PAIGE
The car ride to the office was drowned in a thick, heavy silence. I stared straight ahead, my arms crossed tightly, pretending the city outside the window was the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen.
I could feel his presence beside me like a physical weight, a constant reminder of the humiliating morning. The memory of his smirk, of his teasing words, made my cheeks burn.
He didn't say a single word. He just drove, his focus entirely on the road, as if I weren't even there. When he finally pulled up to the curb at Daki Tech, he didn't even look at me.
"I have a meeting," was all he said, his tone flat and final.
I practically flung the car door open, mumbling a quick, "Thanks," that sounded more like a curse.
I didn't look back. I just power-walked into the building, desperate for the normalcy of my desk, my computer, my mountain of work.
The day itself was strangely easy. The work felt simple after the impossible project I'd just finished. But my mind wasn't on it. It was stuck in a luxurious penthouse, on a smug smile, and a silk nightdress.
When 5 PM finally came, I all but ran for the exit. I needed my own space. My own clothes. Leon.
I pushed open the door to my apartment to a scene of pure chaos. Leon was pacing the living room, his phone pressed to his ear, his hair sticking up in every direction.
"—yes, I'm telling you, she never came home last night! She's not answering her—" He saw me. His eyes went wide. He froze mid-pace. "Paige?"
He slammed the phone down on the couch without hanging up. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" he half-yelled, rushing over to me. He grabbed my shoulders, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated panic. "I was about to call the cops! I thought your family had you! I thought you were dead in a ditch! I didn't sleep all night!"
The worry in his voice, the sheer relief on his face, was a stark contrast to the cold, calculated games of the last twelve hours. The stress of it all finally broke through my own numb shock.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice small. The story tumbled out of me in a rushed, exhausted jumble—finishing the work, falling asleep in his car, waking up in his penthouse, the nightdress, the awkward silence.
Leon listened, his anger fading into stunned disbelief, then into a deep, protective fury. When I finished, he just pulled me into a bone-crushing hug.
"You're okay," he muttered, mostly to himself. "You're okay. But I swear to God, Paige, if that smug bastard tries anything—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. The promise was there in his voice. After the cold, confusing power plays of Reomen Daki, the fierce, simple loyalty of my best friend was the only thing that felt real.
The warm, familiar chaos of my apartment was a sanctuary. Leon's panic had subsided into a low, protective grumble as he ordered us pizza.
I was finally starting to breathe, finally starting to feel like myself again in my worn Levi's and soft t-shirt, the silk nightdress feeling like a distant, bad dream.
Then my phone rang.
The number wasn't saved, but I recognized it instantly. It was the same one that had flashed on my screen for the job interview. My stomach plummeted. I held it up to show Leon, whose face immediately darkened.
I took a sharp breath and answered. "Hello?"
"I hope you've rested." Reomen's voice was smooth as polished glass, cutting through the line with no greeting. "There's a business dinner at Cipriani Downtown. We leave in thirty minutes."
My grip on the phone tightened. "A dinner? Now? I… I just got home. I'm not going to a dinner."
I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "You're the Financial Consultant on this account, are you not? Your insights on the project are required. Consider it a continuation of your paid duties." The way he said 'paid duties' was laced with sarcastic implication, a clear reminder of my massive debt.
"Thirty minutes, Paige," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And wear something appropriate. I'll be waiting out front."
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the cracked screen in utter disbelief.
"He did not just…" Leon began, his voice a low growl.
"A business dinner. At Cipriani," I whispered, the name alone conjuring images of a world I'd been cast out of. "He's giving me thirty minutes."
A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat. What did I even own that was 'appropriate' for Cipriani? My one Theory blazer, bought on deep discount for interviews, hung in my closet next to a sea of department store separates. It would have to do.
I moved on autopilot, my peaceful evening shattered. I tore through my closet, pulling on black slacks and the blazer, my hands shaking. I swiped on some makeup, trying to cover the exhaustion, and twisted my hair into a somewhat neat knot.
Twenty-nine minutes later, I was stepping out of my Hell's Kitchen walk-up. Right on time, a silent, black Rolls-Royce Cullinan glided to the curb. The rear window descended just enough for me to see him inside.
His eyes flicked over my rushed ensemble, from my sensible flats to my hastily applied lipstick. A slow, infuriatingly knowing look passed over his face. He didn't say a word. He just gave a slight, dismissive nod toward the door.
The driver got out and opened it for me.
I slid into the butter-soft leather interior, the door closing with a whisper-quiet thud that sealed me in with him. The scent of his Creed Aventus cologne was already filling the space.
He was impeccably dressed in a Tom Ford tuxedo that probably cost more than my entire year's rent. He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed ahead as the car pulled away.
"Try to keep up tonight, Ms. Rimestone," he said, his voice cool and devoid of any warmth. "This isn't one of your late-night study sessions. Try to look like you belong."
I clenched my jaw, turning to stare out the window at the passing streets, my fists balled in the lap of my discount blazer. The war was far from over. It had just changed venues.
The silence in the Rolls-Royce was a heavy, expensive thing. I kept my gaze locked on the lights of Tribeca, refusing to acknowledge him, but I could feel his eyes on me. It was a slow, assessing look that made the back of my neck prickle.
Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, mocking drawl that cut through the quiet. "That's an... interesting choice, Ms. Rimestone. Is the 'struggling former heiress' look part of your new financial strategy? Or did you just misplace the rest of your suit?"
My head snapped toward him. Heat flooded my cheeks. My discount blazer, which had felt like armor moments ago, now felt cheap and pathetic under his gaze. "It's professional," I bit out, my voice tight.
"Debatable," he said, his smirk audible. He leaned forward slightly, addressing the driver through the partition. "Change of plans. Bergdorf Goodman. Fifth Avenue."
My heart lurched. "No," I said, the word coming out sharper than I intended. "Absolutely not. Take me to the dinner or take me home. I am not adding a shopping spree to the mountain of debt I already owe you."
He finally turned to look at me fully, his expression one of bored amusement, as if my protest was a mildly entertaining diversion. "You're not adding to it. I am. You can't represent my company looking like you just stumbled out of a thrift store. Consider it a uniform. A necessary business expense."
"This is ridiculous! I look fine!"
"You look like you're about to ask the maître d' for an application, not discuss a multi-million dollar merger," he countered smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He leaned back, dismissing me as he glanced at his phone. "Thirty minutes. Don't dawdle."
The car glided to a stop. The driver was already opening my door before I could form another word of protest. I sat there, fuming, trapped. Refusing would only give him more ammunition, more reasons to mock my lack of professionalism.
With a sound of pure frustration, I shoved the door open and got out, stepping onto the curb under the gleaming lights of the iconic store I hadn't set foot in since my disinheritance. He didn't follow, just watched from the car, a king sending a peasant on an errand.
The humiliation burned, but a colder, sharper resolve hardened beneath it. He wanted to play this game? Fine. I'd let him buy the clothes. I'd wear them. And I'd use every single thread to help tear his world down, right alongside my family's.
The door of the Rolls-Royce closed with a hushed, expensive thud, sealing me outside on the curb. Before I could even turn around, the driver was at my side, a silent, imposing presence.
"Mr. Daki's instructions," he said, his voice low and utterly neutral. He gestured for me to lead the way into Bergdorf Goodman.
My protest died in my throat. This was happening. I walked into the perfumed, ruthlessly air-conditioned air of the store, feeling like an imposter.
The driver didn't follow me through the racks. Instead, he went straight to an older, severe-looking woman who seemed to be waiting for him. He leaned in and whispered something. Her eyes flicked to me, then back to the driver, and she gave a single, sharp nod of understanding.
A moment later, she descended upon me. "Right this way, miss," she said, her voice crisp and efficient. She led me to a private dressing room that was larger than my entire bathroom.
Then the parade began.
She and an assistant returned, their arms laden with dresses. But these weren't just any dresses. They were weapons. A Valentino gown with a neckline that plunged with lethal intent. A slinky Saint Laurent number with a slit that went clear up to the hip. A fierce red Versace that looked like it was made for a Bond villainess. Each one was more breathtaking, more audacious, and more utterly un-me than the last.
The slits were so high, the fabrics so daring, it was a level of va-va-voom that felt more like a declaration of war than an outfit.
I stood there, overwhelmed, swimming in a sea of black and red silk and chiffon. This wasn't a "necessary business expense." This was a message. This was him putting me in a costume of his choosing, remaking me in the image he wanted to project.
I could practically feel his smug satisfaction from the car outside. He knew exactly what he was doing, throwing me off balance, reminding me that every aspect of my life was now his to curate.
That infuriating, calculating, smug Tanuki.
The word, the old childhood nickname, slipped out in a venomous whisper under my breath as I held up a dangerously sheer black gown. "That damn Tanuki."
The saleswoman either didn't hear me or was too professional to react. She simply held up the Versace. "I think this one, don't you? It makes a statement."
A statement, alright. One that said I was owned, and my owner had exceptionally expensive, and utterly ruthless, taste.
The dress was a masterpiece of black Versace silk, clinging in all the right places and flaring out just enough to feel dramatic. But the slit. The slit was a declaration of war on modesty, running so high it felt like a dare with every step I took.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door to the fitting room and stepped out.
He was there, leaning against a plush ottoman, having a quiet, murmured conversation with the severe saleswoman.
He looked up as I stepped out, and for a single, fleeting moment, his expression was utterly unreadable. His dark eyes scanned me from head to toe, and his face was a complete mask, devoid of any reaction—no approval, no complaint, nothing. It was as if he were assessing a piece of art, his thoughts completely locked away.
Then his gaze snagged on my hands, which were unconsciously pressed flat against my thigh, a feeble attempt to keep the daring slit from falling open any further. A slow, infuriatingly familiar smirk finally broke through his neutral mask.
"Trying to keep it closed defeats the entire purpose of the design, Black Cat," he said, his voice a low, sarcastic purr that only I could hear. "I paid for the slit. I'd rather like to see it."
The quiet discomfort I'd felt was instantly incinerated, replaced by a hot wave of pure, unadulterated annoyance. My hands dropped to my sides, clenched into fists.
Of course. He wasn't just dressing me; he was baiting me. He'd noticed my one small moment of unease and had to immediately weaponize it.
"It's fine," I bit out, my voice tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a bigger reaction.
His smirk only widened. "I know it is," he said smoothly, his eyes glinting with amusement. He turned back to the saleswoman, his demeanor shifting back to cool business. "We'll take it. Have the tags removed."
He tossed a black card onto the counter without looking at it, his attention already moving on, as if the transaction—and my simmering irritation—were merely minor details already handled.
"The car is waiting," he said, already heading for the door, expecting me to follow in my new, weaponized gown. The battle lines for the evening had just been drawn, and he'd provided the uniform himself.
The drive to the event was a blur of light and shadow inside the silent Rolls-Royce. We arrived at a venue glowing under crystal chandeliers, the air humming with the low murmur of money and power. It was a sea of tuxedos and gowns that cost more than cars, a world I knew intimately but now felt alien in.
I clung to Reomen's side, a silent accessory in my daring gown, my senses overwhelmed. I recognized faces I'd only seen in the Wall Street Journal or on Forbes covers. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs.
Then I saw them.
Across the crowded room, standing near a glittering ice sculpture as if they owned the very air around it, were Shunsuke and Barbara Rimestone.
My father stood imposingly straight in his tailored tuxedo, one arm offered to my mother. Barbara was a vision of cold elegance in a sleek Giorgio Armani gown, a glass of champagne in her hand, her smile a perfectly curated lie for the crowd.
The blood drained from my face so fast the room tilted. The noise of the party faded into a dull, roaring silence. My breath hitched, catching in my throat. Every ounce of composure I'd fought for vanished.
I was a ghost at their feast, standing in the one place they'd never expect to find me: on the arm of their newest enemy.