THE circle k

The case files had colonised his kitchen table three days ago. You worked radially — case center, evidence fanning outward, cross-reference lines in two distinct colors. John had taken one look at the mess the first night, moved his coffee to the counter without a word, and set his own files down in the same formation.

It was past midnight. You’d left the overhead light off— better for reading the photographs. Besides, the only light came from the desk lamp and the city glowed through the window, a shared quiet neither of you had acknowledged.

"Perimeter's wrong," you said.

John was leaning against the counter, tie loose, transcript in hand. He didn't look up. "Wrong how?"

"Too regular. Territorial hauntings mark the edges of something — a property line, emotional geography, a point of death. This is a perfect rectangle." You tapped the map. "Doesn’t look like grief. It looks like intent."

The silence took on a new weight as he considered that, turning the paper over.

"Contained on purpose," he murmured.

"Someone put it there."

He set the transcript down and studied the map with that specific, sharp stillness you’d learned to read. It was a look that meant he was already three steps ahead, or perhaps backtracking to show his work. "Binding sigil. Southeast corner." He paused, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "I missed it."

"You were looking for the source. I was looking at the shape."

He turned his gaze to you, reassessing. It was the particular, heavy quality of attention he gave things when he was upgrading his opinion of them. "You're useful."

"I know."

The corner of his mouth twitched into something approaching a smile.

Hours bled by, and the files didn’t shrink a single page.

You’d been cross-referencing timestamps for the better part of an hour when your eyes began to betray you —words sliding sideways, focus blurring at the edges. You reached for your cigarettes before you’d consciously decided to. You fitted one between your lips, then reached for your pocket.

It wasn't there. It wasn't anywhere in the archeological dig of three days' worth of case work spread across the table.

The unlit cigarette remained. You turned back to the timestamps, determined to push through.

"You've lost your lighter."

You didn't look up. "Temporarily misplaced."

"Mm." The sound of him pushing off the counter, footsteps unhurried. He stopped beside you—not behind, but beside, which registered peripherally as a deliberate choice.

He didn't offer a lighter. He didn't even reach for one.

Instead, he leaned in, his own cigarette already glowing a steady, cherry red. He waited until you turned your head toward the lamp, bringing your faces into that narrow, private radius of light. He didn't say a word, just angled his head, pressing the burning tip of his cigarette against the filter of yours.

It was close — unnecessarily so. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his cheekbone, close enough that your breath hitched, not out of nerves, but out of a sudden, sharp clarity. He held it there, steady and practiced, while you drew in. The paper caught, the tobacco ignited, and for a moment, you were sharing the same plume of smoke, eyes locked.

He didn't pull away the second it was lit. He lingered, watching you with that dry, clinical curiosity that usually meant he was dissecting a theory.

"You always do that," he said, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in the small space between you.

"Do what?"

"Wait for the pull before you let anyone in." He finally tipped his head back, exhaling a thin, translucent stream of smoke that drifted lazily between your faces. He didn't retreat. He stayed right there, shoulder-to-shoulder, the proximity heavy and unspoken. "Bad habit for a field agent. Makes the interrogation process longer."

"And you’re the one to talk?" You didn't blink, keeping your eyes on his. "You haven't let a partner past your front door in years, John. I’m starting to think you just like the way I organise my maps."

He leaned in further, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. He wasn't flustered. He was calculating. "Maybe I was just waiting for someone who understood the shape."

Neither of you returned to the table. The files were forgotten, a graveyard of paper on the kitchen island.

You both ended up on the couch, tucked into opposite ends — except the couch was small, and "opposite ends" left only a scant foot of space between you.

He didn't reach for his lighter again. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he plucked the cigarette from your lips. He took a drag — a slow, deliberate inhale — and passed it back. It was a transfer of heat, a rhythmic, casual cycle of smoke and breath that felt more intimate than a confession.

He held his hand steady, letting his fingers linger against your knuckles a second too long, testing the structural integrity of your indifference.

The air grew thick with the smell of cloves and ash. You had reached that late-night state where the facts remained but the logic had gone syrupy and slow.

"You're thinking about the sigil again," he murmured, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling. His voice was a dry, observant rumble.

"I'm thinking about the boundary," you corrected.

"The one on Merton Street?"

"The one here."

John went still. It was the absolute, vacuum-like stillness of a man who had suddenly identified the threat. He didn't look at the files. He turned his head until your faces were barely inches apart.

"That's a dangerous observation," he said, his eyes scanning your face with a clinical, almost hungry precision.

"Is it?"

He didn't answer. He didn't reach out to touch your jaw or look for a physical reaction. Instead, he just tilted his head, his gaze shifting to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, a silent, mocking challenge. "You're not afraid of the house, are you?"

"Why would I be?"

"Exactly." He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "You're just waiting to see if I'll trip the line first."

"You're the one who prides himself on being three steps ahead, John. If we go over the edge, it’s going to be because you planned it that way."

"Planning assumes control." He leaned closer, his breath warm, smelling of smoke and the metallic tang of the city. He wasn't flirting — at least not in any way that would require him to admit to it. He was testing the architecture of the moment. "I haven't felt particularly in control since you laid out that map on Tuesday."

"That sounds like a you problem."

He smirked, a quick, sharp twist of the lip. "It’s a partnership problem."

"We could fix it."

"We could," he agreed, his eyes darkening, dropping to your lips and staying there for a beat too long before he pulled back, just an inch. "But then we'd have to talk about it. And I think we both know neither of us is interested in that level of inefficiency."

"Agreed."

"Good."

The cigarette burned to a nub in your hand. He didn't pull away. He stayed right there, a presence that had become, over the last hour, the only thing in the room that actually made sense.

"Southeast corner," you said, your voice just as dry and steady as his. "Dusk?"

"Dusk," he echoed, shifting his weight. He didn't move away. He didn't go back to the files. He just sat there in the fraying circle of light, watching the smoke drift, the tension between you both so thick you could have traced a map over it.

"I'll bring the map," you said.

"I'll bring the matches," he replied, his gaze flickering to yours with a glint of something that wasn't quite amusing. "If you can manage to keep track of your own, that is."

"I have you for that."

He hummed, a low, satisfied sound. "So you do."

The city made its 2:00 a.m. sounds, the lamp held its small, fraying circle of light, and John stayed exactly where he was.

$ tag @twentytomidnight

“Donaka…” you giggle quietly as he kisses your neck, his big hand gripping your thigh through that convenient slit in your skirt. “You’re going to undo all Ava’s hard work…”

You realize that he must have picked the triple strand of pearls to hide some of the inevitable damage he would wreak upon your tender skin. It’s exhilarating, and embarrassing, and you don’t know what to do with this effervescence bubbling up inside your chest.

“Mmmm she did too well,” he muses darkly, nipping at your chest. “I can’t keep my hands off you, my pretty little pet.”

You tug at his tie greedily, just to smooth it down his chest again. You’ve been having your own crisis of lust since he came out of the closet dressed all in black earlier, your pearls dripping from his fingers in offering. The way he slid them across your cleavage before clasping them behind your neck was a diabolically exquisite torture.

The matching white gold and pearl drops he offered from a velvet box inside his pocket didn’t hurt either. Who knew you were such a magpie at heart?

“We’re going to look like horny teenagers at the drive-in when we get out of this car,” you laugh, praying your hair isn’t standing up in all directions after Isabel’s careful artistry.

“I don’t think I can pass for that anymore,” he states through a low chuckle. “Though the feeling of spiraling madness certainly rings true.” His clever fingers hook in the side of your panties, pulling them down your legs in one smooth motion that makes you yip in surprise.

“Donaka! No!”

Your horror surely delights him even more than the possession of that scrap of silk he tucks so deftly into his suit pocket. “I’ll take these for good luck,” he tells you with a wicked grin and a sharp glint in his obsidian eyes that dares you to argue.

“You are the worst,” you grumble, your face on fire.

“No unsightly panty lines, bunny. You should thank me.” You know that bullying you is his version of a playful mood–and you wonder what has him so riled up.

“Where are we going that excites you this much?” you speculate aloud.

“Hmm. It’s the anticipation of a battle,” he tells you, pulling you close with his arm around your waist again. “I live for a good fight.”

“Are we…going to see a fight?”

“After a fashion.”

“What–” He kisses you hard, nipping at your lower lip.

“We’ll be there soon. Just be patient.”

He looks out the window silently after that, though his grip on your waist varies in pressure, and you know beneath that inscrutable facade he’s thinking on something.

Fine.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and you can almost pretend the two of you are a normal couple, watching the lights of the tall buildings zip by. It’s hard to track from the back seat, but you think you’re in Wan Chai when the car slows, the dark waters of Victoria Harbor shimmering in the moonlight beyond. You see the undulating curves of the Hong Kong Expo Center ahead, lit up like a bioluminescent manta ray at night.

The car pulls to a stop before the dramatically lit entryway, crowded with obviously well-heeled people making their way inside. Here and there a camera flash goes off in the throng. By the time his man makes his way around to open the door you are holding Donaka’s hand with a death grip, suddenly so nervous you could die.

“You’re alright, bunny,” he soothes in a low voice. “I’ve got you.” Then you are bundled out of the car, into the throng.

📷 ✨✨

“The cameras are just for the film stars,” Donaka assures you, cutting through the crowd with the efficiency of a shark patrolling his reef. “The Tattler has to publish something tomorrow.” You realize he's talking about the Hong Kong society rag, and the thought of even being in the background of something like that feels too surreal for words.

"Oh my god. Is that Michelle Yeoh?"

"Probably."

You don't get a chance to gawk for long though. With your hand in his you are soon pulled through the door. It's still crowded, but somehow a little less chaotic. There are wine-red banners hanging everywhere declaring CHRISTIES in vertical script. “There’s an auction tonight?”

“The auction of the century, darling. You’ll see.”

The two of you follow the flow of the crowd, Donaka keeping you tucked against his side with an arm around your waist. You ride up an escalator, into a cavernous room filled with amphitheater seating. Hanging artfully above the raised dais below is a line of huge traditionally painted silk scrolls, dramatically lit, obviously the stars of this show.

They're gorgeous, depicting an ongoing bird's eye scene of a mountainous palace and fortification and all the well-heeled people and soldiers and servants going about their lives there. You relate too well to those little people drawn in such precise water color strokes, many bending over in some household task. There's a panel that shows ladies of the court primping and gossipping as they paint their faces and do their hair—it still doesn't feel real, that that could be your life now.

Any minute you're going to wake up in your attic apartment with your three little mice companions, the chariot turned back into a pumpkin and your glass slippers no where to be found…

"Can you imagine…" muses Donaka, peering at a panel depicting a detail of soldiers escorting a covered palanquin down a garden path. "A palace so vast you had to travel between the wings on horseback? What a time to have lived in."

"Feeling like you were born in the wrong century?" you tease him, noting his interest with the ornately armored soldiers.

He lifts an eyebrow at you, amused.

"I'm sure you were a fearsome warlord in a past life, dear."

This wins you a huff of a chuckle, and an affectionate squeeze at your waist that speaks novels more to you. He's enjoying himself, and you are too. The two of you make your way down the lineup of the scrolls. They span a good thirty feet, tower over your heads, and every square inch is filled with breathtaking detail. They're painted in such distinctive greens and turquoise tones with pops of red. For something so old the colors are so vivid, and something flips a switch for you.

"Donaka…are these…The Palace of Eighteen Perfections scrolls?"

"There's my little art historian."

It warms you to hear the pride in his voice, but you still shrug it off—just one of your many interests that never really amounted to anything. But you remember reading about a set of scrolls found in a steamer trunk in someone's attic in England a couple years ago, believed to possibly be the find of the century in Asian art if it could be proved they were, in fact, the missing royal scrolls written about in historical texts, but lost in the Opium Wars.

"Qing Dynasty," Donaka goes on. "Painted by Yuan Jiang in 1693. Once lost, now found and up for grabs to the highest bidder. Do you want them?"

He asks so casually—but you know the auction estimate must be millions.

You're proud of yourself for holding back some practical but asinine answer, like But where would we even put them?

These belong in a museum anyway. But you doubt any of the traditional museums will have the hard cash to acquire them. They'll go to some Saudi prince or Mainlander magnate, hidden away from the public eye forever…or just maybe your evil billionaire boyfriend, who possibly you could convince to lend them for display…

"I guess, if you have an extra 50 mil burning a hole in your pocket?" you ask with all the cool coyness you can muster, looking up at him through your lashes.

He smirks down at you like he reads all your thoughts between the lines, as usual.

"If you're a good girl, we'll see…"

With a hand on the small of your back he starts to guide you onwards, but a voice behind you makes Donaka turn.

"Would they even fit in that little cottage you've got up in Shek O?"

You feel Donaka's hand tense upon your back, even if his face betrays nothing.

"Dominic Chiao. I didn't know you had an interest in the arts." His tone is cool as winter in Siberia, and gooseflesh erupts across your arms; you sense something dangerous brewing between these two men, the hostility in the thick as the air before a terrible storm. You're not proud of it later, but in the moment you find yourself half hiding behind the bulwark of Donaka's steadfast form.

"I don't usually care for this old junk." The newcomer glances at his nails, as though bored. He is almost as tall as Donaka, dressed in an expensive suit, his short black hair neatly slicked back. There is something almost familiar in his features, the sweep of his eyes and the line of his jaw. "But these will be the score of the century."

Chiao seems confident that they're as good as his, but Donaka doesn't rise to the bait, merely inclining his head.

"May the best man win."

Chiao smirks and turns back to look at the scrolls, dismissing the two of you from his presence. You have never seen anyone dare to treat Donaka this way, and for some reason a fine tremor has started in your bones.

"Who was that?" you whisper as Donaka leads you away. You expect him to be livid, but when you look up you realize he is smirking with what you can only describe as wicked glee.

"Dominic Chiao, tech tycoon, certified asshole," Donaka answers quietly with a twist of his lips that resembles a snarl.

This doesn't really give you the information you want by half, but you remember you're supposed to be playing it cool. So you walk up the stairs with your arm in his, pretending your heart isn't racing at a mile a minute.

You're met at the top by a host who is polite to a fault, escorting you to a sumtuously upholstered loveseat from which the two of you get to watch the procedings of the auction from above. This cloistered balcony is outfitted with only a handful of these luxury arrangements. Very VIP.

"May I bring you something to drink, Mr. Mark?"

Donaka orders in quick Cantonese, and the two of you get settled on the velvet cushions. There's a little table with just enough room for a plate of gourmet canapés, of which your host brings with a tumbler of bourbon and a glass of white wine.

Seemingly pleased with himself again, Donaka pulls you close with an arm around your shoulders, nipping lightly at your ear. Whatever is about to happen, you can tell he's looking forward to it.

Not long after Chiao is seated at the next station beside yours. You can just see him out the corner of your eye around the wing of your fancy couch, and you feel Donaka's muscle-strapped torso practically vibrate with tension where you're pressed against him.

"So…have you been hating each other long?" you ask casually at a volume below a whisper, taking a sip of the drink Donaka ordered for you. It's crisp, and sweet, and you can tell immediately that it will go to your head if you're not careful.

"You think you're the only one with insufferable half-siblings?"

You blink at this, connecting the dots, fighting like hell not to lean over to ogle Donaka's sworn enemy. No wonder he's such a handsome bastard.

Brothers.

"Your father's second family?" you ask.

"You remember."

"But I thought you said…" That you destroyed him. You're smart enough not to say that outloud, even in a whisper in this crowded lounge. You realize you don't know what that means at all. Did you think Donaka slaughtered his father's whole family? Did you just accept this assumption without a second thought?

Donaka snorts at this, always able to sense the subtext with you. "I ruined their family fortune. A fate worse than death for people like them, I assure you. But he's clawed his way back into legitimate money. Word is Dominic has just come into a great deal of cash and is eager to show it off to the right people. We'll see how that goes for him."

You realize that this is the real reason the two of you are here. Donaka has been plotting all along. Maybe he heard through his spy security network that Chiao had his sights set on the scrolls, and probably intends to break his heart by outbidding him… Typical billionaire flex. And really…a childish playground game, at the heart of it all. You wonder what it will cost him. And you are already thinking about all that money, and the lives of normal people it could change, rather than blowing it on a bauble and sending it down the pipeline from one digital vault to the next, where it will accrue interest but never get used for any real good in the real world…

This all settles over you like a tar-black wave. You were having fun, in your pretty dress with your hair done and dripping with jewels on the arm of your handsome beau…but it's all very stupid. You doubt you'll ever manage to shake this way of thinking for long, no matter how many times Donaka tries to mindfuck you out of it. It's in the very heart of you, no matter how you're done up on the outside.

"Have I displeased you, bunny?" Donaka asks, always aware of the slightest change in your weather.

You're smart enough to shake your head, taking another sip of your plum wine. You're going to need at least two more glasses of this to get through this night. But maybe you are finally learning a thing or two about subterfuge, and misdirection, and getting what you want the long way around. Maybe Donaka's lessons are taking root, in their way.

"Fuck him up, baby. You should donate the scrolls to the museum circuit for everyone to enjoy. That will really piss him off."

Donaka's smile for you is nothing less than a baring of teeth, pleased yet oh so predatory. This is the man you've taken into your bed. Into your heart…into the very fiber of your being—and this is his world. No matter your reservations or your little moments of enlightenment between the bouts of madness…you're in it now, and there's no going back.

💰💰💰

For a moment it seemed like you were right about your 50 mil evaluation on the scrolls. But then Donaka and Dominic blow right past it, locked in a bidding war that has everyone on the edge of their seats. There are others throwing their paddles up too at this level. One of the actresses who you'd seen being photographed outside, and some anonymous bidders attending by proxy over the phone. But every time Dominic offers a number Donaka is right there with the next highest increment.

The younger man is trying to keep his cool, but you can tell that he's livid, sweat beading down his brow. He periodically turns to glare daggers over at the two of you, a thing of which Donaka just meets with his trademark sneer. Maybe your boyfriend is enjoying the battle, but the hatred in his opponent's eyes gives you straight chills. You cannot shake the feeling that something bigger is at stake here.

60 million.

75 million.

Dominic argues heatedly on the phone with someone, somehow barking orders and keeping his voice down. There's a stall, but then he's back at 80.

Donaka doesn't relent, and you can't help but get caught up in the moment too. Even if deep down you know this is ridiculous—it's also exciting, and you can't help but squirm in your seat everytime he increases his bid. It doesn't help that his free hand is affixed through that slit in your skirt, squeezing the inside of your thigh every time he pledges another absolute fortune to acquire these old scraps of silk decorated with ink. His fingers are dangerously close to your center, and every nerve in your body sings to life, rendering you agonizingly sensitive to his smallest movement.

These numbers are so huge that they're almost surreal. Unimaginable to someone like you who has worked for hourly wages your whole life. But they're not imaginary, and they can't be fudged on later. Everyone here's been pre-approved by the auction house, and to go back on that isn't done.

It's a deal written in stone—or blood.

90 million.

100.

110.

"One hundred fifty million!"

Dominic Chiao throws down this insane number with the gleam of temporary madness in his eyes, so possessed that he has sprung to his feet, like he intends to leap at Donaka if the security CEO dares to utter one more figure. The attendants are startled, clearly torn as to what to do. Two shadows hover on the sides of the room, the security detail for Christies or Donaka himself ready to act if things get truly out of hand.

The whole room is holding its breath, waiting.

Watching.

You look to Donaka, wondering if he will escalate this madness further. It's crazy, but a part of you wants him to win after all this, if for anything just because it feels like he's truly fought for it. Every cell in your body is on pins and needles—he is inscrutible except for grinding his teeth, his lower jaw jutting as he thinks.

A slow, sly smile spreads on his lips as he looks Dominic Chiao in the eye, and bows his head magnaminously.

The chatter in the room erupts to a roar, excited auction-goers unable to contain themselves.

"Going once? Going twice? SOLD for one hundred and FIFTY million!"

You hear the auctioneer's excited declaration in the background, but it feels like white noise, all your attention affixed upon the man at your side, and the man staring him down from ten feet away.

For a starkly telling moment, Dominic Chiao looks like he isn't sure if he's happy or not to have won this priceless treasure on the auction floor. But then the younger man shrugs it off, turning his back on Donaka to converse with a group of female well-wishers who were seated behind him. He'll be the man of the hour, the toast of the town. This is what he truly purchased.

You put your hand on Donaka's, offering him a conciliatory squeeze. Only then does he turn back to you, a dangerous glitter in his onyx eyes, the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. He presses his lips to yours, pinching your thigh lightly, and you know.

This was all his grand plan, and you wonder if he just totally bankrupted his royally despised relative by losing—on purpose.

All warfare is based on deception.

Sun Tzu said that in a little book about the art of war, and wow was he right.

But there's something else you haven't forgotten about Donaka's father's second family, destroyed or not. If they had such unsavory connections back in the day…exactly whose money did your lover just light on fire with a prideful match and a shit ton of kerosene?

Dominic Chiao's…or the 14k Triad's?

TBC...

It’s just not fair, the way he can bend you with your tender flesh is in his diabolical hands. Your desire for him remains a steady constant–but maybe your goals have changed.

As you look at yourself in the mirror of your new rosewood vanity, you make a new promise to yourself (for what that's worth, considering how you have gone from wanting to escape to accepting your role as Donaka’s new pet) that even if you are flung into this new lifestyle of stupidly overpriced luxury, you will not let the things rule you. You will not become like your mother or your step-mother or your half-siblings, caught up in the next paltry triumph of who outdressed who or who has the latest and greatest designer bullshit.

Perhaps with some cheek, you resolve that you are going to have your cake, and eat it too. If it makes Donaka happy to show off his wealth on the canvas of your body…fine. Let him. Because when that man is pleased with you, you get your way in other things that are important, like cancer treatment for little girls who are dear to you.

Mei showed you a video of her sister that morning, smiling happily and waving at the phone. The doctors say the treatment is going as well as it possibly could, and there is hope for her. You hadn’t forgotten about little Jing, but seeing her certainly put things back in perspective for you after you spent the night feeling sorry for yourself.

You have to admit, not all of your goals are so altruistic. There is an idea that exists on the outskirts of your mind; almost more of an outline of a thought than something concrete, it is so ridiculous. But deep down, in the darkest dungeon of your heart, this thing has taken root and you have decided that someday, you are going to get that impossible man to admit that he loves you. Maybe then…all this will have been worth it. It is probably the closest thing to revenge you could ever manage to extract from him.

You really have lost your goddamn mind.

Later that afternoon you get to meet the stylist you didn’t even know you had. Apparently after some direction from Donaka on your preferences, she'd picked out all those beautiful items in your closet, and Ava Chan has come to the house armed with a rack of dresses and two assistants to whip you into shape for wherever the hell Donaka is taking you.

Mei sees them in, and you think you can see the curiosity shining in her eyes. “Can you stay?” you ask, not sure if this would be fun or boring for her.

Eagerly she nods, but then remembers Mrs. Yeung. “I'll get into trouble…”

She’s not wrong, and you think on it a moment. “Not if…you go to the kitchen for tea and snacks for our guests,” you say with a lift of eyebrows. “I’ll let her know.”

Mei hides a laugh behind her hand, knowing Mrs. Yeung will seethe over this new scheme for undermining her authority. You call the internal line to reach the chief housekeeper, a thing that usually only Donaka would do. Knowing full well the master is not at home, Yeung answers with a surly, “Wai?”

“Mrs. Yeung, I'm having Mei serve tea, and I will need her for the rest of the afternoon.”

Yeung answers with a few Cantonese curses she knows you won't understand under her breath. “What on earth could you need that useless girl for? No. She must finish mopping all the floors today.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow, Mrs. Yeung. Do jie!”

You hang up the phone before your former boss can offer further argument, though you hear the tinny strains of more wrathful words on the other end of the line. Mei’s eyes sparkle, and the two of you laugh like co-conspirators. “I think she just called me like…10 bad names,” you admit, giggling like a naughty child who just got away with all the cookies.

After Mei skips out to see about that tea Ava Chan shakes her head with amused disbelief. “Did I just witness a palace coup?”

“Totally bloodless,” you assure her with a cheeky smile.

At least…you hope so.

“So…what are we doing?” you ask, nervous and excited for what she has in store.

Ava claps her hands, rubbing them with glee. “Let me show you what I’ve brought.”

🌸🌸🌸

When you attempt to ferret out the location of your mystery destination in casual conversation Ava shakes her head emphatically. “I was specifically instructed not to tell you,” she imparts with regret, and you can’t help but wonder how exactly Donaka delivered this direction; you can practically hear the poor girl gulp with dread at the idea of slipping up.

“That’s fine,” you soothe her, backing off immediately. “I’m not trying to get anyone into trouble.”

She’s clearly relieved to hear this; perhaps her other well-heeled clients would have thrown more of a tantrum over not getting their way.

None of them have ever met the force that is Donaka Mark.

After this everyone relaxes a bit more around you, and the tension in the room shifts to something decidedly more congenial. Mei arrives with tea and sundries, and the fun begins.

While you try on dresses Mei eats most of the snacks, and Donaka’s severe bedchamber takes on the atmosphere of a middle-school sleepover withchatter while you try on your new clothes. The room erupts into laughter as your new girl gang attempts to teach you bad words in Cantonese (so that you’ll be better prepared for your next showdown with Mrs. Yeung, of course.)

Ava brought selections from Versace, Oscar de la Renta, Gucci, Giambattista Valli, and other brands you’ve never heard of. They’re expertly crafted garments in blacks and shimmering steel gray silks and satins, with bead details and damask weaving and metallic lace...how are you supposed to choose?

Yet there’s also a part of you that can’t help but wonder if this is another test set before you by Donaka. You are sure that even among these gorgeous garments, there is surely a wrong answer among them for that man.

Despite the more showy pieces that tickle your crow brain, you keep coming back to a simple black silk midi by Dolce & Gabbana with lace trim. It’s fairly tame by high-fashion standards, all except for a rather daring slit up the thigh. You keep thinking about those fabulous pearls that will be fastened around your neck. They’re the real show. Everything else is just background, including you, you’re afraid. You finally decide on that one, and then it’s on to hair and makeup.

Maybe you are happiest when you are wearing dust from the road and your trusty hiking boots…but as you look at the end result of Ava’s directions in the mirror, you have to admit that this is something…interesting too. You hardly recognize yourself, and despite your earlier reservations you’re infected with the energy of the moment from the excitement of your helpers and Mei. By the time they leave, you hope you can call your new acquaintances friends.

By the end of the primping whirlwind, choosing a dress and trying on a pair of sky-high Louboutin sandals, you are all talking and laughing. Ava has you standing in front of the mirror for the final inspection, plucking at the dress to make it drape just so. You have to hand it to her: she is very good at what she does.

As Isabel is misting you with one last spritz of hair spray a voice from the doorway makes you all jump out of your skins: “I was hoping you’d pick that one.”

The girls immediately scramble to gather up their things at the sight of the master of the house; you’ve all been caught out having a very good time. You feel surprisingly calm, however, and the two of you lock gazes through the flurry of Ava and her assistants cleaning up the room.

The heat in that man’s eyes could warm you through a blizzard in Hokkaido.

He stands with hands in the pockets of his dark suit, a rock amidst rushing water, waiting through the flurry for the two of you to be alone. “Thank you, ladies,” Donaka offers with a menacing politeness as they file out with their heads bowed.

“Do jie nin, Mark sin saang,” says Ava quietly, the last one to go.

He really does have a way of making you feel as though he’s caught you at something…

Or maybe you’re in trouble.

After the door shuts with a soft snick he approaches you with a gimlet stare. “My assistant received an irate phone call from Mrs. Yeung this afternoon. Apparently my household is going to pieces, and she cannot possibly go on without hiring two new maids thanks to my meddling mistress stealing her employees.”

You still can’t tell if he’s truly angry or fucking with you.

“Meddling mistress, huh? I don’t think that’s quite what she called me over the phone.”

Standing toe to toe with you, he tilts your head up with a single finger beneath your chin, inspecting the end result of all Ava’s tricks. Finally, the corner of his mouth ticks in a smirk, and a knot in your heart releases in relief.

“Be careful with your new power, bunny. Use it wisely.”

It’s the closest he’s come to saying you’re in charge of the house while he’s gone.

“I was polite about it,” you assure him, struggling not to squirm under his heated gaze. Tonight you have to be cool as a cucumber–you’ll face no greater test than withstanding the scrutiny of the man before you.

“Thoughtful of you.” His smile widens, and the warmth in your heart blooms outward through your body like a sunrise. “You look beautiful, y/n.”

“Thank you.”

His hand descends to encircle your neck, holding your fragile flesh ever so lightly. No matter your expression, you know he can feel your racing pulse fluttering against his fingertips like a trapped butterfly. No matter how good his mood, there is a tiny part of you that wonders if someday he might squeeze, just to see what happens.

Maybe you are falling in love with this man…but you’re not sure if you will ever totally trust him.

“Shall we add the final touches?”

Why does it sound ominous, when he says it that way? Maybe you’re just overly sensitive to everything, these days. But you still nod, and watch him disappear into the closet to access the hidden safe.

TBC...