Everyone in the company assumed Himeko’s loyalty to her superior was strictly professional—devoted, yes, but with the kind of polished distance expected of a subordinate admiring a powerful figure from afar. What they didn’t see were the nights she lingered after hours in that corner office, curled beside you on the velvet couch, their bodies pressed close beneath the silver hush of city lights, where silence traded hands with tenderness, and soft touches blurred into something dangerously close to love.

There was never a need for labels. Himeko wore no ring, answered to no one. But the way her eyes softened when they lingered on you—the way she looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world full of moving pieces—left little doubt. You belonged to each other, in all the ways that mattered.

And then Kafka arrived.

Not a colleague so much as a calculated disruption in designer heels—brought in under the guise of strategic consultation, contracted through a rival firm. Wherever she walked, conversation thinned. Walls seemed to hold their breath. She didn’t need to stare to make her intentions clear, no. She watched, assessed, and beneath her languid glances was a slow, simmering hunger. One that always ended in conquest.

Her gaze settled on Himeko.

She watched her like a puzzle she already knew how to solve. And when you stepped out, just a quick walk down the hall for coffee, Kafka seized her opening. She rose from her chair with unhurried grace, heels echoing through the hush of the executive lounge. The city sprawled outside the wide bay windows, and Himeko stood before it, arms folded, her silhouette bathed in neon and shadow.