SHINKI
The sunlight is an assault. It cuts through the floor-to-ceiling window like a laser, burning red through my eyelids. I groan, turning over in the tangled sheets to face the other side of the bed.
Wait. My blackout shades are always closed.
I force my eyes open, squinting against the intrusive morning light. My gaze lands not on an empty room, but on Jiro. He's standing near the foot of my bed, bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants.
The morning light glints off the intricate, snarling yakuza lion tattoo that covers his entire back, a stark reminder of the world I've tried to leave behind.
"What the fuck are you doing in my room so early?" My voice is a gravelly rasp, shredded by whisky and fatigue.
Jiro doesn't even turn around, continuing whatever he's looking at on his phone. "It's not early. It's 10 a.m. And since when do you sleep past six? You're usually on your third conference call by now."
I drag a hand down my face, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I push myself up on my elbows, the sheet pooling around my waist. "I'm the boss. I'm deciding to work from home today." I glare at his back. "When did you get back?"
"3:30-ish," he says, finally turning. His eyes do a quick, assessing scan of me. "'Working from home,' huh? Aren't we productive today."
A flash of irritation cuts through the haze. "Shinki Soma, of all people, had bags under his eyes when I checked last night," I state, as if presenting evidence in a boardroom. "That means the asset requires rest for optimal performance. One day." I shift, leaning back against the headboard. "And since I'm not going anywhere, you can drop the Head of Security act for a few hours. Kenji won't mind."
Jiro shrugs his massive shoulders, a gesture of supreme indifference. "I get paid either way. And I'm here because I want to be. Kenji assigned me, but I stay because you need a babysitter. You can't be trusted to live alone."
"We are the same age," I retort, my voice flat. "One, twenty-five. And two, fuck you. I am not a baby."
A ghost of a smirk touches Jiro's lips. "If you say so." He walks toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He doesn't look back as he mumbles, "Since we're 'staying in,' I'll be in my room. I need some actual sleep."
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
The room is quiet again, save for the hum of the city I'm choosing to ignore. I don't move to get my laptop. I don't check my phone. I just sink back down into the mattress, pulling the duvet over my head to block out the accusing sunlight.
He's right. I never sleep this late. My routine is my foundation. But today, the foundation feels cracked. So I do the only thing that feels logical. I close my eyes and go back to sleep.
– – –
MAISIE
A relentless, high-pitched beeping drills into my skull. It's not my alarm. It's worse. It's the sound of a hundred notifications pinging at once, a digital avalanche of demands I am in no state to face.
I force my eyes open. The world is blurry, tilted. I'm not in my bed. I'm half on the living room sofa, one leg dangling off the edge, my arm thrown over my face. Lena is a tangled heap on the floor beside me, using a throw cushion as a pillow, her mouth slightly open.
The evidence of our night is a war zone around us. Two empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot lie on their sides on the rug. Roy is silently gliding through the chaos, his manipulator claws carefully picking up greasy McDonald's bags and discarded wrappers, placing them into his internal disposal compartment with a soft whir. The scent of stale fries and champagne hangs in the air.
"Ugh," I groan, the sound tearing from my dry throat. I push myself up, my head throbbing in protest with the movement. The world spins. I stagger to my feet, my body feeling like it's been run over by my own Range Rover.
My phone screen is a blinking nightmare of emails and alerts. I squint at the time.
2:37 p.m.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper, my voice raspy. "Lena. Lena, wake up. It's 2:37. In the afternoon."
I nudge her shoulder with my foot. She stirs with a moan, swatting vaguely at my leg. Her normally sleek black hair is a wild bird's nest shooting out in all directions. I can only imagine mine is a frizzy, ginger thundercloud.
"Five more minutes," she slurs, burying her face deeper into the cushion. "Tell the board I died."
"I feel like I did," I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands against my temples. A brain-splitting headache is mounting a full-scale assault behind my eyes. "We are not going anywhere. We are officially calling in dead until that stupid ball tonight. I can't look at a spreadsheet. My brain might actually leak out of my ears."
Lena finally peels herself off the floor, moving like a zombie rising from the grave. She clutches her head. "I'm too hungover to even think about work. I think my soul is still in that second bottle of champagne."
"Good. Then we're on the same page." I gesture vaguely toward the hallway. "I'm going back to my room. To my actual bed. To continue my coma. Don't let the world end until at least 6 p.m."
"Deal," Lena croaks, already stumbling toward her guest room, one hand braced against the wall for support. "Wake me when it's time to put on a pretty dress and pretend we're functional human beings."
I don't answer. I just shuffle toward my bedroom, a woman defeated by her own success at forgetting her problems for a few hours. The only victory here is making it to my bed before collapsing face-first into the pillows, surrendering once again to the merciful, dreamless sleep of the utterly exhausted.
– – –
The steam from the shower is still clinging to the bathroom mirror when I wrap myself in a towel. I feel almost human again. The hangover has receded to a dull, manageable throb behind my eyes. I grab my phone from the counter. 6:27 p.m. Showtime.
I hit Lena's contact. She answers on the second ring.
"I'm awake," she announces, and I can hear the water running in the background. "Just got out of the shower. Please tell me you have a fashion plan that doesn't involve sweatpants."
"Just got out myself," I say, walking into my closet. The rows of clothes suddenly feel like armor options for a battle. "Okay, options. I was thinking the navy Carolina Herrera with the structured shoulders? Very 'I am a serious CEO you cannot mess with.'"
"Boring," Lena declares instantly. "Next."
"The silver Oscar de la Renta mini-dress? It's fun. Sparkly."
"Too 'trying too hard'. This isn't a Met Gala, it's a corporate shark tank. We need a statement. What about that emerald Gucci you wore to the tech gala?"
I run my hand over the emerald silk. "Too soon. It'll look like I'm trying to recreate a moment. And that moment ended with a hostile takeover bid."
There's a pause on the line. I stop in front of a garment bag. I unzip it slowly.
"I'm wearing the black Valentino," I say, my voice dropping, a plan solidifying.
"The one with the…" Lena prompts, her voice giddy.
"The plunging backline that goes down to the waist," I confirm, pulling the dress out. The fabric is heavy, liquid black crepe. "And the thigh-high slit. If I'm going to a ball hosted by my ex who tried to destroy my company, I sure as hell am going to look so breathtaking he chokes on his own caviar."
Lena lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Yes. A thousand times, yes. That's not a dress, that's a weapon. I'm going with the blood-red Alexander McQueen. The one with the dramatic, architectural shoulders and the corset detailing. We're going to look like a pair of vengeful goddesses descending on Olympus."
"Perfect," I say, a real smile touching my lips for the first time today. "Meet you in the foyer at 7:30. And speaking of not choking on things, Laurel is back from his sister's wedding in Napa."
Lena gasps so loudly I have to pull the phone from my ear. "Laurel's back? No more sketchy Ubers! Finally!"
"Exactly," I laugh. "So we can drink all the free champagne we want. And we're taking the other car. The Bentley Continental GT. We might as well arrive in style."
Lena screams, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. "FINALLY! The Bentley! This night just went from a chore to an event. Vengeful goddesses, a hot driver, a Bentley, and an open bar? Alexander Callum won't know what hit him."
"He really won't," I say, my gaze hardening as I look at the devastating black dress hanging before me. "He really won't."