SHINKI
I am at my seat, my glass of Yamazaki a cold, forgotten weight in my hand. My gaze is locked on the exchange between Maisie and the man. The brute in the cheap shirt.
My grip tightens on the glass. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she pulls back a fraction of an inch. She doesn't want him there. That much is clear.
She's not doing a good job of spelling it out, I think, a flicker of irritation cutting through me. Why is she tolerating his presence? Why doesn't she just shove him away?
And then I see it. His hand. It moves from the small of her back, lower, sliding down with a crude, possessive intent until it is cupping her ass.
My body is out of the seat before the thought fully forms. A reflex. A surge of pure, white-hot impulse that bypasses all logic and calculation.
I don't know why the sight makes me so irrationally, profoundly pissed. It just does. It is an offense. A violation of… order. Of what is mine.
Mine?
The thought is as startling as my own movement, but I don't have time to dissect it.
In three long, swift strides, I am there, standing directly behind her stool, a silent, looming presence. The urge to grab that man by the back of his neck and slam his forehead into the polished teak of the bar counter is as potent and necessary as oxygen. My knuckles are white, my hand clenched into a fist so tight my nails bite into my palm.
Fuck. This bastard. Grabbing her like that.
The why of my anger is still a tangled, illogical mess, but the anger itself is a crystal-clear fact.
I notice my own fist. The potential for an undignified, public brawl. It's inefficient. Messy. With a force of will, I unclench my hand and shove it into the pocket of my trousers. I cannot be irrational. I must be a scalpel, not a sledgehammer.
That's when I speak, my voice cutting through the bass and the man's drunken muttering, layering it with all the cold disdain I can muster.
"Is this how you spend your time when you're not filing frivolous lawsuits and building glorified nannies?"
Her head whips around. Her eyes, a stormy grey-green in the shifting lights, are wide with pure, unadulterated shock. Good.
The man—who is surprisingly shorter and weaselier up close—turns his attention to me. His face, which was slick with smug possession, now twists into a pissed-off scowl.
Fuck him.
My gaze doesn't waver from his. I let my eyes, cold and assessing, drift pointedly down to his hand, which is still resting on her ass as if he has a deed to it. I raise a single eyebrow, a silent question. Do you really think that belongs to you?
It's Maisie who breaks the contact. With a sharp, furious movement, she swats his hand away from her body as if brushing off a disgusting insect.
"Don't," she snaps at him, her voice laced with a venom I remember all too well.
The man looks from her furious face to my impassive one, his bravado visibly deflating in the face of a colder, more formidable predator. The dynamic has shifted, and he knows it. He's been outclassed.
I keep my eyes on the man, a silent, unblinking pressure, until he mutters something unintelligible, throws a last, frustrated look at Maisie, and melts back into the crowd. A surprisingly sensible gesture from someone who seemed to possess very little sense.
She doesn't look at me. She pointedly turns her back, presenting me with the sleek, dark curtain of her ponytail and the provocative line of her spine revealed by the bodysuit. She picks up her cocktail glass, the silent treatment so loud it's almost deafening.
I slide onto the now-empty stool beside her. The leather is still warm from the idiot's presence. "Is that any way to treat the person who just saved you from an evening of profoundly mediocre conversation?" I ask, my voice dry.
She doesn't turn. "I didn't need your help. Or your commentary. Or anything from you, ever." The words are sharp, meant to cut. They bounce off the armor of my amusement.
I nod slowly, as if considering a deep philosophical point. "Noted. You're welcome, nonetheless."
My eyes, scanning the room over her shoulder, find Jiro. He is finally making his way toward the bar, his expression as grim as ever. He sees me, sees the situation, and stops a few feet away, a silent, watchful sentinel.
That's when I see her pull her phone from her small clutch. The screen lights up her face, and an immediate, profound annoyance floods her features. I can just make out the sender's name: 'Lena❤️🔪🩸'. An interesting, and somewhat concerning, choice of emojis.
Her thumbs fly over the screen, her jaw tight. I don't need to read the text to guess its contents. The narrative is clear in her exasperated sigh. Her wingman has abandoned her for a better offer. Laughable.
I feel Jiro shift to stand directly beside me, a solid, silent question in his posture.
She snaps her phone off, shoves it back into her purse, and then pulls it out again, her movements sharp with irritation. Her fingers stab at the screen, opening the Uber app. The bright, friendly interface is a stark contrast to her murderous mood.
She took an Uber? Of course she did. She was drinking. The logical, responsible choice. The fact that this simple, sensible action irritates me—that I can't even fault her for it—only deepens my own annoyance.
She stands up, the movement fluid and full of pent-up energy. She doesn't look at me, doesn't acknowledge Jiro. She just starts to walk away, toward the club's entrance.
But she only makes it two steps before she stops. She half-turns, her eyes finding mine in the strobe-lit darkness. She delivers a single, scorching death glare that could strip paint from a wall. It's pure, undiluted fury. It's magnificent.
I meet her gaze and let a slow, deliberate smirk touch my lips. A silent, infuriating acknowledgment.
She turns on her heel and is swallowed by the crowd.
I finally turn to Jiro, the smirk still playing on my mouth. He just looks at me, his arms crossed, his expression saying everything his words don't.
Petty.
Jiro waits until she is fully gone before he speaks, his voice a low rumble under the thumping music. "What was that?"
I signal the bartender for a glass of water. The whisky has done its job, and now I need clarity.
"I observed Ms. Rory being harassed by a sub-par individual with poor personal boundaries and a lack of social awareness," I state, my tone as flat as if I'm reciting a quarterly report. "His hand made unsolicited contact. The situation was creating a public scene. I introduced a new variable—myself—which altered the dynamic and prompted his departure. She was... ungrateful."
The words are clean, clinical. They sound reasonable. They sound sane.
But the question is still there, a persistent, illogical ghost in the machinery of my mind. When did you become so possessive of her?
The image of that man's hand on her, the immediate, visceral urge I had to break his fingers for daring to touch her... it doesn't fit the data. She is a business rival. A problem to be solved. An asset to be acquired. She is not someone I should feel a primal need to defend.
The irony is not lost on me. I sound like Kenji. The thought is unsettling. My cousin's brand of obsessive, all-consuming possession has always seemed like a strategic weakness. A loss of control.
And yet, here I am, mentally mapping the fractures in a stranger's wrist because he touched what I, on some deep, unexplainable level, have already decided is mine.
Jiro, of course, sees right through the corporate summary. His dark eyes are like x-rays. "Why did you step in?"
I take a slow sip of water, the cold liquid doing nothing to douse the strange heat in my veins. "The situation was unpleasant. An eyesore. It was degrading the atmosphere."
It's a weak answer, and we both know it. The club is full of unpleasant eyesores. I never intervene.
Jiro doesn't call me on the lie. He just gives a single, slow shake of his head, a gesture that holds a universe of judgment. "Are you ready to go?"
"Yes," I say, setting the water glass down with finality. "I've had enough of this venue."
I stand, straightening my suit jacket. The cool, controlled facade is back in place. The numbers are waiting. The takeover is waiting. The logical, clean world of finance is waiting.
But as I walk out of the club, the ghost of her death glare and the memory of that man's hand on her waist follow me into the clean, cold silence of the New York night.