CHAPTER 8: THE CALL FROM TOKYO

THE SAKURA BETWEEN US

CHAPTER 8: THE CALL FROM TOKYO

At 6:17 the next morning, Xiuying woke to Ren shouting in Japanese.

She had never heard him shout like that.

Not the controlled voice he used with Kenji.

Not the cold voice he used in meetings.

This was different.

Panicked.

Xiuying opened her eyes.

Morning light barely touched the paper screens of the Gion house.

For a few confused seconds, she remembered the night before.

One hundred paintings.

Her name above the exhibition entrance.

Mika’s apology.

Kenji’s almost-apology.

Ren’s ridiculous wooden box.

The cherry-wood seal.

LIN XIUYING.

For one night, everything had been exactly where it belonged.

Now Ren stood on the engawa with his back to her, one hand gripping his phone.

“No. That’s impossible.”

Silence.

“Those records were confidential. Who sent them?”

Another pause.

“No. Do not speak to the press.”

His voice sharpened.

“I said no statements until I get there.”

He listened.

Then went completely still.

“What do you mean they already know?”

Xiuying sat up.

“Ren?”

He didn’t answer.

“Ren.”

He ended the call.

For several seconds, he remained facing the garden.

The maple leaves moved gently in the morning wind.

Xiuying climbed to her feet.

“What happened?”

Ren turned around.

The warmth from last night was gone.

The Chairman had returned.

“The museum received an anonymous email.”

Xiuying’s stomach tightened.

“What kind of email?”

“Financial records.”

“What financial records?”

“Foundation authorizations. Purchase receipts. Internal correspondence.”

She stared at him.

“About what?”

Ren didn’t answer.

And suddenly, Xiuying knew something was wrong beyond the exhibition.

Something involving him.

“Ren.”

He looked down at his phone.

“There is something I should have told you.”

Xiuying hated that sentence immediately.

“What?”

He sat.

“Rain on Qingcheng Mountain isn’t the only painting of yours I own.”

She frowned.

“I know you’ve bought some others.”

“No.”

He looked at her.

“You don’t understand.”

A cold feeling moved through her.

“How many?”

Ren hesitated.

“Fifty.”

Silence.

Xiuying waited for him to correct himself.

He didn’t.

“Fifty?”

“Yes.”

“Fifty paintings?”

“Yes.”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

She laughed once.

Not because it was funny.

Because her brain refused to accept the number.

“I haven’t even sold fifty paintings to one person.”

“You didn’t sell most of them directly to me.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dealers. Private collectors. Small galleries. University sales. Secondary-market resales.”

Xiuying stared at him.

“How long?”

Ren didn’t answer quickly enough.

“How long, Ren?”

“Since 2019.”

Her face emptied.

Before Kyoto.

Before Jian stole Tokyo.

Before the residency.

Before she knew Sato Ren existed.

“You were collecting my work for years?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It started with one painting.”

“Rain.”

He nodded.

“I bought it because I loved it. Later, another work appeared through a dealer. I bought that too. Then another.”

“So you just kept buying?”

“I asked several dealers to contact me whenever your work appeared.”

Xiuying slowly stood.

Something about the room had changed.

Yesterday, Ren had given her a seal with her own name because Sakura was never supposed to replace Lin Xiuying.

Today, she was discovering that he’d been quietly following Lin Xiuying’s career long before she knew him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ren looked away.

That made her angrier.

“Look at me.”

He did.

“Why?”

“Because I knew how it would sound.”

“How does it sound?”

Silence.

Xiuying answered for him.

“It sounds like a powerful man secretly collected dozens of paintings by an art student from Chengdu, followed her career for years, then created a residency and invited her to Kyoto.”

“The residency wasn’t created for you.”

“Was I chosen because of you?”

Ren stopped.

Xiuying’s heart sank.

“Ren.”

“I recommended your application.”

Her stomach dropped.

“You told me the Foundation selected me.”

“It did.”

“Did they know you wanted me selected?”

“Yes.”

Xiuying stepped backwards.

“So you were involved.”

“I didn’t make the final decision.”

“But you influenced it.”

“Yes.”

Another secret.

Xiuying turned away.

“Okay.”

“Xiuying—”

“Okay.”

She pressed both hands against her face.

Then turned back.

“Tell me everything now.”

Ren looked at her.

“No more pieces. No more things you think you’re protecting me from.”

He nodded.

“Everything.”

“Who paid for the paintings?”

Ren went silent.

Xiuying’s chest tightened.

“Ren.”

“Some were mine.”

“Some?”

“Yes.”

“And the others?”

He looked directly at her.

“The Foundation.”

The room became completely still.

“The Sato Foundation?”

“Yes.”

“The same Foundation funding my residency?”

“Yes.”

Xiuying whispered:

“What did you do?”

⸻

By eight o’clock, Ren’s phone had rung eleven times.

Xiuying counted.

She needed something she could count.

Because everything else was falling apart.

Forty-seven transactions.

Fifty paintings.

Ren explained that some purchases had included more than one work, which was why the numbers didn’t match.

Some purchases had been made privately.

Others through intermediaries.

Several through acquisition funds connected to the Sato Art Foundation.

And some had been purchased for substantially more than their estimated market value at the time.

Xiuying sat across from him.

“Why?”

“I wanted the work.”

“That doesn’t explain paying too much.”

“I wanted dealers to contact me first.”

“So you offered more.”

“Yes.”

“Which made my paintings appear more valuable.”

Ren didn’t answer.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Xiuying laughed bitterly.

“Do you understand what that means?”

“I wasn’t trying to manipulate your market.”

“But you affected it.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that could happen?”

Ren looked down.

That was enough.

Xiuying stood.

“Unbelievable.”

“I thought the work was undervalued.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make!”

“I know.”

“No, you know now.”

Ren said nothing.

Xiuying walked toward the studio.

The walls were almost empty because her hundred paintings had been transported for the exhibition.

Yesterday, that emptiness had made her happy.

The paintings were finally being seen.

Now it reminded her of Chengdu.

Blank walls.

Missing work.

Someone else making decisions about her art.

Ren stopped behind her.

“The anonymous email claims I used Foundation money to artificially create demand for your work.”

Xiuying closed her eyes.

“It says I purchased paintings at inflated prices, increased your market value, brought you into a Foundation residency, and then used Foundation connections to secure your Tokyo exhibition.”

She turned.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Which part?”

“The exhibition was independently reviewed.”

“But you recommended me for the residency.”

“Yes.”

“You bought my paintings.”

“Yes.”

“Using Foundation money.”

“Some of them.”

“Above market value.”

“Yes.”

“Then do you understand why people will believe the rest?”

Ren didn’t answer.

Xiuying’s voice broke.

“Jian stole my paintings and put his name on them.”

“I know.”

“I came to Kyoto because I wanted my own name back.”

“I know.”

“Yesterday my name was above one hundred paintings.”

Her eyes burned.

“And now everyone is going to say you bought that name for me.”

“No.”

His answer was immediate.

“I did not create you.”

“The newspapers won’t care.”

“I care.”

“That’s not enough!”

The words echoed through the house.

Ren stopped.

Xiuying’s hands were shaking.

“I didn’t ask you to buy me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what did you think you were doing?”

Ren had no answer.

That hurt more than if he’d lied.

⸻

At 8:43, his phone rang again.

Kenji.

Ren looked at the screen.

Xiuying folded her arms.

“Answer it.”

He did.

Kenji’s voice exploded through the phone loudly enough that Xiuying could hear him without the speaker.

“The board has called an emergency meeting!”

Ren closed his eyes.

“Good morning, Kenji.”

“Do not good morning me!”

Xiuying almost laughed.

Almost.

Kenji continued.

“Do you understand what you’ve done? They’re reviewing every acquisition you authorized through the Foundation.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

A pause.

“Because Father’s authorization seal appears on several records.”

Ren’s expression changed.

Xiuying noticed.

“What?” she whispered.

Kenji continued.

“The directors want an independent audit. The museum has suspended the exhibition. Reporters are outside the Tokyo office, and the Foundation’s legal team wants you here immediately.”

Xiuying stopped hearing after one word.

Suspended.

She stepped toward Ren.

“My exhibition?”

He looked at her.

Kenji was still shouting.

“Ren.”

He ended the call.

Xiuying stared.

“What did he mean?”

Ren didn’t answer.

“The exhibition.”

He swallowed.

“They’ve temporarily closed it.”

Her chest tightened.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“The hundred paintings?”

“Yes.”

“They took them down?”

“Pending review.”

Yesterday, strangers had stood beneath her name.

Today, the walls were empty.

Again.

“Show me.”

“Xiuying—”

“Show me.”

Ren unlocked his phone.

News alerts covered the screen.

He opened one.

Xiuying saw the photograph immediately.

Herself.

Last night.

White dress.

Ren beside her.

Both smiling.

Above them:

SATO FOUNDATION FACES QUESTIONS OVER CHINESE ARTIST’S METEORIC RISE

Another:

FINANCIAL RECORDS CAST SHADOW OVER ACCLAIMED “TWO RAINS” EXHIBITION

Another:

WHO MADE SAKURA? QUESTIONS SURROUND FOUNDATION-BACKED ARTIST

Xiuying stopped.

That one hurt.

Who made Sakura?

She handed the phone back.

“Do they think I knew?”

“They’re asking.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

“They don’t.”

“No.”

She sat on the engawa.

Yesterday she had been an artist.

Today she was evidence.

⸻

Tanaka arrived at nine.

Without groceries.

Xiuying had never seen him arrive without groceries.

That frightened her almost as much as the headlines.

He entered carrying a tablet and two phones.

“Ren-san.”

Ren looked up.

“What?”

“We’ve examined what we can from the email.”

“And?”

“The sender concealed most identifying information.”

Xiuying stood.

“But?”

“Several attached files appear to have originated from records connected to a Chengdu art dealer.”

Chengdu.

Ren and Xiuying looked at each other.

“Which dealer?” Ren asked.

Tanaka gave the name.

Xiuying knew it.

Her mouth went dry.

“No.”

Ren looked at her.

“What?”

“Jian.”

Tanaka frowned.

Xiuying pointed at the tablet.

“That’s the dealer Jian used for the Tokyo works.”

Silence.

Ren took the tablet.

“Can we prove he sent it?”

“No.”

Tanaka shook his head.

“Not from this.”

“So we don’t accuse him,” Xiuying said.

Ren looked at her.

She continued.

“Not until we know.”

That sentence surprised even her.

A month ago, she would have wanted Jian blamed immediately.

Now she wanted evidence.

Her evidence.

Her name.

Her truth.

Tanaka nodded.

“There’s something else.”

Of course there was.

Xiuying was beginning to hate those words.

“What?”

“The earliest transactions go back several years.”

Ren looked at him.

“I know.”

“Some of the paperwork contains references to works sold while Ms. Lin was still a student.”

Xiuying’s eyes moved toward Ren.

He didn’t look away this time.

“How old was I?”

“Approximately nineteen.”

Xiuying felt cold.

Nineteen.

She had been nineteen, worrying about assignments and whether she could afford better brushes.

Somewhere else, Sato Ren had already been buying pieces of her life.

She looked at him.

“I need time.”

Ren nodded.

“I understand.”

“No.”

She stood.

“You don’t.”

She walked toward the studio.

“I need time away from you.”

That landed.

Ren didn’t follow.

Good.

For once, he understood.

⸻

Xiuying sat alone in the studio.

No paintings.

No Ren.

Just the cherry-wood seal from last night.

LIN XIUYING.

She picked it up.

Turned it over.

Yesterday, it had felt like a promise.

Today, she wasn’t sure what anything meant.

She heard Ren and Tanaka speaking quietly outside.

Tokyo.

Lawyers.

Board.

Audit.

Press.

Words belonging to Ren’s world.

Not hers.

Then the gate slid open.

Xiuying looked up.

Tanaka stopped speaking.

Ren turned.

Nobody had knocked.

A woman stood in the entrance.

A small suitcase rested beside her.

She wore a simple black dress beneath a dark coat.

Long black hair.

Pale face.

Thin enough that the coat seemed too large for her.

There was something unusual about the way she stood, as though one leg carried more weight than the other.

She looked exhausted.

Not tired.

Exhausted in the way people looked after surviving something.

Ren’s face changed.

Not anger.

Not fear exactly.

Something deeper.

Recognition fighting impossibility.

His phone slipped from his hand.

It hit the tatami.

“Aiko?”

The woman smiled.

Barely.

“Hello, Ren.”

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

Three years seemed to stand between them.

Xiuying slowly rose.

The name felt familiar.

She had heard pieces.

A woman Ren had loved.

A loss he’d never properly explained.

Aiko looked around the house.

Ink stains.

Crumpled paper.

Two coffee cups.

Then her eyes found Xiuying.

For several seconds, neither woman spoke.

Aiko’s gaze moved to the cherry-wood seal in Xiuying’s hand.

Then back to her face.

“You must be Lin Xiuying.”

Xiuying’s fingers tightened around the seal.

“Yes.”

Aiko nodded.

“I saw your exhibition yesterday.”

Ren finally found his voice.

“Aiko.”

She looked at him.

“I saw you too.”

His face had gone completely white.

“We were told you died.”

Aiko’s smile vanished.

“I know.”

The words seemed to stop the entire house.

Ren took one step toward her.

“Where have you been?”

Aiko’s eyes filled.

But she didn’t cry.

“That’s a long story.”

She looked at Xiuying again.

Then at Ren.

“And judging by the newspapers…”

Her gaze fell briefly to the phone lying on the floor.

“…I’m not the only one who came back at a bad time.”

Xiuying looked at Ren.

Fifty paintings.

Forty-seven transactions.

Foundation money.

A suspended exhibition.

A trail leading back to Chengdu.

She had thought that was enough for one morning.

Apparently not.

“Ren,” she said quietly.

He didn’t look away from Aiko.

“Who is she?”

But Xiuying already knew part of the answer.

Aiko Tanaka.

Ren’s former fiancée.

The woman his family had told him was dead.

The woman whose loss had shaped the man Xiuying met in Kyoto.

And now she was standing alive at the gate of the dirty little house in Gion.

Xiuying looked down at the seal in her hand.

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d believed she finally knew where her story was going.

She should have known better.

There were still blank pages left.

END OF CHAPTER 8