MAISIE
The familiar scent of old paper, lemon polish, and cold marble hits me first. Then the visual sears itself into my brain, and my stomach turns to lead.
The private study room off the main library hall. The one with the single, high window, the long oak table scarred by generations of students, the green banker's lamp. The room where, three years ago, Alexander Callum, brilliant MBA candidate and my first everything, had tutored a floundering, lovesick freshman in macroeconomics.
The room where I'd first thought myself in love.
He leads me inside now and closes the heavy wooden door. The roar of the gala softens to a distant hum. The silence in here is thick, personal.
"You brought me here," I say, my voice sounding flat and strange to my own ears. I don't look at him. I stare at a particular groove on the table where I'd once nervously carved my initial with a pen. "Why this room?"
"It seemed fitting," he replies. He leans against the table, mirroring a pose from memory. He looks so at ease, so in control of the narrative. "A chance to revisit where things began. Before they got… complicated."
A cold, sharp laugh escapes me. "Complicated. That's one word for it." Finally, I turn my gaze to him. He's so handsome. It still registers, like noting a well-made weapon. All dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes the color of a banked fire. It means nothing. "What do you want, Alexander? Really? You didn't drag me in here for nostalgia."
He pushes off the table and takes a slow step toward me. "I think you know what I want, Maisie."
My body reacts before my mind. An instinctive step back. My heels hit the leg of a chair. "I don't. Enlighten me."
He stops, a flicker of something—irritation?—crossing his perfect features. He holds his hands up, the picture of harmless intent. "I'm trying here. I want you back."
The words hang in the air, absurd and insulting. I just stare at him.
He sees my disbelief and presses on, his voice dropping into that low, intimate purr he used to use to explain bond yields. "You misread everything before. My intentions. My actions. I did love you, Maisie. I do. I wasn't after your company. I wanted to be your partner. In every way. To help you build it, grow it. We could have been… allies. And lovers. A power couple in the truest sense."
The audacity is breathtaking. It's like he's rewritten our entire history in his head, editing out the ugly parts. The anger, which had been a cold knot, ignites.
"You're a liar," I say, the words quiet and deadly. "You didn't want a partner. You wanted a pet. A pretty, grateful accessory who'd hand over her father's life's work because you smiled and said you loved her." I take a step forward now, driven by the heat of the truth. "And 'lovers'? Don't you dare. You cheated on me, Alexander. For six months. With your family's publicist. What was her name…? Elara? The one with the laugh that sounded like breaking glass."
His composure cracks. A muscle ticks in his jaw. "That was one mistake. A moment of weakness. You were so… consumed with your little robot projects. I felt neglected."
"My little robot projects were my father dying and me trying to keep his heart beating!" The shout echoes in the small room. I'm breathing hard. "And it wasn't a 'moment.' It was half a year. I didn't find out because you confessed. I found you. In your apartment. In our bed. You told me I was being 'hysterical and possessive' for thinking it meant anything."
He has the decency to look away, his gaze shifting to the bookshelves. "I never knew you to be one to hold a grudge, Maisie. It's beneath you. It's not the savvy businesswoman you've become."
He uses my own image against me. It's clever. It makes me feel small and spiteful. He takes advantage of my hesitation, taking another smooth step closer. The space between us shrinks, charged with the past and his expensive cologne.
"I don't hold grudges," I say, but my voice is weaker. The memory is a physical pain—the sight of them, the smell of her perfume on my sheets, the cold, dismissive look on his face as he zipped his trousers. "I just have a very long, very accurate memory for people who—"
He moves.
One moment he's there, the next he's closing the final distance. My back hits the solid wood of the door with a soft thud. He's in front of me, his hands coming up to frame my face. His touch is warm, familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"Let me show you it could be different," he murmurs, his eyes searching mine. "Let me remind you."
And then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's a claim. His mouth is on mine, insistent, trying to rewrite the present the way he rewrote the past. The taste of him—spearmint and expensive scotch—is a horrifying flashback to a time when that taste meant safety, desire, love.
Revulsion floods me, hot and immediate. My hands fly up, palms slamming against his chest. I shove with all my strength. "Get off—!"
But he's stronger. His idle hands drop from my face and lock around my waist, pulling me hard against him. The crush of his body, the insistence of his kiss—it's a violation. It steals my breath and my balance. I twist my face away, gasping. "Alexander, stop!"
He doesn't. One arm bands like iron around my back, holding me in place. His other hand comes up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, trying to guide my mouth back to his. "Just remember," he breathes against my cheek, his voice thick. "Just let go of the grudge."
Panic and fury fuse into a single, white-hot point of action. My right arm is trapped between us, but my left is free. I wrench it upwards, the movement desperate and fueled by pure adrenaline.
The crack of my palm against his cheek is shockingly loud in the quiet room.
It's not a ladylike tap. It's a full-bodied slap that snaps his head to the side and sends a jolt of fiery pain across my own fingers.
Everything stops.
His grip on me loosens instantly. He stumbles back a single step, his hand rising to his reddening cheek. He stares at me, his eyes wide with pure, uncomprehending shock. The charming mask is utterly gone, replaced by raw, bruised arrogance.
I am trembling, my chest heaving. The taste of him is still in my mouth. The ghost of his hands is on my skin. I feel filthy. Furious.
I don't say a word. I just look at him, my hand still stinging, my eyes screaming everything I can't voice.
The door feels solid and real behind me. I find the handle, turn it, and yank it open. The noise of the gala rushes in, a wave of false cheer. I don't look back. I walk out, my legs shaky but carrying me away, leaving him alone in the room where our story truly ended, not began, for the second and final time.
– – –
SHINKI
The air in the main hall is a cocktail of ambition and expensive perfume. I'm extracting a pledge of support from Monica Smith, a finance CEO whose fund could sway several key votes. She's been green-lighting my proposals all night, her eyes doing more work than her words.
"The stability Kage Capital would bring is precisely what the sector needs," she says, leaning in just a fraction too close. Her smile is all capped teeth and calculation. "A firm hand. I admire a man who isn't afraid to be… decisive."
I give her a millimeter of a smile, the one that costs nothing. "Decisiveness is merely the application of logic to a set of variables, Monica. Your fund's data analytics seem to agree with my assessment." I keep my tone flat, professional. A wall of polished ice.
She's not my type.
What even is my type? The intrusive thought surfaces, unwanted. I dismiss it. Type implies a preference, a pattern of emotional selection. I have criteria. Compatibility. Strategic value. Not… type.
My gaze, restless, sweeps over the crowd behind her—and snags.
Maisie.
She stumbles out from a shadowed corridor off the main hall. Not a graceful exit. It's a fleeing. Her head is down, one hand clutching the skirt of that devastating black dress as if it's anchoring her. She looks… unspun. Like she's trying to physically outrun something.
No. Someone.
A moment later, Alexander Callum emerges from the same corridor. His posture is rigid, his face a storm cloud. And he's… rubbing his cheek. A slow, deliberate press of his fingers against his jaw.
A cold, sharp jolt goes through me.
Did she slap him?
The thought is visceral. Damn.
"Shinki?" Monica's voice is a buzz in my ear. "Are we boring you?"
My eyes don't leave Maisie. She's moving through the crowd like a ghost, people parting unconsciously around her chaotic energy. She's fumbling with her clutch, pulling out her phone. Her hands are shaking.
"Something has come up," I say to Monica, my voice distant even to my own ears.
"It certainly has," she mutters, her own eyes following my line of sight. She frowns, her perfectly curated expression souring as she identifies the distraction. "The Rory girl? Really, Shinki? She's a messy, emotional child playing dress-up. I'd have thought your tastes ran more… sophisticated."
I finally look at her. Just a turn of my head. My expression doesn't change, but something in my eyes makes her take a half-step back. "She is a business rival," I say, each word a chip of ice. "My interest is strategic. You are not."
I leave her standing there, her mouth a little open. She's not my problem.
I cut through the crowd, my path a straight line to where Maisie has stopped near a potted fern, half-hidden. She's staring at her phone screen, thumb swiping frantically. Calling someone. Lena, probably. Who is currently being hauled across town by my disgruntled head of security. She won't answer.
As I get closer, the details sharpen. Her chest is moving too fast. She's blinking rapidly, stubbornly, but the sheen in her eyes is unmistakable under the crystal chandeliers. Red-rimmed. Glassy with unshed tears.
My jaw tightens. A familiar, cold fury begins to pool in my stomach.
What the fuck did that bastard do to her?
She hasn't noticed me. She's in her own world of panic and rage, fighting a losing battle against the tears, her breath hitching almost silently. She lowers the phone, a look of sheer frustration crossing her face when the call doesn't connect.
"Rory."
She flinches, hard, as if I've struck her. Her head whips up. The storm in her grey-green eyes is a chaotic mix of fury, humiliation, and a vulnerability that makes my chest feel too tight. She looks from side to side, as if seeking an escape.
"I don't need more drama tonight, Soma," she says, her voice raspy, strained. She looks away, focusing on the wall. "I already got the first slice. Just… go away."
I don't go away. I walk until I'm standing directly in front of her, blocking her view of the room. This close, I can see it. She's vibrating. A fine, constant tremor runs through her, from her clenched hands to the subtle quiver in her shoulders. Shock? Anger? Fear? It's all mixed together, and the sight of it is intolerable.
"Maisie."
The use of her first name works. Her eyes snap back to mine, wide with surprise. It's a breach in our protocol. A personal address in a war of surnames.
"What happened?" My voice is low, leaving no room for her usual deflections. I keep my gaze locked on hers, trying to read the story in their shattered glass. "Why do you look like you just crawled out of a fight with Satan himself?"
She presses her lips together, a stubborn, tight line. She shakes her head once, a sharp, defiant motion. She won't talk. Not here. Not like this.
I roll my eyes, a gesture of pure, frustrated impatience. Talking is inefficient. Debating is pointless. I need data, and she is malfunctioning in the middle of the operational floor.
I reach out and take her hand.
She gasps, trying to pull back, but my grip is firm. Not painful, but unyielding. Her skin is cold. "What are you—?"
"I don't want to hear it," I cut her off, already turning, leading her away from the crowd. I don't care about her protests. I want to know why she's broken, and she can't give me the answer standing here where anyone can see. "Walk."
To my surprise—or perhaps because the fight has been momentarily slapped out of her—she follows. She doesn't resist. Her fingers are stiff in mine, but she lets me pull her through a service door marked 'Private', into a dim, narrow hallway lined with storage shelves and cleaning carts. The roar of the gala vanishes, replaced by the hum of a water heater and the smell of floor wax.
I find a small, empty utility closet, its door ajar. I push it open, glance inside. Brooms, buckets, spare light bulbs. Private enough.
I pull her in, release her hand, and turn to shut the door behind us. The click of the latch in the silent, dark space is final.
The only light now spills from a small, high window in the door, casting a slanted, dusty rectangle across the concrete floor. It illuminates the particles of dust dancing between us, and the pale, stricken planes of her face.
We're alone. Sealed in. And the question hangs in the cramped, silent air between us, more demanding than ever.
Now she has to talk.
The only sound in the cramped, dark space is her breathing. It's uneven, a ragged rhythm that seems too loud against the silent hum of the building. Shallow inhales, shaky exhales. She's holding onto her composure by a thread.
"Maisie." I say her name again. It feels different in here. A fact, not a weapon.
She wraps her arms around herself, a defensive gesture I hate. "Why do you even care?" The question is a challenge, but it's brittle. There's a real curiosity underneath the anger.
Why do I care?
The question echoes in the logical vault of my mind. I search the files, run the diagnostics. Business rival. Obstacle. Variable. Liable to press. Emotional. Inefficient.
None of the data points explain the cold, metallic taste in my mouth or the specific, targeted fury I feel toward Alexander Callum.
"I don't," I say. The words are automatic. Clean. A statement of fact. "Not in the way you mean."
She lets out a short, humorless sound. "That's what I thought." She moves, a slight shift of weight, preparing to walk past me, to shoulder her way out of this closet and this conversation. I don't move from the door.
"Wait."
"I need to find Lena," she insists, her voice gaining a panicked edge. "I need to leave."
"Lena isn't available," I tell her, my tone flat. "Jiro is with her. There was an incident. A spilled drink. He's… remedying the situation."
Her brow furrows, confusion cutting through her distress. "What? Why is Jiro—? Never mind. I'll just go to my car. I'm done. I'm so done with this place."
She's vibrating again. Flight mode. Pure, unprocessed adrenaline.
"Just talk." The command leaves my mouth before I can filter it. It's not strategic. It's a need. I need to know the parameters of the damage. "You're no good to anyone, least of all yourself, in this state. Define the problem."
She stares at me in the dim slash of light. I can see the war behind her eyes: pride versus the desperate need to expel the poison. Her shoulders slump, the fight draining out of her, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
"Fine," she sighs, the word full of defeat. "But only because Lena isn't here, and I feel like I'm going to scream if I don't tell someone. Don't make this a thing."
"Consider it a temporary truce," I agree, folding my arms. "Information shared in this room stays here. Purely for situational awareness."
She nods, leans back against a cold metal shelf, and looks at the floor. The story comes out in bursts. Alexander. Their history. His tutoring, the naive college relationship. His gradual condescension, his dismissal of her work, his vision of her as a "partner" which really meant a silent, pretty accessory. Then the cheating. Finding him. The cold dismissal.
My hands are steady at my sides. I file each piece of data. Pattern: narcissistic manipulation. Outcome: profound betrayal.
Then she gets to tonight. The alcove. His rewrite of history. His declaration. His advance.
"…and he said I was holding a grudge, and then he just… he kissed me."
My hand, hanging at my side, clenches into a fist so tight my knuckles pop. The darkness hides it. Good. The image is immediate and violently unwanted: his mouth on hers. His. Possession, hot and irrational, burns through my veins, colder and sharper than any business rivalry.
Her voice grows more agitated, painting the scene. Her shove. His hands locking around her, possessive, insistent. The struggle. The panic.
"And I just… I slapped him. I couldn't breathe. He just… took." Her voice cracks on the last word, the professional bravado completely gone, revealing the raw, shocked girl underneath. "And now I'm just… pissed. And shocked. And… a little scared. Because a man like Alexander doesn't get slapped. He'll let that slide. He'll make it a thing."
Fuck.
The fear in her voice is the final, unacceptable variable.
"Are you crying?" I hear myself ask. I take a half-step forward into the narrow space between us. My hand twitches at my side with the impulse to… what? Wipe a tear? A ridiculous, illogical impulse. I force it to stay still.
"No," she whispers, but her voice is thick, watery. A lie.
The calculations in my head are no longer financial. They are tactical, violent. Several efficient, untraceable ways to dismantle Alexander Callum present themselves. I savor each one for a nanosecond.
The tremor running through her is visible now. A full-body shiver.
Logic fails. Protocol is irrelevant.
I close the last step between us. I don't ask. I simply pull her against my chest.
She doesn't resist. There's no fight left. She comes stiffly at first, then her body sags, a small, shuddering weight against me. The top of her head fits just under my chin. She is shaking.
I wrap one arm around her back, the other resting awkwardly, then not so awkwardly, against her head, my hand cradling the back of her sleek hair. "Breathe," I command, my voice rough near her ear. "Just breathe. In and out. He's not here."
She takes a shuddering inhale, then another. Her fists, trapped between us, slowly unclench.
I am surprised. Not by her distress, but by this. By how slight she feels. The fierce, towering presence that argues with me in boardrooms is condensed into this slim, fragile frame. And by how… right it feels. The curve of her back under my palm, the way her head tucks against me. It's a perfect, unsettling fit. I shake the thought away, a dangerous glitch in the system.
I close my eyes. I count backwards from one hundred. I try to force my mind into its familiar, orderly grid. Assets. Liabilities. Market projections.
When I open my eyes, she is lifting her head.
Her face is tilted up, pale in the gloom. Her grey-green eyes are huge, searching mine. Her lips are parted slightly, still trembling. My gaze drops to them. Instantly, I know exactly what they would taste like. Not like Callum's spearmint and scotch. Like her. Like champagne and fury and something sweetly, fundamentally her.
The urge to find out is sudden and overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatens to erase every rule I live by. It mixes violently with the urge to find Alexander and break every bone he used to touch her.
I do nothing. I am a statue. I hold the line.
We stare at each other for an eternity, suspended in the dusty silence. Her eyes flicker, just for a heartbeat, down to my mouth. The air between us crackles, thick and impossible.
Then she blinks, as if waking up. She shakes her head, a tiny, frantic motion. "I'm… I'm fine now," she stammers, her voice barely a whisper. She starts to pull back, her hands coming up to press lightly against my chest.
I let her go immediately. The space where her body was feels abruptly cold, a void. My arms feel useless.
"Good to know," I say, my voice returning to its normal, detached cadence. An utter lie.
She takes a full step back, putting clean distance between us. She smooths her dress, a nervous, self-conscious gesture. "Thanks," she murmurs, not meeting my eyes.
"I'll call Jiro," I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. A practical action. A return to roles. "He'll have an ETA." I don't look at her as I say it. I focus on the screen, its cold light a welcome anchor.
She just nods, wrapping her arms around herself again, not in fear this time, but in something that looks like… confusion. The same confusion currently short-circuiting my own meticulously ordered mind.