LM0044 Fear

Mizuki stepped into the dining room, steeling herself for the inevitable scolding. The warm scent of soup and freshly baked bread filled the air, but she barely noticed it, the tension sitting heavy in her chest. The soft glow of the overhead lights made the space feel inviting, yet to her, the dining table felt more like a place of judgment.

She had expected to be in trouble. She had stormed off in a bad temper—something she hadn't done since she was six years old, when she had cried and demanded that Nancy and her mother be taken with them to the Netherlands. Since then, she had always been calm and composed. But today had been different.

Her fingers curled into her palms as she took her seat. The smooth, cool porcelain of her dinner plate sat in front of her, a neatly folded napkin beside it. A fork and knife were arranged on either side, the polished silverware catching the light.

Any moment now, her mother would scold her. Her father would likely sigh, unimpressed by her display of emotion. She braced herself for the disappointment, the stern words, the clipped reminder that she was no longer a child.

But none of that came.

Instead, silence.

Mizuki hesitated, looking up. Her mother, Kai, wasn't frowning in disapproval. Instead, she looked… concerned. Her brow was slightly furrowed, and her usually sharp eyes were searching Mizuki's face. Her father, who rarely showed much emotion at all, rested his arms on the table and simply watched her.

Something was wrong.

She felt off balance. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"Mizuki," her mother spoke first, her voice softer than expected, as if she were treading carefully. "Are you alright?"

Mizuki blinked. The words didn't register at first.

"Are you still upset?" her father added, his deep voice lacking the usual sternness she had braced for.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She had been so certain she'd be met with sharp words, but instead, they were treating her like something fragile—like a glass that had shown its first crack.

She didn't know how to respond to that.

"I…" She hesitated, tension still clinging to her shoulders. She was waiting for the scolding, for the shift in their tone.

But it never came.

Her mother reached for the pot of thick green pea soup and ladled some into a deep bowl, setting it in front of Mizuki. Steam curled up in delicate wisps, carrying the rich scent of smoked sausage and vegetables. "You barely ate earlier," she murmured. "You should eat now."

Beside the soup, slices of dark rye bread with a thick layer of crispy bacon were arranged neatly on a wooden board, next to a small dish of butter with a silver spreader. A glass of cold buttermilk sat near her plate.

Mizuki stared at the meal as if it held the answers. The warmth of the soup seeped through the ceramic, spreading through her fingers as she wrapped them around the bowl.

And then she realized—her parents weren't angry. They were worried.

Her mother, who was usually so quick to lecture her, was being careful. Her father, who rarely acknowledged her emotions, was actually addressing them.

The realization unsettled her more than their anger would have.

She picked up her spoon slowly, dipping it into the thick soup, unsure of what to say. The weight in her chest lightened—just a little.

For the first time in a long time, she felt seen.

They ate in silence, the gentle clinking of silverware against porcelain filling the space between them. Mizuki could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing down on the table, heavier than the rich meal that had settled in her stomach.

She didn't know what to say. Part of her wanted to apologize for her earlier outburst, but the way her parents had been acting—quiet, composed, even a little cautious—made it difficult. She had expected to be scolded, reprimanded for her uncharacteristic display of temper. But that never came.

Instead, the dishes were cleared away by the household staff, and dessert was served. A small plate of stroopwafels—thin, crisp waffles sandwiched together with caramel syrup—was placed in front of her, along with a delicate porcelain cup of Dutch coffee. The bitter aroma filled the air, mingling with the warm, sweet scent of the pastries.

Mizuki was about to reach for her cup when she heard it—the distinct sound of her father clearing his throat. Then her mother followed, a softer, more hesitant sound.

She looked up, her heart beginning to beat a little faster.

Here it comes, she thought.

But instead of the lecture she was expecting, her mother sighed, then spoke in a voice so soft Mizuki almost thought she imagined it.

"I'm sorry."

Mizuki blinked, the warmth of the coffee cup momentarily forgotten in her hands.

She must have misheard.

She stared at her mother, then her father, waiting for them to say something else—waiting for the correction, the explanation that would tell her she had imagined those words.

But instead, her mother met her eyes, a rare openness in them.

"We pushed you too much," she continued, her fingers resting lightly on the rim of her own coffee cup. "If you don't want to marry Pablo… then you don't have to."

Mizuki couldn't move. She wasn't sure if she was even breathing.

She had fought so hard against this, prepared herself to break away no matter the cost. But now… they were giving her permission? Just like that?

Her father spoke next, his deep voice steady. "You have to understand, Mizuki, that it wasn't just about forcing you into a marriage. Your mother and Romina have been hoping to unite our families for a long time. They are old friends, and they trust each other. They wanted to secure that bond."

Mizuki swallowed. She knew that. She had always known that.

"But there's more to it than that," her mother continued, her eyes searching Mizuki's face. "Being part of a family like ours is both a privilege and a responsibility."

Mizuki frowned slightly, confused.

Her father leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "We are wealthy, yes. But wealth makes us vulnerable in ways that most people don't understand. We don't just worry about financial losses or competition. We worry about people—outsiders—who see our name, our resources, and want to take advantage of them. And that includes the people you choose to trust. The people you choose to love."

The words sent a chill down her spine.

"You are a Wolfe," her mother said, her voice quiet but firm. "That name carries weight. And there will be people who see you not as a person, but as an opportunity."

Mizuki's stomach twisted. Of course, she was aware of this. Nancy was a good example of that, and although she had already come to terms with the fact that she had been deceived, it still stung. She was grateful her parents didn't bring her up, though the shadow she cast over Mizuki could never be ignored.

"That is why we supported your marriage to Pablo so much," her father admitted. "Not because we wanted to control your life, but because we knew that at least with him, you would be safe. He would take care of you with everything he had."

Mizuki's fingers tightened around the handle of her coffee cup. She knew this too. In her past life, Pablo had supported and protected her selflessly, right up until the day he died.

This… this was what had been weighing on them all along. It wasn't just tradition. It wasn't just some cold, businesslike arrangement. It was fear.

Fear of what might happen if she chose the wrong person.

Fear that someone would come along, see her wealth, her name, and take everything from her.

Fear that she would be used.

Her chest ached with something she couldn't quite name.

She had spent so much time fighting them, resenting them for trying to dictate her life. But now that they had explained themselves, she realized something she had never fully considered before.

They weren't trying to imprison her.

They were trying to protect her.

Mizuki let out a slow breath, looking down at the dark liquid in her cup, watching the way it rippled slightly from her unsteady hands.

She understood.

She didn't agree—but she understood.

She placed her cup down carefully, then looked up at them, meeting their gazes head-on.

"I appreciate that," she said, her voice steady. "I really do. But I still need to find my own way."

She saw something flicker in her mother's expression—something that looked suspiciously like sadness.

Her father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. But neither of them protested.

Instead, her mother nodded, just once. "Then we trust you."

Mizuki's breath caught.

Three simple words. But they meant everything.

She lowered her gaze, her throat tight.

For the first time, she didn't feel like a child rebelling against her parents.

She felt like an adult, making a choice.

And that choice was hers alone.