PAIGE
The squeak of my apartment door was the most beautiful sound I'd heard in two days. It meant home. My own space. My own air. The familiar scent of lemon cleaner and Leon's abandoned takeout hit me, a stark, welcome contrast to the sterile, expensive air of Reomen's penthouse.
I barely had a second to drop my bag before Leon was on me.
He didn't just stand up from the couch; he launched himself off it, his face a thundercloud of worry and pent-up fury. He shoved his phone right in my face, the screen blindingly bright in the dim apartment.
"'I'm alive'?" he quoted, his voice a low, strained thing that was far scarier than any yell. "Seriously, Paige? Seriously?"
I blinked, taking in the text I'd sent him hours ago. In my exhausted, sleep-deprived state, it had seemed sufficient. Now, under the full force of his terrified anger, it looked pathetic. A stupid, flippant message to someone who had clearly been imagining the worst.
"After two days of radio silence! After you vanish from a police station! After I called every hospital in a twenty-mile radius!" he barreled on, not giving me a chance to speak.
He ran a hand through his already messy hair, making it stand straight up. "I thought you were in a ditch! I thought your family had you stuffed in a trunk! And all I get is a two-word text that reads like a bad action movie one-liner?"
The guilt hit me then, a solid, sickening wave. I saw the dark circles under his eyes, the genuine, raw panic he wasn't even trying to hide. He'd been wrecked.
"Leon, I—" I started, my voice hoarse.
"No," he cut me off, his hand dropping to his side. The anger seemed to drain out of him all at once, replaced by a deep, weary concern. "Just… just tell me you're okay. For real this time."
I looked at my best friend, my rock, and felt the last of my own defensive walls crumble. The exhaustion, the fear, the surreal whiplash of the last 48 hours—it all crashed down.
"I'm okay," I whispered, the words finally feeling true. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's… it's a long story."
He just stared at me for a long moment, then let out a huge, shuddering sigh. He pulled me into a bone-crushing hug, the kind that told me I was forgiven even before the scolding was over.
"You're buying the pizza," he mumbled into my hair. "And you're telling me every single detail. Starting with why you smell like a billionaire's cologne."
I sighed, the sound heavy with two days' worth of exhaustion and surreal stress. I collapsed onto our worn-out couch, the springs groaning in familiar protest, and launched into the whole, unbelievable story.
I told him about the ruined Versace, the new one Reomen had bought, and the opulent dinner that felt more like a battlefield. I described Payton's cheap shot, the cold shock of the wine, and the crushing humiliation. I explained falling asleep in his stupidly quiet Rolls-Royce—again—and waking up in his penthouse guest room—again.
I detailed the late-night kitchen confrontation, the shattered glass, and Reomen's cold, calculated offer of an alliance. I told him about my decision, the gala, and the terrifying, electric tension that seemed to crackle in the air whenever we were close.
Then I got to the part I didn't want to say. The words stumbled out, hesitant and awkward.
"And… there was this moment," I mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion, avoiding his eyes. "He was… infuriating. And smug. And… close. And for a second, I just… I felt this weird… urge."
Leon, who had been listening with a deepening frown, froze. He slowly raised an eyebrow. "An urge."
"To… you know." I waved a hand vaguely. "Kiss him. Or… something."
The silence in the room was absolute. Leon just stared at me, his expression unreadable.
"It was nothing!" I insisted, my voice a little too high, my cheeks heating. "It was just the stress! And the lack of sleep! And, I don't know, probably a side effect of extreme celibacy! It didn't mean anything. It was just… biology. Or adrenaline. Or something."
I finally chanced a look at him. He was still just staring, one eyebrow perfectly arched, a silent testament to how completely and utterly full of it he knew I was.
He didn't argue. He didn't call me out. He just gave a slow, deliberate nod. It wasn't a nod of agreement. It was the nod of a man who had just seen a puzzle piece click perfectly into place.
"Right," he said, his voice dripping with a skepticism so thick you could spread it on toast. "Celibacy and sleep deprivation. Definitely. That's a new one. I'll have to remember that excuse."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression shifting from amused to seriously intent.
"Paige," he said, his tone softer now, but no less direct. "I've seen you stressed. I've seen you sleep-deprived. I saw you after you walked away from your family with nothing but a backpack. I have never, ever seen you look at anyone—man, woman, or spectacularly attractive piece of pastry—with the kind of furious, complicated energy you just described."
He held up a hand to stop my inevitable protest.
"I'm not saying you have to like it. I'm not even saying it's a good idea. He's your boss. He's a smug, manipulative bastard who owns you for 1.8 million dollars. The list of reasons why this is a catastrophically bad idea is longer than my arm."
He paused, letting the gravity of that list hang in the air between us.
"But chemistry?" he said with a final, knowing shrug. "That doesn't care about lists. And from where I'm sitting? It's only a matter of time."
He leaned back, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV, effectively ending the conversation. The sudden blare of a laugh track filled the apartment, a stark contrast to the heavy silence he'd just left in his wake.
I sat there, his words sinking in, feeling both seen and utterly exposed. He hadn't judged me. He'd just stated a simple, terrifying fact, as if he were predicting rain.
And the worst part was, I knew he was right.
AUTHOR
The air in the traditional Wajima-nuri lacquered study was thick with the scent of aged kunugi oak and stale silence. Shunsuke Rimestone knelt on a Tatami mat, his posture rigid in a custom Tom Ford suit that felt increasingly like a cage.
Across the low shouji table, Yamada Fujii sat with the serene composure of a man who had already won, his fingers steepled beneath a tailored Yohji Yamamoto jacket. Between them, an untouched pot of Sannenban sencha tea had gone cold, its steam long since surrendered to the weight of unresolved history.
Through the sliding doors, the karesansui (dry landscape) garden of Yamada's Aoto-based residence lay perfectly raked, every stone and ripple of gravel a testament to control—a quality both men understood intimately. A single Japanese maple tree burned crimson in the twilight, its leaves echoing the simmering tension in the room.
"The merger was meant to be seamless," Shunsuke said, his voice a low gravel of frustration. He adjusted his Grand Seiko watch, a nervous tic he'd never quite mastered. "The alliance would have secured Rimestone Co.'s shipping lanes through your Pacific ports. Your son's marriage to my daughter was the keystone."
Yamada's gaze remained fixed on the garden, as if reading answers in the stones. "My son understood his duty. It was your daughter who rejected the arrangement." He spoke without accusation, yet each word landed like a polished blade. "Paige's… defiance… cost us both a great deal. Denki's position in your company was meant to solidify our partnership. Now he plays bodyguard to your rival's pawn."
A black Lexus LS sedan—Yamada's preferred vehicle—gleamed in the driveway beyond the garden, a silent symbol of the industrial prowess that had built his fortune. Shunsuke's own Bentley Flying Spur waited beside it, a darker, more aggressive silhouette against the fading light.
"She chose sentiment over legacy," Shunsuke bit out, his knuckles whitening around his Noritake teacup. "A foolish gamble with Daki. But she will learn. They always do."
Yamada finally turned, his eyes narrowing. "Will she? Or will she burn your house down to warm her hands?" He gestured vaguely toward the city skyline visible beyond the walled garden. "Daki is not a mere rival. He is a storm. And your daughter is standing in the eye of it."
Yamada's eyes, sharp and unyielding as the stones in his garden, remained fixed on Shunsuke. "A simple solution presented itself," he stated, his voice cutting through the quiet room. "Your second daughter, Payton. Why was she not offered to fulfill the arrangement? The alliance could have been preserved. The deal sealed."
A dismissive, almost weary flick of Shunsuke's hand waved the question away as if it were an insignificant gnat. The truth—that he would never subject his favorite, pliable daughter to a strategic marriage, that he cherished Payton's frivolous freedom—was a card he would never reveal.
"Payton is… not suited for such responsibilities," he deflected, his tone final. He took a sip of the cold tea, the bitterness mirroring the conversation. "And Paige…" He let out a short, derisive breath. "She believes herself a revolutionary, but she is a child throwing a tantrum. She has passion, but not the spine for a prolonged fight. She thinks she is playing a game of chess, but she forgets who taught her the rules."
Yamada's expression remained deeply skeptical, his silence a louder accusation than any shout.
"Do not concern yourself, Yamada-san," Shunsuke said, his voice regaining its familiar, arrogant composure. He placed the cold cup down with a definitive click. "I am applying pressure. She will bend. They always do. It is only a matter of time before she realizes her rebellion has left her with nothing and no one. She will crawl back to the family, and when she does, she will be more compliant than ever."
He stood up, signaling the end of the discussion. "The Daki situation is a temporary distraction. A spark that will fizzle out. My daughter will break long before his empire can offer her any real shelter."
Yamada said nothing. He merely watched Shunsuke stride from the room, his gaze drifting back to the perfectly raked gravel of his garden—a world of control he understood.
But as he looked past it to the glittering, untamable skyline of Tokyo, he wondered if Shunsuke was not raking gravel against an incoming tide.
He had seen the look in Reomen Daki's eyes. It was not a spark. It was a forge. And Shunsuke was blindly pushing his daughter straight into the fire.