SHINKI
The city lights are a silent, glittering spectacle beyond my windows when my phone buzzes on the side table. I look away from the skyline to see Jiro's name on the screen. A text. That's unusual.
He's sitting across the room in a leather armchair, ostensibly reading a security briefing on his tablet. But I can see the faint smirk on his face.
I pick up the phone. There's just a single hyperlink. No explanation.
I look across the room at him. "What is this?"
He doesn't look up from his tablet. "Open it."
I'm deeply skeptical. This feels like a trap. With a sigh, I tap the link. My browser opens to a sleek, dark-themed website. The name glows in elegant, crimson script: Pandora's Box.
My brow furrows. "Jiro. What is this?"
"Read the reviews," he says, his voice a study in false neutrality.
My eyes scan the page. The first review is prominently displayed.
'By far the best adult club in the city. Very professional and understanding staff. The Lady's are very beautiful and courteous. Prices are what they are for a city joint. Only advice, allow customers to settle in for a bit and consume a drink before being asked for a dances or massages (read more…)'
3.5 Stars (30 reviews)
I look up, utterly bewildered. "What the fuck?"
My eyes drop back to the screen, scanning for another data point. I find it.
'My favorite dungeon in NYC. As someone who switches, I can't tell you how rare it is for a BDSM club to cater to both it's customers, and it's clients. I like that there's no judgement ever, and they've got a good variety of rooms. I wish there were more themed nights and munches like Paddles, but I also—'
My gaze snags on the text just below the review. Price: Membership Initiation Fee - $2,000,000.
"What the hell?" I say, my voice sharper this time. I hold up my phone, the screen facing him. "Is this your idea of a push in the right direction?"
Jiro finally looks up, his smirk fully formed now. "You said you were considering it."
"The BDSM aspect does sound… promising," I admit, the analytical part of my brain momentarily intrigued by the mention of structure, rules, and clear power dynamics. It appeals to the need for control.
"I knew you'd come around," Jiro says, a hint of triumph in his voice.
"I was joking," I snap, locking my phone and tossing it onto the sofa beside me as if it's contaminated. "There is no conceivable world where I am paying a random woman two million dollars to… to whatever happens in a 'dungeon'."
My eyes narrow on him, a new, disturbing thought occurring to me. "Is this how you spend your money? On two-million-dollar memberships to sex clubs?"
He shrugs, completely unfazed. "It's my money."
A wave of sheer, horrified relief washes over me. "Thank God you're not on my payroll." I gesture vaguely at the discarded phone. "I'd have to fire you for financial insanity."
He just grunts and goes back to his tablet, his point made. The option, however absurd, has been laid bare. And we both know I'm not going to take it. The problem isn't a physical one a stranger can solve, no matter how professional or costly.
The problem has red hair and a lawsuit, and she's currently living in my head, rent-free.
– – –
The Rolls-Royce glides through the nighttime streets of Manhattan, a silent capsule of isolation. The city blurs past the windows, a river of light I feel completely detached from.
Jiro, a brooding presence in the passenger seat, breaks the silence. "I'll be making a stop."
I glance at him, the clock on the dashboard glowing 10:37 PM. "At this hour?"
He stares straight ahead, his expression unreadable. "I have a membership to attend to. And all that talk about... solutions... got me in the mood for some action."
I don't ask for details. I don't want them. I smoothly pull the car to the curb near a non-descript building in a neighborhood I don't frequent. "Fine. Have fun on your... sexcapade." The word feels foreign and ridiculous in my mouth.
Jiro gets out, but before closing the door, he leans back in. "It's not too late to get a membership of your own. The offer stands."
I just shake my head, a sharp, final gesture. "No. Thank you."
He slams the door, and I pull away from the curb, leaving him to his pursuits. The silence in the car is now absolute, and it's filled with the ghost of our earlier conversation. Jiro's accusations echo in my mind, each one a pebble tossed into the still pond of my control.
The denial is a pressure in my chest, needing a physical outlet. My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
"I am not sexually frustrated," I say aloud, my voice cutting through the quiet, testing the words. They sound hollow. "And I don't want to fuck Maisie Rory."
The traffic lights change, casting a red glow over my face. I accelerate through the intersection.
"I am not addicted to her," I continue, the declaration feeling more like a plea. "Or her drama. She is a business problem. A variable. An equation to be solved."
I repeat the mantra all the way back to my building, the words a shield against the persistent, unwelcome images: the defiant set of her jaw in the deposition, the way her body moved in that club.
The elevator ride to my penthouse is a conscious effort to push everything Maisie-related out of my head. I visualize dumping the thoughts into a mental incinerator. By the time the doors open, I have rebuilt my walls.
Mrs. Tanaka, the elderly housekeeper my mother insisted accompany me to New York, is waiting in the foyer. Her presence is a tether to a different world, one of tradition and quiet order.
"Soma-sama," she says with a slight bow. "Do you require anything this evening?"
"My usual dinner, please," I tell her, my voice returning to its normal, detached calm. "In my study."
She bows again and shuffles away.
I walk into my bedroom, shrugging off my suit jacket. The day's tension feels woven into the fabric. I toss it over a chair.
Almost immediately, a small, black shadow detaches itself from under the bed. Spreadsheet lets out a loud, demanding "Meaw!" and begins weaving figure-eights around my ankles, his tail held high.
I look down at the creature. Even the cat feels like a manifestation of the chaos that has infected my life. But for once, I don't push him away. I simply stand there, a statue in the middle of my sterile room, while a tiny, furry engine of need purrs at my feet, a living, breathing contradiction to the control I'm desperately trying to reclaim.
The cat squirms in my grip. I don't scoop it up. I pick it up by the loose skin at the back of its neck, the way its mother might have, and transfer its weight properly into the palm of one hand. It goes still, a small, warm, compliant weight. I carry it to the foot of the bed and set it down. It immediately starts washing a paw, its moment of indignity forgotten.
I turn away. My fingers go to the buttons of my shirt. One. Two. Three. The crisp white cotton parts. I shrug the shirt off my shoulders, my abdominal muscles tightening and flexing with the movement. It falls to the floor in a soft heap. I don't care.
My belt is next. The leather slips through the buckle with a whisper, then a soft thud as it joins the shirt. I toe off my shoes, then push my tailored slacks and boxer briefs down my legs in a single, efficient motion. I step out of the puddle of fabric.
Now, I am naked.
I walk into the adjoining bathroom, the cool marble tiles a shock under my bare feet. The lights are motion-activated, flooding the sterile, minimalist space with a clinical glow. I stop before the full-length mirror.
My own reflection stares back. Ice-blue eyes in a face that looks tired. My hair, usually perfect, is disheveled from running my hands through it. I look less like a CEO and more like a man who has been in a fight. A long, draining fight not of fists, but of wills.
"You look like shit," I tell the man in the glass.
I turn from the judgment in my own eyes and move to the deep, free-standing stone tub. I turn the taps, and steaming water cascades out. I pick up a bottle of sandalwood oil—the same scent that clings to my sheets, the same scent that haunted the club, the same scent that seems to follow her.
I pour a generous, almost wasteful amount into the rushing water. The rich, woody fragrance instantly fills the room, a scent I usually find clarifying. Now it feels complicated.
I sink into the scalding water. I don't ease in; I submerge myself, sliding down until only my hair, my eyes, and my nose remain above the surface. The heat is a punishment and a penance, searing my skin, trying to burn away the grime of the day.
The water envelops me. The silence presses in.
And she invades.
The thought is unwelcome, a hostile takeover of my mind. An image of her naked body, not under the water, but under me. The fantasy is vivid, tactile—the imagined feel of her rose-white skin against mine, the heat of her, the fight that would undoubtedly translate from the boardroom to the bedsheets. The sharp intake of her breath, not in anger, but in—
No.
I push the thought away. It is a mental intruder. I shove it back with a force that makes the water ripple around me.
I close my eyes. I do something foreign, something I have trained myself my entire life not to do. I don't analyze. I don't strategize. I don't calculate my next move.
I force myself to stop thinking.
The water is hot. The scent is sandalwood. The room is silent. These are the only facts I allow. I focus on the physical sensations, building a wall of pure, sensory input to keep everything else out. For these few minutes, in the drowning quiet, I am not a CEO, not a rival, not a man plagued by a red-haired devil.
I am just a body, floating in hot, scented water, desperately trying to be empty.