“That’s fine with me,” you smile, shaping your mouth appropriately for your lip gloss to be applied. This is nothing new to you. Ever since you turned sixteen you would be ferried from different hotels by stylists and assistants to the elaborate parties your banker father indulged in. Each assistant would be paid to make sure you were not attacked by the press, who were always be so eager to ask questions about your father’s work - questions about things you were frankly clueless about. This harassment became more frequent and more cuttingly personal by the time you had turned twenty, when you had developed the reputation of ending up in strangers’ beds the mornings after such events. The light pressure of the gloss wand lifts from your lips and you pout, admiring the way the light catches them. “Is this his intern from Japan?”

“Darling, I have no idea,” She sighs exhaustedly, walking over behind your chair. In the tall mirror reflection, you watch her cup your head in her hands gently as she leans forward and presses a light kiss to your crown. “I’ll see you at the gala, okay? No running off.”

“Of course. See you soon.”

You blow her a kiss, which she catches in her hand with a weak smile before picking up her white, velvet-textured Dolce and Gabbana coat and practically bolting out of the door to find your restless father. As soon as the heavy hotel room door clicks shut, you let the elaborate smile on your face slip, looking straight up at the pale, cherry-haired girl who slides a golden barred hair grip decorated with a row of small blue topazes, into a section of hair just above your left ear. Your eyes catch hers a split second after she releases the hair, letting it sit elegantly.

“If she doesn’t pay the full fee because you three were late, contact me directly and I’ll transfer you all the remainder. It’s not your fault that there was an accident on the Strand, and quite frankly you’ve all done an amazing job. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Miss Y/N,” she smiles, shaking her head. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

“It’s my pleasure, really.”

Leaning closer to the mirror, you happily inspect the warm, golden glitter dusted over your eyelids and cheekbones, indulging in how radiantly the artists have transformed you from a simple daddy’s girl to an old Hollywood glamour star. As soon as she steps back from the bright white vanity, you stand, slipping off your fluffy white dressing gown as the third stylist scurries towards you holding a sky blue Elie Saab gown that is drizzled in silver and gold sequins. You slip the garment on effortlessly, stepping into it and sliding your right arm into its one angel-fluted sleeve, watching the cascading embellishments glitter under the bright light of the hotel room. A long slit in the left side of the skirt balances out the dress’ asymmetric look, and you poke your leg out to admire the strappy golden stiletto on your left foot. Shortly after you are zipped in, a knock echoes at the door, and your makeup artist hurries to the door to open it.

“Is that the intern?” You ask, picking up your clutch and walking across the hotel room. The artist opens the door and invites them inside politely.

The women in the office have warned you about ‘the new intern.’ Rumour has it that one look from him is enough to send you to the pits of hell for thinking such sinful thoughts, and you – almost hubristically – have always laughed at their statements. You have seen the man in question only a few times before, scurrying about in flashes around the head office block owned by your father’s bank chain, the London-based NeoBanking Group. For the past three months you have been working for his company and have been told frequently that you will inherit authority over the company the day your father decides to retire. The intern in question is perhaps only a week or two into the job, but the announcement of his arrival had certainly not gone unnoticed by you. From what you have observed at a distance, yes, the intern is attractive. But there must be a with catch. Your father may act like you don’t have a certain reputation, but he’s not blinkered enough to hire a womaniser who you’ll latch on to within the blink of an eye… right?

Wrong.

Walking into your luxurious, Savoy Hotel suite, is a man perhaps a few years older than you, donning a shock of white hair pushed back to partially conceal the dark undercut beneath it. He’s tall and well built, fitting into his sapphire blue suit like a glove. Never in a million years did you expect your father to have an intern this good looking, but alas, here you are, wide eyed and holding a breath you didn’t realise you had taken in. Now that you are meeting him formally in the extremely intimate setting of your hotel room, you feel uncharacteristically flustered by the presence of the man you have only heard whispers about. His face is beautifully sculpted with an alluring blend of soft and sharp features, and right now it’s flashing a warm formal smile as he bows in greeting.

“Miss L/N, good evening. My name is Yuta Nakamoto, Mr L/N has sent me here to escort you to the Royal Automobile Club’s Winter Gala. There is a limousine waiting at the front of the hotel, and we shall reconvene with your father at the venue.”

His voice is refreshing, and he offers out a hand for you to take. When you slip your hand into his, he lifts it to his lips, placing a single kiss on the back of your fingers - a gesture which makes your heart skip a beat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Nakamoto. Thank you for your patience.”

“You’re welcome, Miss. The wait was worth it, you look divine,” he compliments, and you have to steady your quickening heart before smiling sweetly back at him. Most men you meet are like this; his thoughts are probably just like any other handsome, wealthy man you will meet at this gala. But when his eyes meet yours, you suddenly realise that you probably should have listened to the women at the office’s warnings. There’s a glimmer within them that isn’t cocky or promiscuous, but effortlessly charming. It’s the look of a man who isn’t trying to impress you but knows that he would be successful if he tried. In an attempted cool, collected manner, you link your right arm through his left, thanking Yuta again for the compliment as you both approach the door of your room. Leaving your keys with the stylists, you ask them to hand it in to the lobby when they leave.

Pacing as quickly as you can in your heels down the decadent corridors of the Savoy Hotel, you place your left hand delicately on his bicep – not in a flirty way, but a more relaxed social manner. “Have you ever been to any big parties like this, Mr Nakamoto?” You ask casually, tipping your head a fraction to face him. The light of the corridor catches softly on the tip of his nose and his cupid’s bow, and he nods. Yuta’s lips look plump and peachy, although are currently fixed in a neutral line, as part of what you assume is a naturally stern resting expression.

“Yes, I have been to a few,” He replies, eyes still looking straight ahead. “My family owns a technology company in Japan which is on the rise, so as it grew bigger I began to visit more events. We have rich friends in rich social circles, you see. That’s how I got the job at the partnership in Seoul, before coming here.”

“Ah, I see. My father tells me you are from Osaka,” you continue, watching the way his face softens at the mention of his hometown. “How are you finding London? Is the city treating you well?”

“It’s pleasant. It’s very different to home, but I like it here.”

“I’m very glad to hear that. What made you want to come over here and work for the NeoBanking Group?” You ask, pulling in the floating fabric of your dress into the lift as Yuta presses the button to go down to the lobby. A low chuckle resonates within the descending box.

“I feel like I’m being interviewed all over again.”

“I’m just curious about the man I’m linking arms with, that’s all,” you beam, shaking your arm in his, feeling his frame relax a fraction. He looks ahead at the lift doors and purses his lips in thought.

“Well… As I mentioned, I was initially working in the Seoul headquarters of the company’s partner banks, and after several promotions I was offered to be transferred to London to work in the head office. My family encouraged it - they reckon that I can easily make it to the top, but for training purposes I have to work as an intern for a year. Regardless, I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity.”

You try to disguise surge of competitive envy that seeps into your veins by politely smiling, but little do you know that Yuta acknowledges how your body tenses at his statement. He reckons he can make it to the top, huh? It seems like you have a competitor in your midst, and competitors mean other outlets for your father to deposit his pride. For this evening you’ll be civil, but you’ll definitely need to be keeping an eye on this one.

“You must be incredibly good at your job if you’re already rubbing shoulders with the big boss. I look forward to working with you, Mr Nakamoto.”

“Please, Yuta is just fine.”

“Then Y/N is just fine for me, Yuta,” you chime, playing with his name on your tongue and earning an indecipherable side-eyed smirk from your companion.

The lift makes a small ding! as you arrive at the ground floor. In the grand, highly decorated lobby, you feel several surrounding eyes watch you and Yuta, floating like winter royalty in your unintentionally coordinated blue garments, sweeping towards the shining entrance of the hotel like a flurry of snow. Outside the tall, glass doors, a white limousine awaits your arrival, accompanied by an assisting bellboy and chauffer, both dressed all in white. You waste no time trying to cram your dress inside, gasping as the cold January air strikes your exposed arm; a gesture which concerns the gentlemanly Yuta. Once inside the vehicle, he sits opposite you on a sleek leather seat and takes his first proper look at you, flashing a beautiful closed-mouth smile at you when you catch him staring. There are glasses of champagne poured out and secured in glass holders beside you which you would really like to indulge in, but you initially don’t think you will have enough time to down an entire flute.

“I don’t see why we need the limo, we probably could have just walked,” you laugh, gathering your skirt around your feet and shrugging. “The club is only round the corner.”

“Wouldn’t you get cold? I’m surprised this is all you are wearing. I thought someone would be at the car with a coat,” Yuta comments, placing his elbow on an armrest and pensively running his thumb over his bottom lip. The action is so casual yet so seductive, and it throws you off guard massively. Is he trying to win over your heart, or is this just his normal behaviour? Your eyes flicker over to the champagne flutes as the car begins to move, and you pick both glasses up, offering one to Yuta. He accepts one with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t need a coat when I have these around. How well do you handle your drink?” You ask, swirling the golden liquid about. Yuta shrugs.

“Pretty well, I suppose.”

“Great, because a few of these is enough to get me talking to anyone and everyone. Cheers,” you grin, watching a smile slip across Yuta’s stern face once more. His chest shakes subtly as he clinks his glass against yours.

“Cheers.”

Simultaneously you both lift your glasses to your lips, letting the champagne fizz on your tongues and tumble down your throats. It leaves a trail of burning sensations within you which spreads instantly into your arms, legs and hands. Yuta drains a whole glass in one go, whereas you take small but frequent sips throughout the duration of the six-minute car drive. The traffic caused on the Strand makes it difficult to pull out of the hotel, but your driver is able to squeeze the limo onto the side of the road which isn’t jammed, taking a winding back-route towards the venue of the gala. Once the limo stops and announces your arrival, your eyes illuminate with joy as they land on the strings of blue and white fairy lights laced across the quintessentially European society house. The sky is a blend of violets and pinks as the last remainder of sunlight trickles from the sky, making the building look magical with its fake-snow coated windowsills and its blue carpet leading towards the entrance. A shiver of warmth ripples up your spine as you feel Yuta’s hand cautiously sit itself on the small of your back, and he leans down to whisper in your ear, “It would be pretty magical if it was actually snowing, no?”

“If it was actually snowing, I would have two broken ankles and a fever by now,” you joke cynically, earning another airy laugh in response. It seems that Yuta has a similar sort of cynicism to you – a hidden trait of yours which many often find less appealing. Tilting your head up towards him, you comment, “You realise it doesn’t actually snow a lot in England, right? Especially London and the South. We just get the biting cold and an unforgivable amount of ice if it rained the day before.”

“Good thing I didn’t take up the job because of English weather then,” he says, nudging you forward a little. “Let’s get inside so that you don’t catch that fever.”

Following the blue, velvet carpet laid outside, you walk up the club’s steps, giving your names to the chilly-looking gentleman at the door, and then making your way inside through a golden handled door. You would take the revolving door but considering the size of your skirt it would most definitely get trapped and ruined. The inside of the Royal Automobile Club is much more beautiful than its unassuming exterior, and instantly you are greeted with a display of blues, whites, gold and silver. In a distant room, a string quartet produces a pleasant outpour of melodies which mingle with the hums of conversation buzzing in the air. All around you, guests greet each other in their flowing gowns, and before you can even take two steps into the building a new flute of champagne has somehow found its way in between your golden-ringed fingers. The golden shade on your nails almost matches the bubbling drink. Ahead of you and Yuta is a set of stairs raising up to the room you believe is called the Rotunda; a circular space which can be admired both from the ground floor and a panoramic overhead mezzanine. In the centre sits an old model car with its roof pulled back, making its striking body of black and white shine in the centre of the display room. Clustered behind it you spot your parents, who are deep in conversation with another wealthy man and his wife.

“Behind the car, look, my parents,” you state to Yuta as you begin to make your way towards them. Yuta’s fingers stick to the small of your back, as if attached with glue, but you enjoy the feeling. If anything, it offers you a greater sense of security as you teeter up the stairs, deeper into the bright light of the show room where many of the older-aged men present could gobble you up with their hungry eyes. Merely having someone closer to your age nearby is a comfort. Your mother is the first of the gaggle to spot you.

“Y/N! Oh, Darling, you look beautiful!”

To your mother, everyone is a ‘Darling’, or a ‘Dear’ if she is at risk of using ‘Darling’ in two consecutive sentences. Her arms extend out to greet you, and Yuta’s fingers detach from your back as you stride forward, embracing her with enough care to not crush her navy-blue taffeta dress. Her dolce coat has vanished, most likely tucked away in a cloakroom deep within the venue. An air kiss on each cheek is issued, and then her attention diverts to Yuta.

“And Yuta, Dear, thank you so much for looking after her. I was worried those stylists would move at such a glacial pace that we’d miss the hors d'oeuvres.”

“Mother, missing out on appetisers isn’t the end of the world,” you sigh as she adjusts the silver Michael Kors watch clasped around her wrist.

“But bad punctuality is. Especially in places like this. You should know better than that, Y/N,” she scolds, taking both you and Yuta by surprise. You shoot him a puzzled look, to which he shrugs dismissively. “Darling, Y/N has arrived,” you hear your mother utter, and instantly your father is torn from his conversation.

“Y/N! Sweetheart! Look at how lovely you are!” He beams, voice loud and enthusiastic. You wonder how much champagne flutes he has already guzzled.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you kiss his cheek as he hugs you less carefully than your mother did, before turning you to face the people he was socialising with.

“Y/N, I’d like you to meet Hyunwoo Kim and his wife Taeha. They are in charge of the bank’s Korean partnerships and have been spending their Christmas in London. We managed to squeeze this gala into their schedule before they return to Seoul tomorrow.” Bowing your head in the appropriate greeting style, you familiarise yourself with the couple, noting their bright smiles and expensive jewellery. “Mr Kim, Y/N is currently my head of Human Resources in the NeoBanking Group head office. She’s just received her master’s degree in Business Management at King’s College, you see. I hope to grant her inheritance of the CEO position from me when I retire sometime in the foreseeable future.”

“Retirement for you still seems very far in the future, Mr L/N,” Mr Kim smiles, a fan of wrinkles shining around the corners of his eyes. He turns to you, smiling politely. “You study at King’s College? Not Oxford or Cambridge?” A sharp knotting sensation twists within your throat as you force yourself to continue grinning. Your father – noticeably more tense – dominates the conversation once more.

“Y/N received an offer from Jesus College at Cambridge but turned it down in order to work closer to the bank’s head office. We thought it would be more practical that way. You must know the centre of the city like the back of your hand now, Sweetheart?”

“Yes, that’s right,” you laugh with a feigned confidence, watching the Kims carefully as your father feeds them lies. At first it appears to have worked, as their eyes widen in surprise.

“Turning down Cambridge! Oh my, you must be just as bold and daring as your father here!” Mr Kim gasps, gesturing towards your father with an extended hand. Your father relaxes once more, but you can read through Mr Kim. That’s the thing with events like these, they’re always seemingly endless games of two truths one lie. And as more alcohol is consumed, the more believable the lies become; by the end of the night you can never tell what is fake or true anymore.

“Hyunwoo here is the man who promoted Yuta to our office,” your father continues, grabbing Yuta’s attention, who instantly greets the couple in a brief Korean conversation. “Yuta truly is a wonderful intern, he’s very sharp and very persuasive. I like a man like that on my team. Plus, I see that he has looked after my daughter well. He is truly wonderful.”

“Thank you, Mr L/N,” Yuta bows. “Working with you is a pleasure, although I do miss Seoul just as much.” The way Yuta appeals to both of his bosses oozes charisma. In a single sentence he has them wrapped around his pinkie. You’ll admit that it’s kind of hot, but you won’t let him charm you like that… at least not when you’re back in the office.

“What were you talking about before we arrived?” You ask, hoping that it will divert the conversation onto something different from business and reputation. Your father’s face freezes in thought as he tries to recollect the past few minutes, then reanimates as soon as he remembers.

“Ah! Yes, this car here. What do you think of it, Y/N? Yuta?”

“She’s a beautifully sleek model,” Yuta comments, wafting his hand in the air as if to caress the car’s curves.

“I agree,” you add. “Bugatti?”

“That’s my daughter!” Your father’s face lights up like a firework, his head bouncing so fast you worry it might drop off his shoulders. “It’s a Bugatti Type 55 from 1932. The club are putting a collection of their cars for auction this evening to raise money for charity. How about it, Y/N? I’ll buy you this one?”

“Oh! No, no, please, you don’t need to, Daddy.” You laugh, shaking your champagne-free hand embarrassedly before you. “I would ruin it instantly. All these cars are so precious, they should belong to dedicated collectors, not me.”

“Very well,” your father nods, hooking his arm around your mother. “The meal begins at six thirty, so we still have plenty of time to wander about. Yuta, I don’t want you to feel like you’re babysitting my daughter, I won’t be offended if you wander off at any point, but please remember to sit with us during dinner.”

“It’s no trouble, Mr L/N. So far Miss Y/N’s company has been very enjoyable.” Yuta’s response makes you want to roll your eyes, but instead you drop them to the floor, taking your first sip from your current champagne flute.

“I’m glad to hear. Well, go and explore, socialise, whatever you kids do. We’ll see you at half past six.”

Within seconds your parents and the Kims disperse like vapour into the designer-clad crowd of guests, leaving you alone with Yuta. He tilts his head as he watches you bite your lip, nervously looking at your toes peeking out from below your skirt. “Are you okay?” He asks, a crooked smile now sitting on his lips. His voice is laced with a low laughter, and you giggle silently in response.

“Yeah, yeah. He’s just a bit embarrassing. I think he’s tipsy,” you sigh, taking another sip from your drink. Yuta places his free hand in a trouser pocket and relaxes his posture.

“He does sound a little louder than usual, but every parent is embarrassing at events like this. I didn’t realise it would be so busy, though,” he comments, eyes scanning the room. “This auction must be a massive deal.”

“It is,” you nod. “I feel like it’s always a little harsh to hold it just after Christmas. It’s like there’s a battle to see who has the most money left to play with after the festivities. The only thing that redeems it is that this is all for charity.”

“Right.” Yuta states, sipping from his drink. “Well, you know this place the best out of the two of us, Y/N. Do you see anyone you want to talk to? Is there anywhere you want to go?”

“The lounges are pretty. Maybe we can drift about there for a while? I’ll show you the squash courts and indoor swimming pool after dinner if you want.” Yuta’s ears perk at the mention of sports facilities, and he grins.

“That sounds good to me.”

And so, you wander about the extravagant halls and lounges of the Royal Automobile Club for the fleeting hour and a half before dinner, admiring the intricately sewn cushions and tapestries embedded into the furniture and walls. In such a beautiful dress, you feel like the protagonist of a period drama, moments away from being wooed by her suitor. Each chandelier twinkles like starshine above you, and occasionally you bump into some of your father’s business partners, engaging in brief chatter as you introduce them to Yuta and explain his association with the company.

Dinner is just as enjoyable. In a large hall decorated with sweeping white curtains that match the silk-embroidered tablecloths cloaking circular dining tables, you sit between Yuta and your mother, accompanied by your father, the Kims, and several other guests. Everything is embellished in gold and silver, from the crockery to the old, spotless paintings on the walls. Yuta whispers to you that one of the paintings is fake – that the real version is kept in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence - then playfully admits that he is joking when he sees the look of disbelief on your face. Across the room stretches strings of fairy lights which glow in alternating warm and bright lights, looming above like a huge festive web. The dinner consists of a pretentious yet delicious five-course meal that leaves you feeling bloated by the time your dessert plate is taken away. You sigh, gazing longingly at the remaining quarter of chocolate and hazelnut mousse tart you had given up on, wishing you could fold it up into something to smuggle home, but such behaviour would be absolutely scandalous in this setting. Beside you, Yuta dabs at his mouth with a fabric serviette, before folding it into a triangle and placing it on the table.

“I need to go on such a long run to burn all the calories I think I’ve just consumed,” he comments, and you nod in relatable agreement.

“Me too. I feel like I’ve gained twice my weight from that dinner alone. I even had the vegetarian menu…”

“There’s nothing wrong with weight gain.”

“Did you seriously just say that in a hall full of socialites?” You scoff, looking at Yuta with raised brows. “I mean, you aren’t wrong but… appearance is everything.”

“If you’re insecure about your own appearance and would like an honest opinion, then I think you look perfect.”

“Mr Nakamoto, you sure are brave to flirt so openly at the same table as your boss,” you lean in, lowering your voice so that only Yuta can hear it. In return he smirks, making sure his dark, piercing eyes are fixed right on yours.

The shrill clatter of cutlery tapping glass rings through the dining hall and snatches both you and Yuta out of your little moment. A stout, well-dressed man who you recognise as the head organiser of the event stands up across the room, clearing his throat into a microphone. Meanwhile, you lace your fingers together and prop your elbows on the edge of the table, leaning forward to rest your chin on the little platform you have made with your hands. The speaker rambles on with a long speech, and you try your hardest not to show any sign of reaction as you feel Yuta’s hand slide through the slit in your skirt, locating itself firmly on your left thigh. His thumb rotates in painfully slow circles, and you subtly tilt your head in his direction to see his face better. From what is visible above the table’s edge, Yuta shows no sign that he’s teasing you beneath it. His eyes are focused on the speaker, and his face is stoic. Distractedly, your eyes graze over his lips, wondering how soft they would be against yours, but instantly you snap your eyes back to the front of the room before you can have any darker ideas. This guy works practically side by side with your father. He isn’t ‘just another guy at a party’; he’s acting out of order by touching your leg like this. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to push his hand away.

The speaker concludes his speech, the hall erupts in applause, and an announcement is made to remind the gala’s guests that the auction will begin in half an hour. Several people leave their tables, choosing to dedicate the rest of their evening to drinking and chatter. Within that crowd is you and Yuta. By now you are unsure of how many flutes of champagne you have drunk, but you are now a lot wobblier on your heels. Yuta offers you a supportive arm, and you accept it welcomingly.

“How about we go and see that indoor swimming pool you were talking about?” He suggests, his own words slurring the tiniest amount. With one affirmative nod, you slide your right hand into his left.

“Sure, follow me.”

Together you navigate through the smaller corridors of the club until the crowd thins out and the chemical scent of chlorine catches your noses. Turning one last corner, you and Yuta walk onto a mezzanine overlooking an Olympic-sized swimming pool, framed by tall Greek-style columns carved with an intricate pattern of fish scales. The room is dark and closed to the public for the evening, but the water remains illuminated a vibrant turquoise by lights within the pool itself, and a wobbling pattern of lines flickers softly on the ceiling of the hall. The eternal hum of conversation is now a distant whisper, and you rest your hands on the cast iron railings at your waist, watching the tranquil scene before you. Without a word, Yuta’s presence gravitates behind you and his hands slide down your arms, eventually clasping over your own. The way his hands completely eclipse yours causes a flush of heat to course through your body; either that, or the way his chest presses against your back, or perhaps the way he dips his head to place the most featherweight of kisses on your exposed left shoulder. You can hear the blood rushing into your ears as he lifts his lips up against them.

“Well this is a pretty spectacular view,” he whispers, and the ghost of a laugh tumbles from you.

“It is,” you agree, “but I have a gut feeling it hasn’t got your entire attention.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“What are you doing?” Your voice is barely a whisper as his lips drag against the skin behind your ear.

“Is it not obvious? I’m seducing you.” His voice, in contrast, is playful, almost verging on dominant.

“Why?” You ask, a little louder and more assertively. Yuta pulls his lips away from your skin, leaving it cold. His tone becomes cautious and careful instantly.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“I… not really… I’m just concerned for you, that’s all.”

“You’re concerned for me? Y/N, you’re the one who has been giving me The Look all evening.” Yuta’s laugh melts into your ears like honey. You want to hear it drizzled all over you.

“What look?” You retort, slipping your hands from beneath his and spinning to face him. His hands grip around the railing, trapping you closer to him than you expected.

“The one where you undress me in your imagination. You aren’t exactly subtle.”

“You’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me. What the fuck were you thinking in the dining hall?”

“I was wondering how long it would take for me to get caught,” Yuta grins, revealing a slither of his soft, shiny gums in the darkness. “…and other things.”

“Yuta… I don’t want to get you into trouble,” you admit with a sigh, resting your hands on his hips and letting your clutch bag hang off your wrist by its tiny chain. “You see… Hell, you probably even know already! I, uh… I have a bit of a reputation for being… promiscuous, I suppose. People inside and out of the office gossip about it. I don’t want them saying bad things about you.”

“Promiscuous, huh? I’m sure that’s not half as bad as the rumours about the other people here.” He leans forward, lips brushing against your ear in a whisper. “You know, I saw Mr Kim snort a worrying amount of cocaine in the bathroom.”

“Seriously?” Your eyes widen as you pull your head back, looking at him in shock. “Mr Oh-so-perfect-head-of-the-partnership-Kim?”

Yuta nods twice, laughing, and instantly a giggle spills from your lips. Dropping your head with a weak smile, you hum “I think I’ve heard worse about me, really.”

“Oh? Like what?”

The glimmer in Yuta’s eyes entertains you, and although you feel vulnerable, there’s a confidence bubbling within your chest with the thought of admitting that you aren’t the perfect submissive daughter of a rich man. Slipping your arms around Yuta’s waist, you pull him into you, listening to the soft thud of your clutch bag toppling to the floor as it falls off of your wrist. The air between you is hot, electric and terrifying.

“How about I tell you two rumours that are true, and one that’s false, and if you guess the false one correctly then I’ll let you kiss me?”

“Deal.”

“Okay. One: When I was eighteen, I slept with all three of SM Tech’s CEO’s sons the night of his wife’s sixtieth birthday.” Yuta’s eyebrow rises, surprised but non-judgemental. “Two: I have a history of borrowing my family’s money to pay underpaid workers in and out of the bank, and three:” you ponder in thought over the last option. “…I have slept with every intern my father has hired.”

You’re technically cheating – all three are true, but Yuta catches on to what you’re implying. He lifts his right hand from the railing, hooking his thumb under your chin and lifting it up so that your eyes meet his. By now, your faces are mere centimetres apart.

“Easy. Number three is a lie. You haven’t slept with me yet.” His eyes gleam in the low light as you grin. With his lips grazing over yours, he sucks in a small intake of breath, and as he exhales, his words ride on his breath in barely a whisper. “Someone once told me that gossip is the phantom currency of the rich. If the people want to talk about us, then fuck it. Let them.”

Yuta’s fingers latch under your jaw, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear as his lips connect to yours with a confidence that makes your head spin. “Yuta…” you breathe, eyes fluttering closed as you press your lips against his once more, moving slowly at first, relishing in the warmth that buzzes beneath your skin. As soon as Yuta’s left hand clasps the small of your back, your mouth slips open and his tongue glides across yours as each movement becomes synchronised. When his curious fingers tug at your hair, the flame in your stomach only grows warmer. The remnants of hazelnut and champagne linger on his tongue and it makes you hungry. Your hands begin to slide up his back, pulling his chest into yours as you forget about the rest of the world. Right now, all you feel is a sudden craving for him. Yuta’s hand lowers down your back daringly, and you don’t resist his palm as it smooths over the curve of your ass, sliding down the back of your left leg and hitching it up to wrap around his own leg. The fabric of your skirt tumbles down each side, leaving your skin exposed to the chlorinated air, and a spark of heat ignites at your core.

“I really fucking love this dress,” he whispers as you momentarily part for breath, and you giggle against his lips as you pull him back in, riskily grinding yourself against his thigh as your fingers brush the buzzed hair at his nape. You can feel him groan almost silently against your mouth, so you repeat the action until he pulls away, gripping your ass and shooting a dark, lust-filled glare directly into your eyes.

“Call your driver,” he orders, tugging on your wrist. You nod, using your free hand to open your clutch, retrieve your phone and text the driver who brought you to the gala that you and Yuta plan to return to the hotel. With your hand in his, you both practically run from the venue, tipsy and fired up and hungry for privacy.

Outside the temperature has dropped significantly, and instantly Yuta is shrugging off his suit jacket and slinging it over your shoulders. The chivalrous act warms your heart in the winter coldness, and Yuta pulls you into him almost aggressively, surprising you. Laughing softly, you look up at him only to see that he is looking somewhere behind you, his face stern and his body tense.

“Paparazzi,” he whispers sharply, causing you to curse under your breath. You can feel the excitement drain right out of you. “How long until the limo arrives?”

“Hold on, I’ll go and buy their SD cards or something,” you insist, locating the two darkly dressed men concealed behind the corner of a nearby restaurant. “If I buy the pictures then they can’t sell them to the tabloids.” Internally, you are panicking massively. If your father discovered you and Yuta out like this, you might as well give up your hope at owning the NeoBanking Group. However, Yuta seems to protest.

“Y/N, it’s not worth it,” he mumbles, gripping onto your forearm. “Let’s just get you home.”

“B-but Yuta! I’ll lose my job if they sell those images!”

“If you pay them your own money, then they win. Do you really want that?” His eyes search for yours, which grow wider and wider as you realise your own helpless behaviour. “It’s just useless gossip. It’ll be forgotten in a day.”

The limousine pulls up, and you sweetly ask the driver to take you back to the Savoy Hotel before stumbling into the back. Unlike before, Yuta now sits right next to you like a magnet, not wanting to forget the feeling of your body against his. Taking one of your hands in his, he looks at you with concern. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he assures, and you place your other hand on top of his, grazing the pad of your thumb over his knuckles.

“I want you,” you reply, looking him directly in the eye. Right now, all you need is a distraction, and a perfectly good distraction is sitting at your side, worrying about you.

With this confirmation, Yuta doesn’t delay in gripping the lapels of his jacket, pulling them into him and you with it, instantly planting his lips on yours once more. Now traffic free, the journey to the hotel is much faster, but Yuta takes the fleeting opportunity to fish his hand through that ever-tempting slit in your skirt, pulling your legs up over his lap. You can no longer feel the world around you spin, and after what feels like only thirty seconds it is announced that you are back at the hotel. Quickly rubbing the sides of your mouth to tidy any smudged makeup, you and your dress practically spill out of the vehicle, and you thank the driver as Yuta’s hand snakes its way back into yours.

Yuta walks fast, but when you remember that the staff have your hotel key you make a hard turn to the lobby counter, catching Yuta by surprise. Behind the counter is a bright-eyed woman dressed formally, topped with a cheerful smile which feels almost inappropriate for however late at night it is right now. She compliments your appearance and promptly returns your key to you, probably spotting how Yuta clings to you impatiently. The thought of you keeping him waiting makes you feel powerful, and it turns you on massively.

You thank her, bidding her good night before you walk towards the lifts, pulling Yuta inside with a sly grin and pressing down on the button for your floor. Yuta’s hand finds your cheek as his thumb runs over your lower lip.

“That wasn’t very nice, you know?” His voice is deep, his head angled.

“What? I needed my room key,” you smirk, knowing damn well what you are doing to him. His hand hovers above your thigh, but the lift stops and opens, and you glide away before he can touch you again, fumbling with the key when you arrive at your door.

Once you are both inside, Yuta slams the door shut in a flash, pinning you up against the wall before you can even think about turning the light on. Latching his mouth onto your neck, he sucks ferociously at the tender skin and you gasp at the slight pain as his teeth press against you, but the tingling feeling of his tongue sliding over the hickeys makes it worthwhile. His jacket slips off of your shoulders and tumbles to your feet when he moves deeper down your collarbone, and soon your hands are gripping at his ice-white hair, fingers tangling within the snowy strands as you guide him along your décolletage. When Yuta finally moves away, a flurry of marks tingle down your neck, and he slides his hands around your sides, feeling for the zipper of your dress.

“I want this pretty little thing off. Now,” he commands, and you lean back into his lips as his fingers grip the metal at your side, sliding it down until your dress falls from your frame in a gust of tulle and sequins. He doesn’t withdraw from the kiss, but instead reaches for your ass, cupping it in his hands and lifting you up onto his hips. You sling your legs around him, rubbing your clothed heat against his tightening groin, and soon he’s laying you back on your bed, removing his shoes and socks before he yanks off his sapphire silk tie and begins unbuttoning his shirt. For a moment, you remain still, laying half-bare, with your arms hanging above you like a gravure model. You hear Yuta mumbling something incoherent as he indulges in the sublime vision of you looking up at him, eyes wide and innocent.

“What was that, baby?” You pout, sitting upright and taking over at his shirt as his hands grip onto your head. The sight of his athletic, toned body is enough to make you drool. You want to touch it. You want to taste it.

“I was saying you’re gorgeous. That I can’t wait to ruin you.”

“Maybe I’ll be the one ruining you,” you wink, undoing his last button and immediately moving onto his belt. “You see, Nakamoto, I like things my way.”

Yuta doesn’t protest. He only clamps his bottom lip between his teeth as you purr his name, watching you pulling off his belt and tossing it across the room. You then unzip his trousers, removing them from his waist and gulping at the tent within his Calvins. Immediately you run your hands over the fabric, a little afraid that Yuta will push you away if you give him the time or opportunity. You want him to know that when you are around, you are always the one in control, and that he isn’t going to be an exception.

It turns you on to see how unaccustomed Yuta is to this. He looks a little confused but the glimmer in his eyes is certainly not innocent. The way his erection begs to spring free from the confines of his underwear confirms that he’s definitely enjoying this. With wide eyes and a small, innocent pout, you gaze at Yuta through your eyelashes, paying close attention to the rise and fall of his chest as you tuck your thumbs beneath his waistband.

“Try to touch me and I bite your dick off.”

Yuta only groans as you cast down the fabric, your fingers wrapping around his cock and slowly pumping it as you dig your free hand into his thigh. Small, breathy gasps escape his mouth as you coax him to lie on the bed – a game which he plays along with willingly. The faster your fist moves, the louder his moans become, deep and drawn out and so sultry that you have to resist jumping on top of him. When his breathing becomes more rapid, you reward him by dragging your tongue up his shaft so slowly that you think you spot his eyes roll into the back of his head. He gasps a long, needy ‘fuck’ when you finally take him into your mouth, lowering yourself as far as you can until his tip is knocking the back of your throat. Yuta is loud and shameless, panting and hissing as you rhythmically bob up and down, tending every inch of him with your tongue and hands. His grip on your hair tightens as he guides you, whispering small, sultry praises. You part from him for a split second to catch your breath, and you watch as his face twitches at the absence of your mouth.

“How are you feeling, baby?” You coo, before lowering yourself once more, immediately returning to your rapid pace. Yuta’s hips buckle into the back of your throat and you can feel him coming close.

“I- I never kn-knew… th-the boss’ d-daughter… would b-be… such a slut…” Yuta gasps through rapid breaths. His response makes you laugh, and you make sure that every vibration in your throat resonates against his member. His entire body is tense, and you know that he’s seconds away from a climax, but stubbornly you sit up, climbing onto him and straddling his hips, gripping both his thighs as he glares at you frustratedly. Dragging the back of your hand across your mouth, you look back at him with a nonchalant shrug.

“What? No one ever left you hanging before?”

Seeing Yuta so flustered and mad causes a ripple of heat to flood through you. The tiny falter in your cocky façade provides enough time for Yuta to press his hand against your chest, knocking you off balance and onto your back while he rolls over and pins you between his knees.

“You think I’m that easy?” He teases, crawling on top of you and cupping your cheeks in his hand, before passionately kissing you again. “Two can play at this game, Princess,” he growls onto your lips, your core throbbing from the combination of the pet name and his hand massaging your left breast. He skims his thumb over your perked nipple repeatedly until you squirm, hooking your legs around his waist, craving any sort of friction to relieve you from your body’s needs. Yuta laughs against your lips, before dragging his mouth away to pepper kisses down your jaw, right to your sternum. You usually never allow this, but fuck, does it feel good from him. In the sudden turn of events, all you can do is lay back and gasp, threading your fingers through his hair and bucking your hips onto his. His greedy hands trail over your middle, until finally landing over your thighs and sliding upwards at an agonisingly slow pace.

“Shit, Yuta.” You hiss, now growing impatient yourself. His hands stop moving, and you wish you hadn’t said anything at all.

“What was that?” He hums sitting upright and placing his left hand flat on your stomach. You shake your head, but he wants more from you. “Come on, Princess. What is it?”

“You’re being a damn tease, Nakamoto.”

“I haven’t even touched you yet!” He gasps, lifting his weight from you and making you whine childishly.

“No, Yuta, please-” You stutter, rubbing your thighs together just to feel something. He immediately grabs both your knees, spreading them apart, and you clutch onto the pillow beneath your head.

“Please what?” He purrs, looking down at you through hooded eyes.

Stubbornly you grimace, frustrated at your passive position. You usually have better control over men – the control you have during one-night stands is the only autonomy you can ever cling onto. The thought of letting it slip terrifies you, so naturally, this never happens with the other guys you fuck. What is it about Yuta that’s making him so damn difficult? Why does this feel like a make-or-break situation? With him hovering above you, it’s virtually impossible for you to protest. If you do, you’re not going to get what you want. But what scares you the most is that letting him do all the hard work right now doesn’t even sound that unappealing...

“Please…” your voice is strained as your front slips into an honest shyness. You know that if you called for this to stop, then Yuta will stop immediately, yet your curiosity to see what happens if you give in is just as overwhelming as the tingling at the junction of your thighs. “Please touch me…”

With a content smile, Yuta runs his tongue over his bottom lip as he places the back of his right hand on your stomach. All his fingers are curled into a fist bar his index and proceeds to tantalisingly drag his hand down your stomach towards your heat. His knuckles are first to graze over the white lace thong you are wearing, earning a low mewl to leave your lips, before his finger brushes against the fabric, touching the damp fabric one torturous inch at a time. To your surprise, he twists his thumb over your clit, and applies a gentle pressure that makes your hips buckle.

“God… you’re so wet for me, Princess,” he sighs, rotating his thumb in slow circles. “Is this all for me?”

“Y-yes, Yuta,” you moan as he drags his thumb down your clothed folds. He pushes the fabric to one side, leaving you gasping as his fingers caress your flesh, circling around your bud and gradually increasing the pressure until you are a writhing mess. Seemingly content, he drags his finger down your slit, winning a high-pitched gasp from your shaking body by sinking it deep within you without warning. He curls his digit against your walls as he pumps it into you, quickly adding a second finger that reaches deeper into your core and causes you to see stars. With each thrust of his fingers you moan softly; your whole body is hot as Yuta whispers sweet nothings to you, most of them ending in ‘princess.’ It takes minutes before you can feel your first orgasm approach, and you clench your walls around Yuta’s fingers, in return evoking a moan of his own.

“Fuck… are you close, Princess?” He gasps stretching his fingers within you. When you nod frantically, he instantly withdraws them from your body. Immediately you whine, head slamming back against the pillow at his absence.

“Yuta… why’d you do that?” You complain as he inspects his fingers, glistening and coated with your juices.

“What? No one ever left you hanging before?” He mimics, as you roll your eyes and pull him back in to kiss you. He stops you, pressing his fingers against you lips. Your eyes are wide and fixed on his as you drag your tongue against his fingers, lapping up your own essence. Yuta laughs, sitting up and hooking arms around your neck, and kissing you long and hard. “Alright, Princess,” he states between kisses. “Let’s call it a draw. Now let me treat you real good. My way.”

You nod obediently, raising your hips to graze your glistening core over his angrily stiff cock. He doesn’t hesitate to push you back into the pillows, placing one hand on your stomach as he aligns himself with you and presses into you with a sharp thrust. Instantly you cry out, clenching around his length, but as soon as you are accustomed to his size you are rocking your hips back and forth, hands hooked behind his neck for support. Yuta guides your hips with his hands, uttering praise after praise as he begins to buck into you, slamming against a sweet spot that has your stomach tying into knots and tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

“Y-Yuta, I-”

“Come on, Princess, come for me Babygirl,” he pants, digging his fingers into your hips as a wave of white clouds your vision and strings of profanities tremble off your tongue. Yuta slows you down as you ride out your orgasm, and he rolls you onto your back, positioning himself above you and thrusting slowly as you catch your breath. Your hands tangle in his hair once more and you pull his mouth on yours, moaning onto his tongue as he begins to increase his pace once more, promptly finding your sweet spot. He’s practically pulling you onto him as he edges closer and closer until suddenly he’s grunting and sloppy, slamming his face into the crook of his neck as he finishes himself. You feel his dick twitch inside you as he spills into your walls, hoping to god that you’re on the pill, before collapsing onto your chest and withdrawing himself from your core.

“Fuck…” He sighs, kissing your jaw. “You take me so well, Princess…”

“I’m one of a kind,” you wink, breathless and sweaty and feeling incredibly empty now that you are both separate. “Yuta…”

“Yes, Princess?” He is also short of breath, and strands of white hair stick to his glistening forehead. He’s gorgeous.

“Promise not to tell my dad about this?” You ask, half playfully, half terrified that you’ve just gone and ruined both of your careers.

“I won’t, I promise,” he smiles, kissing your nose and rolling over to stand back up. “I’ll get you a towel to clean you up. You lay back and rest. I had fun.”

“I had fun too,” you sigh, leaning back and staring at the pure white ceiling. The entire room is dark aside from the golden light pouring out of the door to the bathroom suite, and you close your eyes, listening to the pitter-patter of rainfall and the soft whirring of transport outside. It’s a soothing tonic after Yuta’s roughness in the sheets, and before he can even return, you are lulled into sleep by the sound of London at midnight.

Shrill, tinny sounds yank you out of your dreamless slumber as you are woken the following morning by your phone’s alarm. Instantly you jump awake, rolling across the messy white bedsheets to the bedside table where it buzzes, reminding you that the time is 8am, and you have to leave the hotel by 10. Strange. You don’t remember putting your phone on charge last night. At the sheer thought of last night, a dull ache blossoms between your thighs, and you look down at your stark-naked body, instantly grabbing at the sheets and pulling them over you before you realise… No one else is in the bed with you.

The pillows are dirty with your makeup, but you flop back onto them anyway, feeling awfully disappointed and hungover. You should have expected Yuta to be the ‘love them and leave them’ kind. In all honesty, if you had stayed in his hotel room, then you probably would have done the same. Although something felt different with Yuta at the gala. You had felt a spark with him which you had never known before with the other weaselly rich kids you’ve had for a one-night stand. Yuta was bold and brave. Yuta had a way of standing up to you and melting you in his hands that the others could only dream of. The thought makes you hungry for more; you feel empty without him.

When you sit up, you have a quick search around the room for any sign that Yuta might have left behind, only to find nothing. No note. No phone number. All he did was plug your phone in and set an alarm, but even the alarm has no message. You sit back on the bed with a deep sigh, feeling stupid to have believed he might have stayed. But with an hour and a half to get dressed and packed, you head to the bathroom suite, washing your face clean and taking a long, needed shower. It’s only when you pick up your toothbrush to clean your teeth that you see a single, sapphire-studded cufflink hidden behind it, and you pick it up, rolling it in your palm with your thumb as you utter ‘dickhead’ under your breath. With nothing more than a single cufflink, there’s no hope of being able to contact Yuta again. Asking your father would be far too embarrassing. So instead, you hide the stud in your wallet, buried beneath the coins, and decide that it would be best to pack up and forget about Yuta completely.

Except you can’t.

Over the following week you see Yuta in the usual flashes at the office, but you are also too stubborn to leave your own room to go and talk to him. He clearly has no real interest in you. You never should have caved in and let him have his way. It’s by chance one late afternoon when you are gazing out of your window at the skyline of Canary Wharf and London’s East End when a quick, blunt knock patters against your door, and you stupidly invite them inside before looking through to check who it is first.

“Long time no see.”

Yuta’s naturally charming voice rips your head from the view, and instantly your insides knot with nerves. Across the room, he stands, both hands behind his back as he rests his shoulder against the doorframe. You had planned to avoid him as long as you could, but here he is, seven days later, throwing you off course once more.

“If it’s not about work then I’m not interested, Mr Nakamoto,” you reply in a sour tone, collecting the mess of papers on your desk together.

“Mr Nakamoto, huh?” His brows twitch in surprise at your tone.

“What is it, Yuta?” You almost hiss, holding your breath as you divert your attention to the screen of your iMac. Taking a couple of steps into your art deco office, he closes the door behind him and leans against it, crossing his arms.

“You didn’t come talk to me. I wanted to check if you’re okay.” You almost guffaw at his bullshit.

“You didn’t leave me a note! Or your number! How on earth am I meant to ‘come talk to you’ if I have no contact details? I can’t just go around and ask where your office is, people get suspicious!” Your voice quakes angrily, but you remain quiet enough for no one outside to hear you. Yuta’s brows knit together as he frowns.

“I did leave you something. I left a cufflink. You know, so you could say to someone ‘Excuse me, where is intern Nakamoto? He left something in my office I need to return to him,’ and then bam. We do whatever.”

“You expected me to come back running to you to just ‘do whatever’ at work? God, Yuta, that’s low.” His statement hurts. Something within you really, really hoped he would be different. “And I don’t recall seeing anything of yours in here. Certainly not a cufflink.” Of course you remember the cufflink, but you’re not going to admit that to him. Yuta’s face pales a little, but whether it’s about the fact that he thinks he’s lost an expensive cufflink or another girl to toy with, you’re unsure.

“I left it in the bathroom of your hotel room. You didn’t see it?”

“Does it matter? You didn’t say goodbye. That stung, Yuta. For the record, I never let things go the way I don’t expect them to. I opened up to you, and you supposedly left me with a cufflink. Sounds a bit rude if you ask me, so if you’re not here for work purposes, then please leave my office.”

A heavy sigh leaves Yuta’s lips as he prises himself off the door, walking around the low coffee table in the space between him and your desk. “Actually,” he utters, his white hair falling over his eyes as he runs his hand through it. From behind him, he whips out a large brown envelope and tosses it onto your desk. “I have requests from the Marketing department. I’m in charge of the team running production of the next TV advert and we need the resources listed within that envelope. Forward any invoices to Finance once you’ve got them.” From underneath his grey suit sleeve, a silver Rolex flashes obnoxiously in the afternoon sunlight. His speech is curt, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Thank you,” you say, pulling the envelope closer to you. Yuta’s fingers move with it, and you glare up at him. His eyes fall right back onto yours with a sheen of concern. “Anything else?”

“This project determines how good a job I get after my internship. If anything goes wrong, please contact me. I’m sorry if I hurt you, Y/N. I wanted to see you again, I really did.”

“All you needed to do was knock on my office door,” you sigh, resting your elbow on your desk and rubbing your temples. Your voice is softer now, and although his face is fixed in its usual stoic expression, the slight upturn of his brows is unmissable. He pauses, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip contemplatively.

“Are you free on Saturday?”

“Pardon?”

“Let me take you out for a drink, please. As a proper apology.” He smiles ever so slightly, and something deep within you cannot resist it. After a hesitant moment you return the smile, nodding gently.

“Okay. Saturday, sure.” And then, suddenly struck with an idea, you reach across your desk and scribble your phone number onto a bright yellow post-it note. “Text me,” you insist, handing the note to him and earning a small, genuine laugh from Yuta as he nods in agreement.

“I look forward to seeing you, Y/N.”

“I look forward to seeing you too, Yuta.” He leans across your desk, placing a small, featherlight kiss on your cheek before he leaves your room. It’s only when the door clicks shut and he vanishes from your sight that you realise that Yuta Nakamoto has managed to get his own way with you again.

This time, Yuta does text you. He apologises, saying that he’s not really much of a texter and would rather save the conversation for your date, then proposes a time to meet and the address of a small, suave cocktail bar in Soho. When the date comes, choosing an outfit is a nightmare. It’s a cold, mid-February evening, and from your spectrum of a wardrobe you settle on a black, long sleeved Chanel mini dress that wraps around your waist and flares out at the skirt. You pair this with knee-high patent leather boots in a matching black, and a long Burberry coat that drizzles you in the brand’s token beige, plaid print. Your jewellery is gold and dainty and you ironically feel like royalty as you sit, one leg crossed over the other in the middle of a grimy Underground tube train carriage. After a short while of travelling you meet Yuta within the dizzying centre of Oxford Circus station, where he stands a little slumped, looking effortlessly cool in a sweeping navy blue trench coat that brings out the white of his hair. When you call out for him, he immediately recognises your voice, eyes shooting up from his phone and widening a fraction as you stride towards him. His face freezes in a moment of awe, mouth hanging agape before stretching into a wide, gummy grin. It is at this moment, as you walk through the gates out of the station and into his vision, that Yuta feels like the luckiest man in the world. Not that he’ll admit it just yet, though.

“Well now I feel underdressed! Wow… Hi,” he says, eyes still shimmering with awe. You want to hug him, but you are a little afraid of making a move too fast, so instead you hook your arm through his, tenderly resting your hand on his forearm.

“Nonsense! You look stunning, Yuta. How are you?”

“I’ve been aching all week,” his face contorts in pretend ailing. “But it’s funny. Now that you’re here I’m suddenly much better.”

“My god…” you laugh, cringing away as you and Yuta begin to walk out of one of the station’s many exits. “That’s not even a pickup line!”

“It’s working though, isn’t it?” Yuta says, leaning a little closer to your ear. You playfully slap his arm, massively comforted by his relaxed behaviour. It’s not dissimilar to the night of the gala, but this time the lack of social expectation allows you both to be more yourselves.

“It might be. Anyway, where’s this bar you were telling me about?”

The evening sky is in its final stages of pink as you and Yuta walk arm in arm through the streets of London and into the night, observing how the city electrifies in neon and tungsten, the upbeat hum of Italian jazz spilling from a distant restaurant. You eventually arrive outside a small, ivy-clad door made of stained-glass shards rearranged into a mosaic panel, which swings underneath an average sized panel reading ‘Reverie’ in a delicate, cursive script made out of white neon strips. Yuta holds the door open for you as you enter, greeted by a dimly lit vision of ivy sprawling across violet painted walls, crawling into the bar area. Behind the bar is another stained-glass mosaic, sparkling in bright shades of each colour on the rainbow, separated by a single black line. The shelves are stacked with bottles of spirits and liqueurs – some more expensive brands than others – and the tables are all circular and dark wood, accompanied by dark bar stools with violet velvet cushions. Yuta slips his hand into yours as you approach the bar, ordering a Moscow mule for himself and a strawberry daiquiri at your request. The drinks arrive, and you both take a sip at the bar, offering complements to the staff before searching for a private table to sit at. In the back of the bar a tall table illuminated by the faint glow of a neon pink flamingo is available, awaiting you both to claim it. Once seated, you are quiet for a few minutes, merely gazing at each other and communicating through a language of locked eyes, punctuated by casual sips of your drinks. Yuta is the first to cave in.

“Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Eye-fucking me. It’s gonna give me ideas.”

“I am not eye-fucking you.” You roll your eyes, smugly wondering what fantasies are filling his smug head as you cross one leg over the other. “I’m trying to figure out who made your jacket.”

Yuta raises a brow before looking down at his torso, running his thumbs down behind the lapel of his coat before shrugging it off and resting it over his lap. “Who do you think?”

“Hmm. Prada.”

“Wrong.”

His grin is big and bright as he reveals that it’s an old Ralph Lauren garment he purchased on a business trip to New York, back when he worked for the Seoul office. And thus, the conversation that spills into the next hour or so evolves into tales about his experiences with the NeoBanking Group and what it is like working so closely with your father. The mere mention of your father causes a small shift in your mood – for the first time in months you had completely forgotten about how you always felt his looming presence clouding over you. Yuta talks briefly about a three-month conflict he had trying to convince Mr Kim to promote him, before sipping his drink once more.

“You’re lucky,” he sighs, tilting his head and lacing his nimble fingers with yours. “You don’t have to work hard. All you have to do is bat those pretty eyes of yours and you’ll have an entire room wrapped around your little finger.”

“And I suppose you are an immune exception to my charms?”

“Obviously not, I wouldn’t have asked you out if I was,” he mutters, uncharacteristically offering a vulnerability that makes your heart flutter. You shrug, clasping your fingers over his knuckles, admiring the silver ring enclosed around his middle finger.

“I know my way around most people, that’s all. It’s just socialising, Yuta,” you break up your response by finishing your daiquiri, but when you continue, your voice is wobbly. Without realising it, you are suddenly articulating the illusion that you have built your entire life upon, only now acknowledging how robotic and empty it is. “And one day… I’m going to inherit the company, and I’ll socialise some more right to the upper echelons of the business. My father has already built an empire, and, although you might not know, I now have a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in business. I have been trained to be the new empress of the NeoBanking group, believe me. The management is easy. You hire people, make sure they’re treated right and paid well, you listen to them, and they do all the hard work for you. Simple.”

“So at this moment, you and I are just two of your daddy’s little hired minions, then?”

“…Technically, yes.” You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your hands start to feel clammy under his. “But you’re different because he likes you. So what you started off as an intern? When you complete your internship, you’ll be offered a stellar job position and will skyrocket up the ranks. I completed a degree and was given the same. I reckon he sees you as his own son, I really do. He never wanted a girl anyway. He’ll latch onto anyone who can ensure a successful legacy.”

Yuta’s head tilts slowly, his ice-white fringe grazing across his brows and casting a shadow over his eyes. He is silent for a few seconds, deep in thought, and when he speaks again his voice is low and quiet.

“So this whole business, you see it as an empire?”

“It’s one way to perceive it when you’re promised to inherit the top spot.”

“Well then…” Yuta nods slowly, thinking carefully as he brushes his bottom lip with the thumb of his free hand. It’s a pensive habit of his which you’ve started to recognise. “Have you heard of Augustus, Y/N?”

“The Roman emperor?”

“The first Roman emperor,” he specifies, eyebrows twitching emphatically. “That’s your father’s position right now. You know who succeeded him?”

“Julius Caesar, right?”

“Exactly. And Caesar made the Roman Empire far greater and more magnificent than Augustus could have imagined. And you know what happened to Julius Caesar?”

“…His men turned against him,” you answer, wondering why Yuta is bringing up the assassination of Caesar now, of all times. He looks at the empty drink glass at his side, circling his finger around the rim, knocking the lime slice that sits on it inside.

“You love the people you work with, Y/N. You fear people gossiping about you, yet the people in HR have told me such good things about you. But the people outside HR don’t know the loving side of you. You see people as people in a building where people should only be statistics. These people will jump onto you as soon as your dad retires. They’ll turn your kindness against you and will rip you to shreds. I don’t want to see that happen to you.” Yuta takes a deep breath, pressing your knuckles to his lips. The gesture is chivalric but there’s a darkness in his hooded eyes. You feel conflicted. “So when I crawl to the top and claim this empire as my own, I’ll make it more powerful than you could dream of. I will bear the weight if things go wrong. Because I don’t want you to get hurt… I will be Julius Caesar.”

“Are you challenging me, Yuta?” You ask, as his eyes shoot up to bore into your own. “Because you know I can’t let that happen.”

His answer is indirect, but you understand its meaning clearer than crystal. You hate that suddenly you are gravitating towards him, allowing him to graze his fingers across your jaw as you both lean across the tiny bar table between you. You are terrified by the reality that Yuta is a threat to the only position you must achieve to finally please your father. What makes it worse is that, for some still rather ambiguous reason, you seem to be the driving force behind his passion. But you recognise the truth in his observations. You are tired, do you really, in your heart, want to be a CEO? Or is this just another attempt to win praise from your father? In your gut, you know the truth, and you start to wonder why you should even bother fighting anymore when Yuta whispers three little words:

“Veni, vidi, vici.”

And suddenly his lips are on yours. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but still a wave of shock floods through you. Grabbing the table’s edge to steady yourself, you welcome the sensation you hadn’t realised you craved so much. The way Yuta kisses you this time is nothing like the last. It’s, careful, cautious, slow. His hands cradle your jaw as you blossom for him, savouring the spicy, alcoholic taste that spills from his lips. When he parts from you, you sigh, feeling both elated from the kiss yet doubtful about his ambition. Yuta can see this in your downcast eyes and caresses your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Hey… are you alright?”

“I…” you bite your lip, thinking over your reply, placing your hand over his. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” His voice is more tender than you’re used to it being, but it is in no way patronising. You’ve never admitted your weakness to anyone before, not even yourself, but Yuta weirdly feels safe. He is the first person in a long time who has actually listened to you properly. His presence is a comfort you have needed more than ever. Eyes glossing, you tilt your head into the security of his palm.

“Of disappointing people. Especially my dad. I like you, Yuta, but it scares me how easily you could just replace me.”

“You’re not disappointing anyone-”

“I never rejected Cambridge,” you blurt, your eyes finding his as you confess. Yuta cocks his head in confusion. “Remember when Dad told the Kims I turned a Cambridge offer down? At the gala?” Yuta’s eyes widen in realisation as he remembers, mouth shaping into a small circle. He nods, but makes no comment, allowing you to vent. “I did get an interview there,” you continue, chuckling a little as you recall the moment. “But I screwed it up big time. Maybe it was because I left a plastic bottle on the floor of one of the interviewers’ rooms, or maybe it was because I was so nervous that I could barely conjure up any competent responses. Maybe it was both. Dad even tried to bribe them to let me in, but they refused. He was… so furious. He definitely holds it against me. That’s why I can’t afford to disappoint him.”

Quietly, Yuta nods, listening to every word you say. Tears gather within your eyes and trickle down your cheeks, but an invisible weight has definitely lifted from your chest after letting it all out. You feel guilty for being so selfish, but as Yuta shifts off his seat and walks around the table to hug you, you figure that he can forgive you. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you nestle into his hold as you feel the emotional fortress you have spent so many years building around you crumble, brick by fragile brick. He places his hands on your cheeks, tilting your head up and kissing your forehead, then your eyes, then your nose. “I understand. I really do,” he whispers, placing a single kiss on your lips before pulling you up into a stand. “Do you want to come to my place? I don’t want you to spend the night alone if you’re feeling sad.”

“I… I’d like that. Yes please.” Giving Yuta a small smile, he kisses the slightly upturned corner of your mouth before picking up his coat. Every muscle within your chest relaxes for what feels like the first time in forever, and you realise that this is what it feels like to be truly cared for. To be free of the need to prove yourself. To let someone else take you under their wing.

Relieved of some tension, Yuta walks you to his apartment, not once letting go of your hand. A downpour of rain breaks out and the winter wind makes your skin cold, but you don’t care, knowing that if it froze within Yuta’s it would be no problem. Your other hand is buried within your coat pocket, and you walk quickly in an attempt to stay as dry as you can. Once you are finally under the shelter of the Underground, you rest your head on Yuta’s shoulder as you both sit on the tube, listening to the steady dun-dun dun-dun of the train rolling across the tracks.

Yuta’s apartment is situated on the tenth floor of a slick, newly built block overlooking the River Thames, and once you are inside you feel an incredibly strong wave of envy at how beautiful his home is. Everything is modern and polished, and he keeps his house pretty clean aside from the stray letters left on his kitchen counter and the unarranged cushions tossed on his sofa. You are both drenched with rain as you walk about awkwardly, wondering where to leave your coat. Yuta takes it from you, hanging it up by the front door. “I’ll get some towels, make yourself at home,” he announces, holding an inviting hand out towards the sofa while he strides in the opposite direction, presumably towards the bathroom. You thank him with a nod as you remove your boots, leaving them beneath your coat before making your way back into the living room. The space is wide, light and airy. It is made up of one wall painted a deep blue, one wall painted a bright white, and the remaining two walls are floor-to-ceiling windows opening up to a view of rooftops and the murky river. A slight glimpse of the Millennium Bridge flickers in the distance; the whole view would probably be beautiful when the weather is clear. Tiny droplets of rain trickle down the glass like liquid diamonds, and behind the windows a black iron balcony wraps around the apartment, currently lacking any sort of decoration. You hone your attention back into what is within the walls, settling down on the large, teal-coloured velvet sofa which stretches against the blue wall. Above it hangs a large, abstract painting looking somewhat like a mountainside landscape, made up of careless spatters and swipes of green, white and navy. Several large houseplants and lamps are dotted about the room, located near the plasma screen TV opposite the sofa and a teal electric guitar tucked in the corner of the room. Right across the room, the white wall is lined with a setup of blue kitchen cupboards and counters topped with slabs of white marble. The kitchen seems elevated, separated from the living space by two wide, shallow steps made of laminate wood, contrasting the white carpet beneath your feet. When Yuta returns, his hair is messy and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. You try not to pay too much attention to the veins cascading down his forearms. One grey towel is tossed over his shoulder, and another is in his hand, being offered to you.

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

“What do you think? Does this place fit your standards?” Yuta sounds confident, but you can see a slight worry in his brow – the same worry that every single person feels when bringing their date back home for the first time. Smiling, you nod, patting down your damp hair and cheeks.

“I like it! I’m interested in the guitar, do you play?”

“No, I just keep it for decoration,” he deadpans, painfully sarcastic, breaking his front almost instantly with a smile so bright it could clear the clouds outside. Laughing, you wrap the towel around your shoulders, pulling the ends under your chin as you look down at your toes. Yuta steps closer to you, placing his right hand on your waist. “I’ll play it for you later, if you want?”

“I’d like that,” you reply, tilting your head back up. The way your eyes find his feels so automatic, it’s like you can hear a little ‘click’ each time they interlock. His enigmatic smile is spread across his face, and Yuta can tell just by the way you let him hold you that the sadness you felt in the bar is, for now, a long forgotten memory. His left hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek before your lips meet once more.

You don’t know how long you and Yuta kiss for, but at some point you’re lowered onto the velvet sofa, living room illuminated by dim golden lamplight while you make out, completely oblivious to the glittering landscape of London pouring in from the background. The careless exchange paid between you and Yuta at the gala two weeks ago is completely forgotten as you both tend to each other, handsy and hungry but no longer battling for an unspoken dominance. What floats mutually between you both now is much more seductive than lust. It’s trust, it’s understanding, it’s not love – not just yet, but it fizzes and sparks with hope of a love to come. Maybe you’re overestimating again, but instinct alone tells you that this little world you are both building would be a lot rougher if it was constructed on an empty promise.

It’s not long before your clothes are off, discarded in a black trail on the pristine white carpet leading to Yuta’s bedroom.

This time, when you and Yuta lie bare between satin sheets, you don’t simply fuck. Instead, Yuta makes love to you in such a tender, careful way that you feel not like a princess, but a queen. It’s filled with soft laughter and even softer kisses littered on every patch of skin your mouths can find, and each thrust and hold fills your eyes with stars. Yuta’s golden skin glows in the low lighting of his room as he finishes into you from behind, holding your back to his flushed chest, his hands firm on your stomach and ribs. He can feel himself within you underneath his palm, and his spirit stirs possessively with an instinctive desire to keep you to himself, to never let anyone else hurt you again. You’re too beautiful and precious and warm. He lets you know this in whispers, his mouth nuzzled into the crook of your neck as you reach behind you, digging your nails into his scalp and gasping quietly. You repeatedly reach your own climaxes staring out of the tall glass windows of his bedroom, watching as the sun rises over the horizon in a band of gold that haloes the skyline with a heavenly aura. You imagine what it would be like to rule over it all, what it would be like to call it all yours, and for once, you are repelled by such an idea of greed. All you want – no, all you need, is Yuta, who is now pulling you down onto your back, on top of his chest as he withdraws from you.

“God, look at us,” Yuta sighs, pulling the sheets over your exposed bodies. “Sex after the first date? That’s got to be breaking some sort of rules.”

“Oh, definitely,” you reply, rolling onto your front, hooking your left leg around his body. “Although, wouldn’t the first date count as last time?”

“I suppose.”

“And anyway,” shuffling upwards, you brush your lips against his ears as you whisper. “I enjoyed this time a lot more.”

“Promise me you’ll still be here when I wake up?”

“Only if you’re still here-”

“Y/N, this is my house, where would I run to?”

“Exactly.”

Yuta’s mellifluous, honey-like laugh makes your heart flutter when he tilts his head, placing a feathery kiss on your lips as his hand snakes up your back to cradle your jaw. If you could, you would stay in this tranquil moment forever.

Yet sleep is cruel, and time is crueller, and before you know it you are waking in his golden arms to the sound of faint, muffled building work and the dull hubbub of traffic. Thankfully you don’t work on Sundays, nor does Yuta, but you are quick to learn that Yuta is an early bird. A good ten minutes or so after you wake, he is up and out, into the kitchen to throw together an attempt at breakfast. It’s not that he doesn’t want to just lie with you, but part of him is so used to being on-the-go as soon as day breaks (thanks to his job), and the other part wants so badly to take you then and there, all sleepy and glowing in the dew-distorted morning light. And sleeping with you three times within the space of two weeks this early into whatever your relationship might be is way too full on, even for him.

“There are shirts in the top drawer, joggers in the one beneath it. Help yourself to any, if you want,” he mutters before scuttling off, leaving you in a dream-induced daze. With Yuta’s arms around your waist so protectively, you really weren’t sure when your dream flooded into reality. You have to pinch your cheek to be sure that this is real life. When you are able to pull yourself out of bed, you trudge towards Yuta’s drawers, aimlessly digging about and settling on a black t-shirt decorated with red and white print and a mix of English and Japanese text – a band t-shirt, probably from his home. The scent of fried eggs distracts you as you follow your nose to the kitchen, finding Yuta in only a pair of grey joggers, poking about a sizzling frying pan.

“That smells good!” You beam, albeit sleepily, leaning against the big blue wall of his living space. Yuta visibly swallows some sort of lump in his throat at the sight of you.

“Good shirt choice,” he smirks, looking down almost bashfully at the pan.

“Who are they?” You ask, walking up to the elevated kitchen and leaning onto the breakfast bar. Yuta smiles nostalgically as four slices of bread pop up from the toaster.

“They’re called Hyde. They’re one of my favourite bands from Japan. Take a wild guess at what genre they are.” His last point is delivered sarcastically as he glides towards the fridge in search of butter.

“Oh, I don’t know… classical?” You reply with the same sarcastic tone, elegantly topped off with a shrug. It makes you both laugh as you sit yourself properly on a stool. “Well, it certainly explains the guitar. You’re a rock fan?”

“Amongst other genres,” he quips, finishing off your breakfasts. It’s light, but you appreciate it massively. Even sat across the room, you can tell that the egg yolks are cooked but still runny, sunny side up after the previous night of rain. “And you? What music do you like?”

“Ah… a bit of everything, I guess?” You shrug. “So many songs exist now, it’s hard to just limit myself to one style.”

“I’ve had to hear so many sample tracks for this new TV ad I’m in charge of, recently. They’re driving me insane,” Yuta rolls his eyes, flashing that bright, gummy smile as he serves you your food.

“Thanks – and I bet they are! How is the ad project going, by the way?”

“We’re on schedule,” he shrugs, cracking his knuckles before picking up his cutlery. “We’ve hired actors and scriptwriters, now we’re just searching for branches willing to let us film inside – ones that are nearby.”

“That was quick! No wonder Dad thinks you’re so impressive.”

Yuta pauses, chewing on bread as he examines you slowly, then shakes his head.

“What?” Nervously, a smile tickles the corners of your mouth.

“Can you promise me something, Y/N?” He asks, putting his cutlery down on the table. Your smile falters as you nod expectantly. “Start working for yourself. Do your job to impress yourself, not your father. It’s what any other emperor would do.” He finishes the statement with a wink, as if to cover up some wound he might have just inflicted.

“I’m not giving up the company, if that’s what you’re implying, oh great and wonderful Caesar.” A sigh. “But okay. I promise. If I get fired then it’s on you,” you raise an eyebrow, waving your fork (loaded with egg and toast) in his direction.

“And I would hire you back in a heartbeat!” He protests, biting his lower lip before leaning in. “HR would be so dull and boring without you.”

“Oh shut up, HR is dull and boring no matter what.” A roll of your eyes concludes the conversation, and once Yuta has discarded your empty plates into the depths of his sink, he leans back against the counter, all bare and golden and muscular.

“Do you have any plans for today?”

“Not really. I’m expecting a delivery in the afternoon though – they’re birthday presents for Mum. You?”

“Ah, yeah. I’m meeting up with someone from Marketing. We need to run over some project things.”

“Of course,” you nod, fiddling with the hem of Yuta’s shirt, somewhat disappointed that your prolonged date must soon come to its end.

“I’d be more than happy to walk you home though?”

“Oh! That… that would be really great, thank you,” you smile brightly. Yuta swears he can feel his heart jump from his chest.

Walking home from Yuta’s apartment is not a long or difficult trek, although it would definitely be easier if you were not hobbling in high-heeled boots concealed under the heavy fabric of a pair of Yuta’s jogging bottoms. You look almost comical in comparison to him – he’s wearing jeans and converse under a black raincoat, while you look like a reject mix of designer and thrift store. Normally, this would terrify you, yet in Yuta’s eyes you still look beautiful; who cares what the rest of the world thinks? His hand holds yours tightly, both of them swinging playfully as you walk beside the River Thames. Locals out for their daily run overlap you, as do the small children running towards the sculptures of the Southbank, trying their best to climb on top of them. You take a turn off from the river and talk idly through the narrow streets until you are both outside the door of your apartment.

“Well,” Yuta puffs in a sigh that makes his white fringe flutter. Crossing one leg over the other, he tilts himself to lean against the slim space of wall next to your front door. “That was my turn at planning a date. Now it’s your turn.”

“Bold of you to assume that I’ll go on another date with you.”

“Oh? How else am I going to get my clothes back?”

“I’m only teasing,” with your elbow you nudge his side, laughing. His arm slips from the wall and somehow finds its way around your waist. “I know a cute little restaurant a few blocks from here – very quiet, they do the best carbonara-” Your musing is cut short by Yuta’s lips against yours. When he pulls back, his eyes are shining. “So… uh… same time next week? Meet me here?” You stutter, flustered. Yuta kisses your forehead, then trails his hands down your arms, into your own hands.

“Sounds perfect. I’ll see you at work, Princess.” Yuta lifts your hands to his lips, winking as he drops the nickname on you. Immediately you feel your core ignite, and you drop his hands, biting your bottom lip hand between your teeth as he walks away chuckling. You would yell a playful taunt back at him but decide to hold yourself back. He can face your wrath another day. You remain stood in front of your door, watching as Yuta’s beautiful frame becomes smaller, slinking its way towards the lift across the hall. When he’s inside it, you offer a small wave, which he returns as the lift doors slide shut.

Giggling to yourself, you unlock the door, entering your apartment and instantly slipping out of your heavy coat. You loop it onto one of the coat hangers before locking the door once more, then make your way to your bedroom. As you flop back onto your bed you sigh deeply, the memories of the night before still fresh in your mind. With your right hand, you feel about your bed in search of your bag, fishing out your phone to add a new date time into your calendar, but it slips out of your hands as soon as it is above your head, falling flat on your face. Despite how much it hurts, you burst into laughter, running off of pure ecstasy as you sit up once again, now rubbing your nose.

“Oh Yuta, what a charmer you are…” You sigh, entranced, only to be pulled right back out by the most recent text on your phone.

‘Dad: My office. Now.’

You have never got yourself changed faster.

One of the great benefits of living in central London is the constant proximity to the Underground tube network. Within an hour you are rushing into the NeoBanking Group head office, sweating a little under the weight of a cream-coloured Michael Kors trench coat, pale pink blouse, and deep navy work-trousers. The sound of your navy court heels clattering frantically travels from the lobby straight up to the CEO’s office, and you manage a half-hearted attempt to catch your breath before tapping your knuckles against the glass door.

A muffled “Come in” seeps through the glass, and the blunt tone sets you on edge – the tone is the exact tone he uses when you are in trouble. What have you done this time?

“Dad? What’s wro-? Oh.”

Sat in front of the main desk, one leg propped up on top of his other knee, is a big, white-haired clue as to why you might have been summoned. Behind the desk, you father is seated, skipping any formalities and greetings by bluntly instructing you to “Take a seat.” His palm extends to the other chair in front of his desk, and you obey the command, training your eyes to look straight ahead despite the temptation to look to your side. From a drawer beneath his desk, your father pulls out a brightly coloured bundle of pages, littered with bold, capitalised words all fighting for your attention. It’s a magazine – presumably published this morning - and right in the centre is a photograph of Yuta and you, stood intimately close together in your gala attire. Your heart shatters within your chest.

“Would either of you like to explain what this is about?” His tone is unforgivably harsh, and the silence that follows is excruciatingly uncomfortable. “No?”

“Yuta was just taking me home,” you explain, earning a disbelieving raised eyebrow from your visibly angered father.

“Oh yeah? Well, that could mean anything with you, Y/N, couldn’t it?” Ouch. “You need to sort your reputation out, girl. I didn’t raise a whore, and I’m certainly not letting one inherit my banks. I’ve let it slide every other time, but this is the final straw.” His insults feel like a stab wound, each word digging into you deeper than the last. Before you can protest, he begins to lay waste onto Yuta. “And you? The best intern I have had in years, Nakamoto Yuta, thinking he can bag the big boss’ daughter behind his back? I asked you to look after her, but not in that way. So this is what I get for hiring youngsters, huh?”

“Yuta did nothing wrong!” You defend, gripping onto the seat of your chair so tightly you feel like your knuckles might just rip through the taught skin above them. “And that photograph is two weeks old anyway, nobody likes old news!”

“The tabloids will take any chance to rip down big names like mine, Y/N!” He scolds, rising from his seat and slamming his hands on the desk. “I give you a secure job in a rewarding position, and in return you make me vulnerable to slander. I’m having no more of it! You’re fired!”

Your jaw drops and your breath catches in your throat, tension freezing your entire body. Sensing a disruption at your side, you stand up before Yuta can speak. “You can’t do that, Dad!”

“I can, and I will!”

“No!” You snap, now slamming your hands onto the table. Lowering your voice you speak through grinding teeth as you glare at your father. “You can’t do that, because I quit.”

“Don’t be such a child-”

“I QUIT!” You repeat, stepping back, arms wide around you, your coat fluttering as you spin, laughing almost hysterically. “I quit, I quit, I quit! Thank you for the opportunity to work with you, Mr L/N. I hope you find someone who can tolerate being head of HR just as well as I did. And now, I shall gather my belongings from my office, and take my leave. Adieu,” you curtsy, before spinning on your heels and storming out of his office.

Rolling his eyes, your father sits back down at his desk, wiping his palms on his trousers. Like the opposite end of a seesaw, Yuta rises, emotionless, picking up his coat and draping it over his arm. “Me too. I quit. Good luck completing the advert,” is all he says, before making his way from the room. Behind him, your father begins to cry out his name, but Yuta keeps on walking, a huge beam growing on his face.

Thankfully for you, there isn’t much in your office to pack up, although you do take the opportunity to steal all the company-owned stationary by sweeping it into the top of your cardboard box. A knock on the door surprises you and you jump, eyes landing on Yuta, who is leaning against the doorframe with a box of his own.

“Oh, I uh… I only need one box,” you laugh awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. Yuta’s eyebrow quirks confusedly, and then he laughs.

“Oh! This?” He shakes the box. “This is my stuff. I quit too.”

“What? Yuta! What did you do that for?” You cry, placing your box on the desk. Yuta shrugs apathetically.

“I didn’t like the way he spoke to you. I’m not working for a guy who abuses his workers like that.”

“Yuta-” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your temple. “You shouldn’t quit your job just because of me.”

“I care about you, Y/N, you know that.”

His confession makes your heart flutter, and you feel yourself smile involuntarily. When he sees this, he laughs, and you nod towards the box. “Do you have any room in there for one more item? I have something I need to return to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Yuta tilts his head in confusion as you walk towards him, fishing for something within your wallet.

“Since I can no longer use it as an excuse to visit your office…” you sigh with a smirk, holding the object you were looking for in front of him. “One sapphire cufflink, recklessly abandoned at the Savoy Hotel, I thus return to its careless owner.”

“Well aren’t you just full of surprises,” Yuta teases, watching you poke the cufflink through a small hole in the top of the box. You only wink in response, walking back to pick up your box before leaving your office for the final time.

“Come on, let’s walk out together.”

There are several surprised, confused, and incredibly envious glances directed towards you and Yuta as you leave the floor of HR offices with ridiculously dumb grins on your faces. Yet you are completely oblivious to every watchful eye, instead feeling incredibly entertained to be walking out at the company’s scandalous intern’s side. When you are both inside one of the office’s several lifts, Yuta bites his lip playfully in a way that now alerts you that a teasing remark is about to follow.

“Did you seriously say adieu up there?”

“I had to go out some way or another!” You grimace. “And I do like a dramatic exit…”

“You’re unbelievable,” Yuta rolls his eyes, filling the narrow confines of the lift with his laughter. As the doors slide open and into the office lobby, you hum in thought.

“Well, what now?”

“Hmm…” Yuta ponders, pressing his pass against the security barriers to sign out. You do the same as he says “Maybe we could work together? You and I? Start our own little empire?”

“I like that!” You smile, nodding. “What in? Banking?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But you have two business degrees and I have experience; with your attractive brain and my attractive face I reckon we could make it.” You scoff, but he continues regardless. “We’ll do it properly this time – no special treatment. Everything from the ground up.”

“Everything from the ground up…” You echo, nodding.

When the two of you walk out of the office’s sliding entrance doors, neither of you look back, instead opting to leave behind the false promises you once believed and replacing them with your own authentic hopes.