuttoned,
breathing as if every exhaled word
might cost millions,
and he had decided to save them for later.
Jonathan.
Jonathan was looking at me
with eyes full of hope.
That hope had always been there.
Always.
He loves me.
He has always loved me.
From the very first moment he saw me.
He loved me instantly.
And of course—
I knew.
We never touched that topic —
and I’m glad.
Let it live somewhere in the air,
like an unsolved formula.
I covered his hands with mine.
“Come on, darling.
Pull yourself together.
We have to come up with a plan.”
The flight attendant appeared almost soundlessly,
and within a couple of minutes
the room filled with an aroma
that could resurrect even a saint
exhausted after a night in Tokyo.
The glass pear-shaped teapot,
its sides fogged from the heat,
held blooming pink buds inside —
opening right in the water,
as if spring had suddenly arrived
on the plane itself.
With it came a small glass saucepan
filled with golden honey —
so thick, warm, and alive
it seemed to still remember
the hands of the forest beekeeper
and the branches of the pine trees
between which his bees once flew.
The flight attendant softly explained
that it was honey from the wild northern forests:
cedar, clover, raspberry,
and a few other herbs
known only to people whose home
is deep in the Russian wilderness.
She also brought
a small plate of soft, warm blinis
that smelled so gently of butter
it felt as though they’d just been lifted off the stove.
Thin slices of strawberries,
a few pieces of mango,
two triangles of orange —
all of it arranged beside the tea
so the body wouldn’t just recover,
but truly come back to life
after the night’s madness.
And so Jonathan and I
sat together at that small table,
wrapped in the quiet of altitude.
Jonathan held the cup in his hands,
his fingers trembling —
not from the cold,
but from those voice messages
and from that woman
he now dreamed of escaping
as if she were a natural disaster.
We both sat there quietly,
drinking tea,
and crafting a grand plan
of how to save him
from his own ex-wife,
the woman who somehow managed to get stuck,
get lost,
faint,
and discover the end of the world
inside her own home.
We sat there like two conspirators.
He — with the eyes of a man
who had witnessed far too many female dramas in a single day.
Me — with a cup of pink tea
warming my hands and my thoughts.
“Well…” I said,
placing a blin on the plate.
“We’ve got two options.
Hide you.
Or officially declare her a natural disaster.”
Jonathan exhaled.
Smiled with just the corner of his mouth.
“Let’s do both,” he said.
And so we went on planning,
while Nate breathed quietly in his sleep,
and Tokyo stayed behind —
down there,
in the lights,
the laughter,
and the forgotten karaoke.