NICOLE
The two days vanished in a panicked, heart-pounding blur. And now it's here.
Morning light streams into my office, but it feels like a lie. My heart is a frantic bird beating against the cage of my ribs. I can feel each thump echoing in my throat.
I force my hands to type, to answer emails, to sort through the endless data on my screen. My movements are robotic, efficient. On the outside, I look like the perfect, composed assistant.
But inside, I'm screaming.
Please, slow down, I beg the clock, watching the digital numbers in the corner of my screen change. 10:17 AM. 11:42 AM. 1:05 PM.
Each hour that clicks by feels like a judge's gavel coming down. My prayers are a silent, desperate chant in my mind. Let the meeting be canceled. Let a crisis happen. Let the building catch fire.
But nothing happens. The work gets done. The sun moves across the sky.
Time isn't just flying. It's laughing at me, rushing me toward the edge of a cliff I never agreed to jump from. Every finished task feels like another step closer to that black dress, to that private elevator, to him.
My hands are ice-cold. I pick up a pen and my grip is so tight it snaps. I just stare at the two broken pieces in my palm.
There's no stopping it. The dinner is tonight. And I have never been more terrified in my life.
The clock on my screen blinked 5:30 PM. My heart dropped into my stomach. The workday was over. The real sentence was about to begin.
Then, the email notification popped up. No subject. No signature. Just a single line of text from an internal address I didn't recognize, but knew instinctively was him.
Underground parking lot. 30 minutes.
The words were a command. There was no room for question, for argument. Who would dare? No one. Especially not me.
With trembling hands, I lifted the black box from its hiding place in my bottom drawer. The Valentino gown felt heavier than the company manual as I shook it out.
Slipping out of my secure trousers and blouse felt like shedding my armor. The dress was cold against my skin, the silk whispering as it slid over my hips. It was a masterpiece of cruelty, engineered to make me feel both exquisite and exposed.
The front was deceptively modest, a high neckline that felt like a collar. But the back was plunging, open nearly to the base of my spine.
And the slit… the slit started mid-thigh and ran so high it felt ungodly. It was a violation woven into silk, a promise of access so blatant even the devil would look away.
I stood before the full-length mirror in my private bathroom, a stranger staring back. A beautiful, terrified stranger dressed for her own execution.
My hands would not stop shaking. I fumbled with the mascara wand, expecting to smudge black all over my skin. I lined my eyes with a shaky hand, expecting a jagged, messy line.
But somehow, through some miracle of survival instinct, my hands steadied just enough at the last second. The wing was sharp, perfect. The mascara coated my lashes without a clump. My lips, stained a deep, wine-red, were perfectly defined.
I looked… polished. Perfect. A doll ready to be presented. The perfection of it all felt like the final, cruel joke.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I slipped my feet into a pair of black Manolo Blahnik heels. Each click on the polished concrete floor of the hallway echoed like a gunshot as I walked to the private elevator.
The doors opened directly into the underground parking garage. It was cold, silent, and smelled of gasoline and money.
And there it was, waiting like a predator. A Rolls-Royce Phantom, long, sleek, and impossibly black, its glossy surface reflecting the dim overhead lights. The back door was already open, a dark void.
As I approached, the interior light clicked on. He was inside, a silhouette of sharp angles and tailored wool against the cream-colored leather.
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his phone. But I knew, with every fiber of my being, that he was aware of my every step, my every shaky breath.
I paused at the door, the chill from the car washing over me.
"Get in, Nic."
His voice, from the darkness, was the final lock sliding into place. I bent, the ungodly slit in the gown gaping open, and slid into the seat beside him. The door closed with a soft, heavy thud that sounded like a tomb sealing shut.
– – –
KENJI
The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped out into the dim garage light. My breath caught, just for a second. I let my eyes drink her in.
The black Valentino was a second skin, sculpted to every one of her curves–Her slender frame:small breast and her broad hips and thick ass a stark contrast to the former. It was better than I had imagined.
The fabric clung to her, a shadow outlining the woman she'd become—the one I'd waited for.
She walked toward the car, each step in those heels a quiet click of surrender on the concrete. I could smell it, even from here—the sharp, clean scent of her perfume trying, and failing, to mask the acrid tang of her fear. It was intoxicating.
As she reached the car, I didn't look up. "Get in, Nic."
She bent to enter, and the movement made the gown's high slit fall open, revealing a long, elegant line of her thigh. A dark, possessive thought seared through my mind. Fuck, she's hot.
She slid into the seat beside me, the rich leather sighing under her weight. The door closed with a soft, definitive thud, sealing her in this silent, opulent space with me.
I kept my eyes on my phone, the blue light reflecting on my face, a picture of detached control.
Without looking up, I addressed the driver, my voice calm and clear. "The New York Grill at the Park Hyatt. The investors are waiting."
The car purred to life. In the silence that followed, I could feel it—the slight, almost imperceptible shaking of her breath beside me.
She was trying to control it, to be still. But I could feel the vibration in the air between us. It was the most satisfying sound in the world. The tremble before the fall.
– – –
AUTHOR
The Rolls-Royce glided to a silent halt beneath the glittering canopy of the Park Hyatt Tokyo. The driver, a man in immaculate livery, moved with robotic efficiency, opening Kenji's door before Nicole could even register they had stopped.
Kenji unfolded himself from the leather interior, not a glance back, already scrolling through his phone as his polished Oxfords met the pavement.
He offered no hand, no gesture of assistance. It was her first test, a silent command to follow without guidance.
Nicole emerged on her own, the ungodly slit in her gown threatening to betray her with every step. She fell into place beside him, a step behind, as they moved through the automatic doors into a world of breathtaking opulence.
The lobby was a cathedral of wealth, all soaring ceilings, minimalist art, and the quiet hum of immense power. For Kenji, it was a second home, a familiar chessboard. For Nicole, it was an overwhelming sensory assault.
So many people, her mind raced, a frantic bird against glass. They all look so… important. The air itself seemed thick with the scent of expensive perfume, fine leather, and the subtle aroma of ambition.
Her anxiety, already a live wire, spiked into sheer panic. A familiar, self-soothing tick emerged. She subtly reached up, removed her glasses, and pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, massaging the tension there as if she could push the fear back inside.
"Soma-san! A pleasure, as always." A portly CEO with a gleaming watch intercepted them, bowing slightly.
Kenji gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, not looking up from his phone. "Tanaka."
The man's eyes slid to Nicole, curious and appraising. Kenji's voice cut through the air, flat and definitive. "My Personal Assistant, Miss Anderson."
The word "Personal" hung in the air, weighted and deliberate. It sounded less like a job title and more like a brand.
Nicole felt the heat of multiple gazes upon her, stripping the elegant gown away layer by layer. She was a new piece on the board, and every player was calculating her value, her connection to the formidable Kenji Soma.
They moved through the crowd, a receiving line of corporate royalty. Nicole's hand was shaken by a dozen different people, her name forgotten as soon as it was spoken.
She was an accessory, an extension of him. Then, a bolder man, younger, with a slicked-back hairstyle and eyes that lingered too long on the gown's plunging backline, took her hand.
"A true pleasure, Miss Anderson," he said, his voice a smarmy purr. Instead of releasing her hand after a polite shake, his grip tightened, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles. "I hope we'll be seeing more of you in our circles."
Nicole froze, her polite smile turning brittle. She tried to subtly pull her hand back, but his grip was like a vise.
In that moment, the low hum of Kenji's phone conversation ceased. He didn't look up. He didn't raise his voice. But the change in the atmosphere was immediate and chilling.
The subtle, almost lazy power that radiated from him sharpened into a blade. His jaw ticked, a single, rapid pulse of muscle against bone that was more threatening than any shouted curse.
He finally lifted his gaze from the screen, his icy blue eyes landing not on the man, but on their joined hands. The silence from him was a physical pressure.
The man, feeling the shift, finally released Nicole's hand as if it had burned him. "A-anyway, a pleasure," he stammered, quickly bowing and melting back into the crowd.
Kenji's eyes slowly lifted to meet Nicole's. The message in them was clear, a dark promise that vibrated between them:You're mine.
He finally pocketed his phone, his full attention now on her, a predator finally done playing with its fpood. He leaned in, his voice a low, intimate whisper that was for her ears only, the words a stark contrast to the corporate pleasantries surrounding them.
"Remember," he murmured, his breath ghosting her ear, "no matter how many of them look at you, only one of us is leaving here with you tonight. And he's standing right here." He bit her ear.
Causing her blush.