Katsuki leaned back in the leather chair, hands steepled under his chin, the epitome of composed interest. Or at least, that's what he imagined he looked like. From the inside, it felt more like containment. Controlled tension, tailored down to the thread.
Across the sleek conference table, Hana was speaking in perfect English—fluid, confident, her accent tinged with that strange, almost Mid-Atlantic crispness she'd somehow picked up after years of bingeing British crime dramas while studying for the bar.
"—and as a boutique firm, our agility gives us a distinct edge in market transitions," she said, gesturing lightly toward the screen. "Especially when it comes to foreign investment within the Japanese real estate sector. We don't waste time. We win."
Eleanor Hartwell arched a single brow, but she was smiling. That slow, dangerous kind of smile reserved for people who intrigued her. God help him. Hana had the attention of one of the most formidable women in international property—and Katsuki hadn't even opened his mouth yet.
Not that he needed to. Hana had this.
Which was, naturally, infuriating.
She wasn't even nervous. Not visibly, anyway. Her curls were tamed into something approximating professional order, her lipstick was that unsettling red that did unspeakable things to his blood pressure, and she was wearing the blouse he hated—because it gaped when she leaned forward. Not inappropriately. Just enough to be distracting. Enough to make Eleanor Hartwell glance, then politely look away.
He shouldn't care.
But he did.
God, when had she become this? This version of Hana, who strode into meetings like she owned them, who fielded questions like she'd swallowed every playbook he'd ever written and rewritten them in her own chaotic shorthand. Who smirked when Eleanor threw out the aggressive tax clause from the Oslo agreement and said, "That won't hold. But we can offer you something better."
Not "we recommend." Not "perhaps the partners would consider."
We can offer you something better.
Hana didn't belong in his office anymore. She belonged in a corner one, glass-walled and elevated. With her own name on the letterhead.
He'd spent months watching her spin from chaos to weapon-grade competence. From the secretary who once threw a stapler at Kai's head to the woman now selling their entire firm to a British magnate with nothing more than a tablet, a clicker, and a blazer that was absolutely too tight around her chest.
And yet, all he could think about—through Eleanor's nodding, through the slideshow, through Hana outlining their litigation-to-consulting ratio—was how he'd had her kneeling between his legs two nights ago.
Late. Office dim. Door locked. He'd been tense from the Norway call, still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled, head pounding. She didn't even say anything—just walked in, closed the door behind her, and dropped to her knees like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then—fucking hell—she looked up at him.
Wide eyes. Mouth already parted. That dangerous little glint in her eye like she knew what she was doing to him. Like she was proud of it.
He hadn't meant to touch her face. Or thread his fingers into her hair. Or tilt her chin up like he owned her.
But he did.
She let him. Smirked when he groaned. Let him guide her, slow and controlled, like he was the one in charge—until she made a sound that ripped the air from his lungs and he almost fucking collapsed.
He'd bit out her name—shaky, low, reverent—and she'd laughed. Sweet. Delirious. Then dragged her mouth down again and wrecked him.
He hadn't recovered. Probably never would.
That wasn't even the worst of it.
The worst was how she always looked at him afterward. Calm. Unbothered. Kissed the corner of his mouth, adjusted her skirt, and asked if he wanted dinner like she hadn't just reprogrammed his nervous system.
"—the property law reforms coming into effect next quarter won't affect your Tokyo build," Hana was saying now, utterly unbothered, gesturing to the projected timeline. "We've already secured a buffer clause through our connections in the Ministry."
Eleanor nodded, visibly impressed.
Katsuki wanted to slam his head into the table.
Because all he could think about now was the goddamn file room. The way she whispered his name while bent over a step ladder. Or the conference room. Post-deal, everyone gone, the lights dimmed—how she'd climbed onto the table, pulled him in by the tie, and said, "You look like you want to say something controlling. Say it with your mouth on my neck."
He had.
And then there was the car. The back seat. Her half in his lap, half in tears from laughing at something Naomi had said, and suddenly all soft hands and even softer moans.
He'd told her to shut up. She'd told him to make her.
He had.
He was supposed to be immune to this.
Hyperfocused. Unshakable.
But Hana didn't just shake him. She split him open.
She didn't ask for control. She took it. Sometimes with her tongue. Sometimes with a whisper. Sometimes with a look that said, I know exactly where your mind is right now and I'm going to leave you there, squirming.
And he let her.
Because for all his dominance, all his rules and structure and quiet fury, Hana was the one variable he had never solved for.
"Miss Hartwell," Hana said suddenly, gaze flicking to Eleanor with just the right amount of warmth and steel, "you came to Japan looking for someone who doesn't waste your time. We don't. And I think you already know that."
Katsuki's fingers curled against the armrest.
God help him, she'd already closed the deal.
With a single fucking sentence.
Eleanor's lips twitched. "I believe I do."
Katsuki exhaled through his nose.
Hana smiled—just enough to catch his eye. And there it was: that slight, maddening twitch of her lips. That curve that said I know exactly what you're thinking. And I'm not sorry.
She was the most infuriating woman he'd ever met.
And she was doing it again.
Sabotaging him.
Not seriously. Not maliciously.
Just perfectly.
Wrecking him from across the table with poise and competence and the memory of her mouth on his cock like it was a goddamn promise.
If this was the honeymoon phase, he was going to need industrial-strength therapy before the year ended.
And maybe a second shower room.
-----
The office was quiet.
Too quiet.
Like the kind of quiet that only exists after a war has been fought, a deal has been won, and everyone with a functioning sense of work-life balance has gone home. The overhead lights were off, the table still slightly warm from the projector, and someone had left behind a Diet Coke that was already flat.
Hana had kicked off her heels the second Eleanor's town car disappeared down the street and immediately regretted every life choice involving pointy shoes. She was perched sideways on the leather sofa in Katsuki's office. Her stockings were digging into her thighs. Her curls were a frizzy, post-blazer halo. And Katsuki—who had once threatened to fire someone for sending an email with a smiley face—was currently massaging her feet like it was a perfectly ordinary Thursday night.
Which it wasn't.
Not when his thumbs were pressing into that achy spot just beneath her arch, and she was pretty sure she made a sound that could only be described as inappropriate for the workplace.
"Careful," she muttered, half a breath away from melting into the couch, "if you keep doing that I'm going to propose."
He didn't respond. Just kept working. Stoic. Focused. His head bent, his sleeves rolled, his palm warm against her ankle like she was the most natural thing in his hands.
Then he said, "You did really good back there with Eleanor."
The words shouldn't have hit that hard. Shouldn't have made her stomach swoop like she was on a rollercoaster called Validation Issues: The Ride. Shouldn't have made her ribs feel too small for her lungs.
But they did.
She sat a little straighter. Or tried to. Her knee cracked, which wasn't hot.
"Yeah," she said, casually. Too casually. "I know."
But her heart was suddenly loud.
Not in the romantic violins way. More like the is this a stroke way.
Because the truth was: she had done well. She knew that. Rationally. She'd handled Eleanor's questions like a pro, delivered the pitch without once fumbling her words, and remembered every clause from memory without even glancing at her notes. The win was clean.
And yet—
She couldn't stop the thought.
Was it enough?
Not for the firm. For him.
Because everyone knew. The office didn't gossip, but the air had changed. Kai had raised an eyebrow the other day that said, So you're not denying it now? Naomi had snorted when Katsuki brushed imaginary lint off her shoulder in the breakroom. A paralegal had made a joke about her "executive perks" with just enough teeth to draw blood.
And now?
Now, every win felt like it had to be earned twice. Once as a professional. Once as the woman he touched like she was made of fire and silk and secrets.
He let her shine. That was the thing.
He never interrupted her during meetings. Never corrected her in front of clients. Never pulled rank just to show he could. He let her lead and trusted her to finish.
And in bed—
God.
She felt like royalty. Like she was a princess, a storm, a myth. His mouth on her thighs, his hands tangled in her hair, the way he'd look at her right before—like he was starved and she was the feast.
But in her head, it was always there. The little voice that whispered: Don't mess it up. Don't slack. Don't let them think you're only here because he wants you naked and nearby.
So she worked harder.
Smiled sharper.
Memorized more.
Wore the damn heels even when they gave her blisters, and stayed late just to triple-check contract language she already knew was solid.
It wasn't about him. Not really.
He never made her feel like she had to prove anything. Never once acted like she wasn't good enough.
But she had. For years.
Since failing the bar. Since being ghosted years and told she was too much. Since the whispered comments from classmates at Todai about how people like her didn't belong.
And now, even with her heart steadying every time Katsuki brushed her hand in the hallway—even with the security of them, whatever they were—she couldn't turn it off.
That part of her brain that spun all the time, faster and faster, whispering: Be impressive. Be the best. Be impossible to replace.
It wasn't logical. It wasn't fair.
But that was how she was wired.
And it wasn't his fault for not seeing it, either.
Because most days, she was happy.
She was thriving. She liked the work. Loved it, even. And she loved how he made her feel when she forgot to overthink. When they were tangled in sheets, or in a heated debate, or riding the elevator in silence while his fingers brushed hers like a secret.
But underneath all of that—buried beneath the killer heels and confident tone and perfectly color-coded notes—was the need to deserve it.
Deserve him.
Deserve the title. The seat at the table. The foot rub on a Thursday night from the firm's impossible boss who had quietly become the only man who could ever unravel her and make her feel whole at the same time.
She exhaled. Looked at him.
He was still there. Still kneading the ball of her foot with terrifying precision.
Still her boss.
Still hers.
And just like that, the thought came uninvited:
What happens if I ever stop being exceptional?
She didn't say it.
Instead, she smirked, masking the spiral the way she always did.
"Should I be worried you only compliment me when I'm barefoot?" she quipped, kicking him lightly in the chest. "Do I need to present quarterly reports in socks now?"
Katsuki raised an eyebrow. Didn't answer.
Just pressed his thumb a little deeper into her arch and kept going.
Of course he didn't answer.
He didn't know.
And that was okay.
Because she'd never tell him.
She didn't need him to fix it.
She just needed to keep winning.