AUTHOR
Lena is wedged between two laughing socialites at the bar, trying to signal the bartender for two glasses of champagne. The air is thick with chatter and clinking glasses. Then, a tap on her shoulder.
She turns, a polite smile already on her face, and it freezes.
Marcus Callum stands there, a lazy, predatory smile on his handsome face. He's in a Tom Ford tuxedo that looks like it was sewn onto him, his hair artfully disheveled.
"Well, hello again, beautiful," he says, his voice a low purr meant only for her. "Red really is your color. It suits the whole... warrior queen vibe."
Lena's mind races. Shock, then a cold splash of dread. She forces her smile to stay in place, but it becomes brittle. "Marcus. I didn't… I didn't take you for a black-tie gala kind of guy."
He shrugs, his eyes never leaving hers. "Family obligation. It's our event."
The word our lands like a stone in her stomach. "Your event?" she asks, the pieces clicking into place with terrible clarity. "You're a Callum."
"Guilty as charged," he says, his smile widening, utterly oblivious to the internal panic he's just unleashed.
Alexander Callum's brother. Maisie's toxic ex's brother. The champagne she'd been craving suddenly feels like it would turn to acid in her throat. She needs an escape. Now.
He seems to sense her retreat and misinterprets it as coyness. He extends a hand. "Since we're both here, and you're tragically drinkless… how about that dance?"
Lena's eyes dart toward the alcove where Maisie disappeared with Alexander. "I really should… I need to get this to Maisie," she says, gesturing vaguely at the bar.
"Maisie looks plenty occupied," Marcus says, his gaze following hers and hardening slightly as he sees his brother leading her away. His attention snaps back to Lena, and his eyes narrow. He finally notices her tension isn't playful. "You're acting weird. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" she chirps, the sound too high, too bright. "Just… a lot of people."
He takes a step closer, invading her personal space. The scent of his cologne—expensive and woody—wraps around her. He touches her arm, his fingers warm. "I've been thinking about the other night," he murmurs, his voice dropping. "A lot. You were… unforgettable."
A shiver, traitorous and unwanted, runs down her spine. The memory is potent. But the reality of who he is crashes over her like ice water. She takes a step back.
"I really have to go find Maisie," she insists, her voice firmer.
He takes another step forward, persistent, his charm now feeling like a cage. "She's a big girl. She can handle my brother for five minutes. Stay. Talk to me."
Lena backs up again, her heart hammering. "Marcus, please—"
Her retreat is too abrupt. Her shoulder blades connect solidly with a wall of muscle and black wool.
Thump.
A cold, wet shock seeps instantly through the back of her red McQueen gown. She hears a sharp, hissed intake of breath—not hers.
She whirls around, her face a mask of horror.
She has backed directly into Jiro. A full glass of what looks like whiskey is now upended, its amber contents soaking into the pristine white of his dress shirt inside his open suit jacket. The dark stain spreads rapidly across his chest.
Jiro doesn't move. He doesn't look down at the ruin of his shirt. His dark, impassive eyes are locked on Marcus, who is staring at the scene with a mixture of annoyance and surprise.
The air around Jiro is suddenly ten degrees colder. The chatter at the bar nearby dies down as people sense the shift in atmosphere.
Lena's hand flies to her mouth. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry! I didn't see—"
Jiro's gaze slowly, deliberately, shifts from Marcus to her. His expression is unreadable, but the anger in his eyes is a live wire. He says nothing. He just looks from the stain on his chest, to her horrified face, and then back to Marcus, as if assigning blame for the entire disruption.
Marcus, recovering his composure, holds up his hands in a placating gesture that doesn't reach his eyes. "Easy there. It was an accident."
Jiro's silence is more terrifying than any outburst. He slowly removes his suit jacket, revealing the full, spreading stain on the white fabric stretched over his lean torso. He folds the jacket neatly over his arm, his movements precise and filled with lethal control.
Jiro's eyes lowered slowly to the ruin of his shirt again. He didn't react with outrage. He assessed the damage with the detached, analytical calm of a soldier checking a wound. The expensive whiskey had soaked through the fine Egyptian cotton in a spreading, dark bloom over his left pectoral muscle, the cold liquid an unpleasant shock against his skin.
Lena's words tumbled out in a frantic, horrified rush. "I am so, so sorry! It was my fault, I wasn't looking, I backed up too fast—oh God, your shirt is ruined!" Her own back was soaked through, the red fabric of her McQueen gown clinging unpleasantly to her skin.
Marcus, seeing her distress and seizing the opportunity to play the hero, stepped forward. "Don't worry about it, Lena. I'll take care of it." He flicked his eyes dismissively at Jiro. "I'll have a new shirt sent to you. It's just a shirt."
Jiro's hand, hanging at his side, clenched into a tight fist. The knuckles turned white. The condescension in Marcus's tone—the implication that he was a mere servant to be paid off—was a quieter, more insulting violation than the stain itself.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Lena said sharply to Marcus, finding her spine. Her embarrassment was morphing into anger directed at the right target. "This is your fault for crowding me. And you can't just tell him you'll replace his shirt like he's some… some waiter you stiffed." She turned back to Jiro, who was now staring directly at her. His dark, intense gaze felt like a physical weight. Heat flushed her cheeks, unrelated to the spilled alcohol. "I'm really sorry," she repeated, her voice softer, more genuine. "Please, let me… I can pay for the cleaning, or… or a new one."
Marcus frowned, his charming façade cracking with impatience. He gestured at the dark wet patch on the back of her stunning dress. "You should worry about yourself, too. That's Alexander McQueen. You're soaked. Come with me. I'll have one of the event staff find you a private room to get cleaned up." He reached out, his hand aiming to take her elbow in a firm, proprietary grip.
Before his fingers could make contact, Jiro—who had been a silent, simmering statue—moved.
He didn't shout. He didn't shove. He simply let out a short, weary sigh, as if dealing with a persistent insect, and his arm shot out. His hand closed around Lena's upper arm, just above her elbow. He pulled her backwards, away from Marcus's grasp, with a decisive tug.
Lena stumbled, her heels slipping on the polished marble. She collided with Jiro's solid chest, the damp back of her dress meeting the wet, whiskey-soaked front of his shirt. For a split second, she was surrounded by the scent of starched cotton, expensive whiskey, and something uniquely, intensely masculine that was all him. She immediately jerked upright, her face a portrait of shock.
He looked down at her, his face still an unreadable mask. "Come with me," he said, his voice a low, gravelly command. It was the first time she'd ever heard him speak more than a grunt. The sound was sharp, authoritative, and undeniably, infuriatingly sexy. It brooked no argument.
She found herself nodding mutely.
"Lena!" Marcus snapped, his voice losing its playful edge. He took a step forward, his attention shifting to Jiro. "And who the hell are you? Unhand her."
Jiro didn't even acknowledge him. His grip on Lena's arm shifted. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either. It was purposeful and unyielding. He turned and began to walk, cutting a path through the crowd, pulling Lena along in his wake as if she were luggage he'd been tasked to securely relocate.
Marcus was left standing by the bar, his offered chivalry rejected, his authority ignored, watching the woman he'd been pursuing get literally dragged away by a silent, brooding man in a ruined shirt. The smirk was long gone, replaced by a scowl of pure, impotent fury.
Jiro moved through the glittering crowd with Lena in tow, his eyes scanning the sea of tuxedos and gowns for one specific person. He found Shinki standing near a marble column, concluding a conversation with a stern-faced Japanese businessman—an acquaintance from Kenji's network.
He turned to Lena, who was still clutching her upper arm where he'd held her. "Don't move," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for debate.
She just nodded, wide-eyed, and stayed put as he strode over to Shinki.
Shinki, having just finished his exchange, turned as Jiro approached. His icy blue eyes immediately dropped to the massive, dark stain ruining Jiro's pristine white shirt. A slow, cold smirk spread across Shinki's face.
"I thought you said I was the one who needed a babysitter," Shinki drawled, his voice laced with amused contempt. "It appears you can't even keep a drink in your glass."
Jiro's jaw tightened. "Shut the fuck up." He kept his voice low. "I'm stepping out. I'll be back."
Shinki's smirk didn't fade. He'd followed Jiro's earlier glance and now openly looked at Lena, who was trying very hard not to look like she was listening. "How efficient. Can't keep it in your pants, so now you're going to fuck the rival CFO? I suppose that's one way to gather intelligence. A bit crude for my taste, but—"
Jiro took a half-step forward, his dark eyes flashing with a warning that was all the more dangerous for its silence. "I will punch you in your perfect fucking teeth."
Shinki held up his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk remained. "Fine, fine. No violence in the library. So, what's with the… escort? Did she throw her drink at you? I wouldn't blame her. Her taste is questionable, but her aim might be improving."
"A man was harassing her. She backed into me avoiding him," Jiro explained tersely, clipping each word. "The drink spilled. I'm going home to change. Then getting her a replacement."
Shinki stared at him, his amusement vanishing into genuine shock. "Is she not the one who should pay for that? And why the fuck are you being a gentleman? Since when do you care about replacing a stranger's dress?"
A muscle ticked in Jiro's jaw. "I'm not taking money from a woman for an accident that wasn't entirely her fault. And I'm not leaving a girl soaked in whiskey in the middle of a pit of vipers." He met Shinki's gaze dead-on. "Fuck you."
Shinki studied him for a long moment, the calculations visible behind his eyes. He saw something there—a stubborn code, an irritation that went deeper than a ruined shirt. He finally gave a slight, conceding shake of his head. "Don't be long. We have investors to schmooze. And try not to acquire any more… liabilities."
Jiro didn't dignify that with a response. He turned and walked back to Lena, who had been watching the intense, silent exchange with a mixture of fear and fascination.
"Follow me," he said, not looking at her as he passed.
She hurried after him, the damp back of her gown chilling her skin. They exited the grand hall, the noise of the gala fading behind them, and emerged into the cooler night air where a line of luxury cars waited.
Jiro led her to a sleek, black Mercedes-Maybach S-Class. He opened the rear door, got in himself, and left the door open for her. He wasn't aiming to be a gentleman; it was a simple instruction.
Lena hesitated on the curb, the reality of getting into a car with this silent, furious, whiskey-soaked stranger hitting her. "Where are we going?"
He didn't respond. He just looked at her through the open door, his expression impatient. "Get in."
She wavered, clutching her arms. The damp silk was uncomfortable, and the thought of going back inside to face Marcus was worse.
He leaned forward slightly to shut her out.
The quiet finality in his voice decided it. "Okay," she whispered, and slid into the spacious backseat beside him.
He pulled the door shut, sealing them in a tomb of quiet luxury. He leaned forward and spoke to the driver, his voice a low rumble. "Bergdorf Goodman. The 24-hour personal shopping entrance."
The driver nodded, and the car pulled smoothly away from the curb, leaving the illuminated library behind.
Lena sat stiffly, hyper-aware of the man beside her, of the sharp, clean scent of him cutting through the smell of whiskey, of the immense, unreadable silence that filled the space between them.