NICOLE
The week vanished, a blur of anxious days and sleepless nights. Monday morning arrived with the sharp ring of my alarm, feeling more like a starting pistol than a wake-up call.
Before I knew it, I was sliding into the back of the waiting black Lexus LS, the quiet hum of its engine the only sound on the quiet Soma estate streets.
The drive into central Tokyo was a silent movie. I watched the city wake up, my reflection a ghostly outline superimposed on the passing streets of Minato. And then I saw it. Apex Innovations.
It wasn't just a building; it was a blade of smoked glass and steel, so tall it seemed to slice the clouds. The morning sun glared off its mirrored surface, a brilliant, intimidating monolith. Right at the very top, I knew, was the penthouse office. His office.
Stepping through the revolving doors was like entering a different world. The lobby was a vast cavern of cool marble and muted light, the air still and silent except for the soft click of my own heels.
I'd chosen my armor carefully: a tailored pair of black Theory trousers and a simple ivory silk blouse, with classic Christian Louboutin pumps. I always preferred pants. They felt more secure, like a barrier. A dress would have made me feel too exposed, too vulnerable.
I checked in at the reception, my voice surprisingly steady as I gave my name. A security guard escorted me to a private elevator that required a keycard.
The ascent was swift and silent, my stomach dropping faster than the elevator car.
The doors slid open directly into a breathtaking anteroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of all of Tokyo, a sprawling empire laid out at my feet.
And there, standing with his back to me, looking out over his kingdom, was Kenji.
He turned slowly. He was in an impeccably fitted charcoal Brioni suit that screamed of power and money. His ice-blue eyes swept over me, from my pumps to the top of my head, a quick, analytical assessment.
There was no warmth, no greeting.
"Miss Anderson," he said, his voice as cool and polished as the glass surrounding us. He gestured to a sleek chair in front of a vast, empty desk. "Sit. Your role as my Personal Assistant requires an understanding of absolute discretion and efficiency. You report only to me. You speak of my business to no one. Your life now belongs to Apex."
He didn't smile. He didn't welcome me. He began outlining my duties, his tone flat and precise, as if reading from a manual.
But his eyes never left mine, and I felt the unspoken words hanging in the air between us, louder than anything he was saying: And you belong to me.
He continued, his voice a low, steady stream that filled the sterile, beautiful space. Each word felt like another brick being laid around me.
"You will accompany me on all international travel. New York, London, Dubai. There are no exceptions. If I am on a business trip, you are there." He listed cities like they were items on a grocery list, not faraway dreams. "All business dinners, all high-level meetings. You will be present. You are to be an extension of my reach, an observer who anticipates needs before they are spoken."
My mind reeled. Accompany him. Across the world. There would be no hiding, no space. It wasn't a job description; it was a life sentence.
Then he picked up a single, sleek black key card from his desk. It was unmarked, except for a subtle, embossed silver 'A'. He held it out between two fingers.
"This is your key card. It grants you access to the private elevator that brings you directly to this floor. Your office," he said, his gaze unwavering, "is the adjoining room. You will work here. With me."
I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly despite my best effort to keep them steady. As I took the cool, plastic card, our fingers brushed. A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, shot through my hand. It was the same as in the hallway.
The key card felt heavy in my palm. It wasn't a symbol of privilege or promotion. It was a tracker. A tether. This shiny piece of plastic was my new cage, far more sophisticated than the room in the estate, but a cage all the same.
My office was on his floor. There was no separation. No escape.
He owned my days, and now, it was clear, he intended to own my nights across the globe. The internship wasn't a career opportunity. It was a leash, and he had just handed me the handle.
The weight of the book was immediate and shocking. It was less a manual and more a slab of polished leather and thick paper, its cover embossed with the stark Apex Innovations logo. My arms actually buckled a little under the strain.
"Get to work," he said, his tone flat, a clear dismissal.
His hand tapped a book on his desk, a silent instruction.
I took it.
I turned, clutching the heavy tome to my chest like a shield, and walked as steadily as I could toward the door he'd indicated was my office.
Each step was an effort. The book felt like it contained the entire weight of his empire, and he'd just handed it to me.
My hand was on the cool chrome handle when his voice stopped me.
"Nic."
The name—my name, shortened, unfamiliar—sliced through the sterile air. It was so intimate, so possessive. I froze. I couldn't help the reaction; I felt a hot flush instantly burn across my cheeks. I knew he saw it.
I turned back slowly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. He was still standing by the window, a silhouette of power against the sprawling city. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. He'd noticed the blush. Of course he had.
"Make sure you are ready for your first business dinner in three days," he said, his voice deceptively casual. Then he added, the words dropping like stones into the quiet room, "I'm sure you received your uniform."
The air left my lungs. The message was as plain as day. There was no ambiguity, no room for misunderstanding. The black Valentino gown wasn't for a corporate event. It was for him. In three days. The countdown wasn't just in my head anymore. He had just given it a date.
My throat was too tight to speak. I just gave a sharp, jerky nod.
He turned back to the window, dismissing me again. This time, I practically fled into my new office, letting the heavy door click shut behind me. I leaned against it, the massive company manual slipping from my numb fingers and thudding onto the plush carpet. The sound was dull, final.
Three days. He hadn't just told me about a dinner. He had just told me when he would take me. The uniform was waiting. And he had called me "Nic." The casual cruelty of it was worse than any threat. It was a reminder that he considered me his to name, his to command, his to claim.
The pristine office, with its beautiful desk and breathtaking view, felt like the antechamber to an execution.
The pristine office, with its beautiful desk and breathtaking view, felt like the antechamber to an execution.
My eyes drifted back to the hallway I'd just walked down. Four other doors. Solid, dark wood, no nameplates.
He said this whole floor was just for him. And now, for me. So what's behind them?
My mind–fed on too many late-night dark romance novels, immediately started painting pictures. Terrible, thrilling pictures.
"Maybe one is a bedroom," I whispered to the empty room, my voice sounding small. "For when he works too late." The thought felt naive as soon as I said it.
A worse idea followed. "Or... it's a room for... other things." My face heated. The kind of room with restraints on the walls. A place where he takes his "playthings." My heart hammered against my ribs. Maybe one is a torture chamber. Another, a private prison. The last one… God, a display room? For his… acquisitions?
He was giving dark romance Villain vibes.
I shook my head hard, as if I could physically dislodge the thoughts. "Get a grip, Nicole. This is real life." But was it? This felt more surreal than any book I'd ever read.
I forced myself to walk to the desk and sit down. The leather chair was cold through my trousers. I pulled the heavy company manual toward me and flipped it open.
The words were a blur of corporate jargon and compliance policies.
But my brain wouldn't focus. It kept circling back to one thing.
"Three days," I breathed out, the words hanging in the silent, sterile air. I looked around the pristine office, at the closed door that led back to him. "I have three days until… what?"
I dropped my head into my hands, the cool of my palms feeling good against my warm cheeks.
"Is that what the black dress is for? Is the 'business dinner' just… him? In some room behind one of those doors?"
A wave of nausea rolled through me. I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Get to work," I muttered, mimicking his cold, flat tone. "Right. Work." I tried to focus on a paragraph about international data privacy laws. But all I could see was the faint smirk on his face when he'd said "uniform."
I'm not reading a manual. I'm reading my own sentence. And the execution is in three days.