MAISIE
The conference room at Sterling & Gould is a study in muted power. Polished mahogany, soft grey carpets, and a view of the city that feels like it's judging you. I'm sitting at the long table, my back ramrod straight in my crisp white blouse and tailored black trousers. My armor.
Lena is on my right, fidgeting with a pen. My lawyer, Sarah, is a calm, steady presence on my left, her notes spread out in perfect order.
The door opens.
He walks in.
And he looks… infuriatingly casual. He's wearing a suit, of course—a Kiton, I'd bet my company on it—but the jacket is unbuttoned. His top button is undone, no tie in sight. His dark hair is slightly messy, but in that intentional, 'I-paid-a-genius-two-hundred-dollars-to-make-it-look-this-effortless' way. He has his hands stuffed in his pockets, moving with a lazy, predatory grace that makes this whole formal setting feel like his personal living room.
My eyes give him a swift, furious once-over, from his stupidly handsome, impassive face down his lean frame. He looks like he just rolled out of a GQ photoshoot and decided to crash a billion-dollar legal proceeding for fun. I have to actively stop myself from rolling my eyes.
I recognize the other two men. The one in the simple black button-down and dark slacks is the guy from the club—Jiro, his head of security. A glorified bodyguard with a glare that could curdle milk. The younger, sharper man with the glasses is undoubtedly his lawyer.
As they take their seats across from us, Lena leans over, her breath a hot whisper in my ear. "Holy hell. The silent, grumpy one in the black? He's doing things to my ovaries. Violent, aggressive things."
I dig my elbow into her ribs. "Shut. Up," I hiss through gritted teeth.
But my attention is pulled back to Shinki. His icy blue gaze sweeps over our side of the table, and when it lands on me, it feels like a physical touch. It's an invasive, assessing once-over that starts at my professional blouse, lingers for a fraction of a second too long, and finishes by meeting my eyes. It's so arrogant, so possessive, it's a miracle I don't spontaneously combust.
He gives a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "Ms. Rory. I see you've chosen to dress for the occasion. A commendable effort at professionalism."
The condescension is breathtaking. My retort is out before I can stop it, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Some of us don't need to try, Mr. Soma. It comes naturally."
I know my reaction hasn't gone unnoticed. His smirk deepens just a hair.
From the corner of my eye, I see Lena subtly clench her thighs together as Jiro takes the seat directly across from her. Hopeless man-eater.
But then my world narrows. My eyes lock with Shinki's across the polished wood. The air crackles, thick with unspoken threats and the memory of a club. I stare, pouring every ounce of my defiance into my gaze.
And the fucking bastard… he rolls his eyes. A slow, deliberate, dismissive roll before he looks away, as if I'm a petulant child wasting his valuable time.
The deposition hasn't even officially begun, and the war is already raging.
– – –
SHINKI
We walk into the sterile conference room. Three women are already seated, a tableau of opposition.
My eyes go straight to her. Maisie Rory. She's staring, her gaze a physical weight. I can feel her assessing me, and I can feel the specific, prickling annoyance radiating from her at how casually I carry myself. This is my comfort zone. A boardroom, a negotiation, a battle of wits. The suit without the tie, the unbuttoned collar—it's all part of the calculation. It says I'm not trying, because I don't have to.
She gives me a swift, furious once-over, and then those stormy grey-green eyes of hers roll so hard I'm surprised they don't detach. Predictable.
I see the woman on her right—the CFO, Lena Chen—lean in and whisper something, her eyes darting in our direction. Making some misplaced, giggly comment, no doubt. Maisie sharply nudges her with an elbow. A fascinating dynamic.
Then her eyes find mine again. Ice-blue meets grey-green. A direct hit.
I return her once-over, but I make mine a surgical strike. More invasive. I take in the severe, slicked-back ponytail, the fucking perfect, sharp lines of her face, the elegant column of her neck. My gaze dips to the neckline of her pristine white blouse, to the small, simple pendant resting in the hollow of her tiny collarbone, a stark contrast against her rose-white skin.
A faint flush colors her cheeks. A reaction. Noticed and logged.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches my lips. "Ms. Rory. I see you've chosen to dress for the occasion. A commendable effort at professionalism."
The condescension is deliberate. A probe.
Her retort is instant, her voice sharp enough to score the polished table between us. "Some of us don't need to try, Mr. Soma. It comes naturally."
Amused. I am genuinely amused. She's so easy to provoke. A flick of a switch and she ignites.
We take our seats. My attention doesn't leave her. I follow her peripheral vision as she glances at her friend. I can't tell what she's looking at, but the friend is staring, wide-eyed, at Jiro. I smirk internally. This is already more entertaining than any deposition has a right to be.
I look back at Maisie. She's looking at me again, her jaw tight.
It feels a little too hot in here suddenly, despite the blast of the air conditioner. The urge to undo another button on my shirt is a physical itch. A deliberate provocation. But no. I restrain myself. Wouldn't want her catching fire before the testimony even begins.
She looks so beautifully, utterly annoyed.
Fucking perfect.
– – –
AUTHOR
The tension in the room is a physical entity, thick enough to hold, heavy enough to stifle the air. It holds everyone in a vice.
Lena's eyes, wide with a mixture of professional anxiety and personal fascination, remain locked on Jiro, who sits as still and expressive as a granite cliff. Across the table, Maisie is a live wire, her gaze fixed on Shinki, shooting silent, furious daggers that seem to vaporize against his unnerving composure.
It is Sarah, Maisie's lawyer, who finally shatters the silence. Her voice is crisp and professional, cutting through the static. "Good morning, gentlemen." Her eyes briefly settle on Franklin. "Franklin. It's been a while."
Franklin offers a curt, professional nod. "Ladies. It has."
Sarah's gaze sweeps back to encompass the entire opposing side. "We are gathered today for the depositions of Mr. Shinki Soma and Ms. Maisie Rory, pertaining to the lawsuit filed by Rory Robotics against Kage Capital, which alleges defamation, tortious interference, and corporate sabotage in relation to the hostile takeover bid."
Shinki gives a single, slow nod of acknowledgment, his expression unreadable.
Maisie's glare intensifies, her knuckles white where they rest on the table.
"The court reporter, Mr. Evans, is here to administer the oath and record the proceedings," Sarah continues, gesturing as a severe-looking man with a quiet demeanor enters the room and sets up his stenography machine near the head of the table. Pleasantries are exchanged in low, murmuring tones.
By 11:57, everyone is seated. The players are in position.
"The deposition will commence at twelve o'clock sharp," Sarah announces, her voice the only clear sound in the room.
And then, they wait.
The final three minutes stretch into an eternity. The only sound is the soft, relentless tik-tok of the wall clock. Each second is a hammer blow, each tick a pound of pressure added to the already suffocating atmosphere. The room feels inexplicably hotter, the air conditioner losing its battle against the collective body heat and simmering animosity.
Lena shifts uncomfortably in her leather chair. Maisie doesn't move a muscle, her posture ramrod straight, her unblinking eyes still fixed on her rival. Shinki, in contrast, picks up a pen from the table and begins to swirl it idly between his fingers, a picture of bored indifference. Jiro's arms remain crossed, a silent, intimidating statue. Franklin taps an impatient rhythm on his leather-bound clipboard. Sarah adjusts her glasses and straightens her already perfect posture.
The clock's minute hand clicks into place.
Mr. Evans, the court reporter, looks up, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, yet absolute in its authority. "Very well. We are now on the record. This is the deposition for the case of Rory Robotics versus Kage Capital. All participants are reminded that they are under oath."
The war of words is about to begin.