Chapter 8

The air in the private dining room had grown thick, heavy with the scent of charred salmon, yuzu, and the musk of our own unspoken hunger. The shokunin, that silent, focused master of the rice and the knife, had finally bowed and retreated, leaving us alone in the velvet-draped sanctuary. The only light came from the single paper lantern hanging above our low table, casting long, amber shadows against the dark wood paneling. We had eaten until the last piece of toro melted on our tongues, a ritual that felt less like sustenance and more like communion. Every bite had been a promise; every glance across the lacquered plates had been a vow. Now, the reality of the outside world began to bleed through the cracks in our fantasy. My phone buzzed against the polished cedar wood, a harsh, digital intrusion that made me jump. I glanced at it, then quickly flipped it face down, burying the notification under a napkin. I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want to go back to being just *baby girl*, the marketing executive, the daughter, the woman who filed taxes and worried about cholesterol. I wanted to remain what I had been for