NICOLE
The moment his teeth grazed the shell of my ear, a violent, electric jolt seared through my entire body. It wasn't pain, not really. It was something far more dangerous. It was a lightning strike of pure, shocking sensation that short-circuited my brain and set every nerve ending on fire.
A hot, helpless blush exploded across my cheeks and down my neck, a traitorous flag of my body's reaction to his touch. I could feel the ghost of that bite, a brand that pulsed with a rhythm all its own, long after he pulled away.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god."
The words were a frantic chant in my head, a useless prayer against the storm he'd unleashed with a single, casual act of possession. My skin still hummed where his lips had been. How could something so threatening feel so… electric? The contradiction left me dizzy, my mind reeling.
The rest of the room became a blur of noise and color, a distant, out-of-focus film. I could see lips moving, hear the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversations about mergers and markets, but it was all just static.
My entire universe had shrunk to the memory of his breath in my ear and the devastating promise in his words.
"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."
The words echoed, each repetition sending another tremor through me. He wasn't just stating a fact. He was drawing a line in the sand, marking his territory in front of all these powerful, watching eyes.
And I was the territory.
He guided me to a table with a hand on the small of my back, his touch burning even through the silk of the dress. "Sit. Help yourself to the food," he instructed, his voice back to that cool, detached CEO tone, as if he hadn't just turned my world upside down with his teeth.
And then he was gone, melting into the crowd, leaving me alone at the table like a discarded toy.
'Help myself to the food.' The idea was almost laughable. My stomach was a tangled knot of nerves. How could I possibly eat? My heart was hammering against my ribs so violently I was surprised the people at the next table couldn't hear it. It was a frantic, wild drumbeat counting down the seconds until this charade was over and his real "business" began.
I stared at the beautifully arranged plate in front of me—seared scallops, some kind of delicate foam, edible flowers. It looked like art. It might as well have been cardboard.
I picked up my fork, my hand trembling so badly the tines clinked against the china. I took a small, mechanical bite. I couldn't taste a thing. The exquisite food turned to ash in my mouth.
'He's going to take me tonight.' The thought was a cold certainty, a stone sinking in the pit of my stomach. This dinner, these people, this food—it was all just the prelude.
The main event was waiting for me in the silence of his penthouse, behind one of those mysterious doors. The black dress felt less like fabric and more like a shroud.
I forced myself to take another bite, chewing slowly, using the action to try and ground myself. But it was no use. My mind was a whirlwind of fear and that terrifying, electric thrill.
I was a prisoner in a gilded cage, being paraded before the world, and everyone could see the lock and chain, even if they didn't know the man who held the key was planning to throw away that key forever after tonight.
I was just going through the motions, a beautiful doll waiting for her owner to finally decide to play.
The slow trickle of people leaving felt like a countdown. Each departure was a minute shaved off the little time I had left in this public space, this temporary shield. Then, I saw them—a flicker of normalcy in the surreal nightmare.
Tokito and Nemu, across the room, laughing about something. For a single, heart-lifting moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, this was all there was to the night. A dinner. A corporate event. Maybe the black dress was just a cruel test that was now over.
The hope was a fragile, fluttering thing in my chest.
It died the second his shadow fell over me.
"Let's go."
Kenji's voice was flat, final. He didn't touch me. He simply turned and walked towards the exit, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he'd already forgotten I was there.
He made it several paces before he stopped, not even fully turning, just casting a look over his shoulder. It wasn't impatient. It was colder than that. It was a look that said 'stop wasting my time'. A look a master gives a dawdling dog.
The walk back to the car was a silent, humiliating procession. I climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce, the scent of leather and his cologne feeling suffocating now.
As the car pulled away from the glittering hotel, a wave of dizzying relief washed over me so powerfully my eyes stung with unshed tears.
'We're going back to the estate,' my mind sang, giddy and lightheaded with reprieve. 'He's taking me home. To my room. The night is over. I survived. My prayers were answered.'
I watched the bright lights of Tokyo stream by the window, each one a beautiful, distant star of hope. I almost smiled.
Then the driver took the turn.
Not the right turn that led to the quieter wing of the estate, to my apartment, to my bed, to safety.
A smooth, effortless turn to the left.
The left that led down the long, private road, lined with ancient pines, that went only one place: the main Soma mansion. Kenji's personal residence.
Just like that, my hope didn't just fade. It disintegrated. It turned to dust and ashes in my mouth. The relief was so violently ripped away it left a vacuum of pure, cold terror in its place. My hands, clasped in my lap, went numb.
No. No, no, no. This isn't happening.
The car was a silent tomb, rolling inevitably toward its destination. And then, he broke the silence. He picked up his phone, his voice cutting through the quiet like a surgeon's scalpel.
"Fujiguro." A pause. "Come to the main house. Now. And bring it."
Fujiguro Kitagawa. A doctor. The family's primary physician. The man who oversaw the clinic, who treated everything from broken bones to bullet wounds.
My blood ran cold, freezing in my veins. A doctor. He was calling a doctor to the main house. In the middle of the night. And he told him to bring "it." What was "it"? 'A medical bag? Sedatives? Something… else?'
The car glided to a halt before the imposing traditional facade of the main house, its dark wood and paper screens suddenly looking like the entrance to a prison.
The dinner hadn't been the main event. It had been the calm before the storm. And the storm, I now knew with sickening certainty, involved a doctor.
The car door opened from the outside, and there he was, standing in the dim light. For the first time tonight, he offered his hand. It wasn't a gesture of chivalry.
It felt like a formality before an execution, a final, cruel courtesy before the blade fell. My own hands were trembling so badly I could barely control them as I reached out. My breath hitched the moment my skin touched his.
His palm was cold, so cold, like marble, and the contrast with my own feverish terror was jarring. He didn't squeeze, didn't offer comfort. He just provided an anchor point to pull me from the car, his grip unyielding.
He led me into the main house, and my knees felt like water. We didn't go to some dark, hidden dungeon. We went to his personal floor. It was breathtakingly luxurious, a space straight from a design magazine.
A huge, low-slung velvet couch. A grand piano in the corner, its lid closed. A bar with glasses that glittered under the subtle lighting. A kitchen with a massive marble island. It was a home. A beautiful, lived-in space. And that made it so much worse.
This was where he existed, where he was most himself. And he had brought me here.
The silence was shattered by the sound of the elevator. My heart leaped into my throat. Fujiguro stepped out, his face a mask of professional neutrality.
In his hands was a simple, unmarked white box. He didn't look at me, didn't offer a greeting. He walked to the marble island and placed the box on it with a soft, definitive click.
The sound echoed in the vast, silent room.
Kenji didn't move from my side. His voice was calm, conversational, as if he were ordering a coffee.
"Put her on birth control."
The words didn't make sense at first. They were too clinical, too cold, for the storm of fear inside me.
Then, understanding crashed over me, cold and suffocating. This wasn't about preventing a disease. It was about controlling the most fundamental consequence of what was to come.
He was planning for the long term. He was ensuring there would be no accidents, no complications. He was systematically removing any possible outcome he didn't desire.
Fujiguro didn't flinch. He simply reached out and popped open the box.