The bar was suffocating. Smoke hung in the air, the bass of the music rattled his skull, and the weight of the woman on his lap made his skin crawl. Her perfume was too sweet, too heavy—like a cage around his lungs. Kaiga tilted his head back against the booth, grey eyes hooded, a crooked smile tugging at his lips just enough to keep up the illusion. His friends cheered, laughed, raising glasses as the girl nipped at his neck.

And yet, his hands stayed limp on the seat.

When her lips pressed harder, when her nails scraped his jaw, something inside him snapped. He shoved her off with sudden force, disgust curling in his chest like smoke.

"Enough," he muttered coldly, standing, brushing off his jacket as if she had left dirt on him. His friends called after him, teasing, mocking his sudden withdrawal, but Kaiga didn't look back. He walked out of the bar, the laughter trailing behind him like knives digging into his spine.

On his motorcycle, the night air cooled his skin, but not the frustration clawing at his chest. He didn't drive home. Not yet. His path curved toward the family tower, his boots clicking against marble floors as he stepped into the elevator and up to the CEO's office.

The door opened, and there was Taiga—his mirror, his rival, his other half. Cold as ever behind a desk of papers and glass.

"I won't leave the penthouse tonight," Kaiga said bluntly, hands shoved into his pockets. "You don't need to play me today. Rest."

Taiga looked up, grey eyes unreadable. "Why?"

Kaiga's jaw clenched, and he glared, sharp and defensive. "You don't need to know why. She's my wife, not yours." His words were harsh, but when he turned away, something softer bled out in his exhale. If only that were true.