AUTHOR
The black Mercedes-Maybach glides to a smooth halt at a discreet, canopied entrance on 58th Street, far from the main glittering doors of Bergdorf Goodman. The engine dies, leaving a thick, uncomfortable silence in its wake.
Jiro doesn't move for a moment. Then, without a word, he opens his door and gets out. He doesn't look back, doesn't open Lena's door. He simply stands on the curb, waiting, a broad-shouldered silhouette against the backdrop of the luxury department store, the dark stain on his shirt a glaring testament to the chaos of the last twenty minutes.
Inside, Lena stares at the empty space where he was. A flush of indignation warms her cheeks. He could at least… She cuts the thought off. This isn't a date. This is damage control with a grumpy, whisky-soaked statue. She pushes her own door open, the chill night air hitting the damp silk on her back, making her shiver.
He's already walking toward the entrance. She hurries to catch up, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the pavement. A uniformed dozier holds the door open, his professional smile not faltering for a second at the sight of them: a terrifyingly intense man in a ruined tuxedo shirt and a stunning, disheveled woman in a backless red gown smelling strongly of top-shelf whiskey.
The warmth and hushed, perfumed air of Bergdorf's after-hours personal shopping floor envelops them. It's a temple of quiet wealth, all plush carpeting, soft lighting, and gleaming glass cases. A sales associate, a woman in her fifties with a sleek blonde bob and a knife-sharp black blazer, glides over. Her name tag reads 'Eleanor'. Her eyes perform a lightning-fast assessment: the expensive but ruined clothing, the tense body language, the air of simmering crisis.
"Good evening," Eleanor says, her voice a practiced, soothing murmur. "How may we assist this evening?" Her gaze lingers politely on the stain.
Jiro doesn't bother with pleasantries. He gestures a thumb toward Lena, who is trying to stand tall and failing miserably. "She needs a replacement for the dress she's wearing. An exact copy."
Lena, who had been shrinking into herself, finds her voice. "I don't need a replacement. I'm fine. I thought… I thought you were here to buy a new shirt." She gestures weakly at his chest.
Jiro turns his head slowly to look at her. The movement is predatory. His dark eyes, usually so impassive, flash with pure, unadulterated irritation. "If that was the case," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate in the quiet space, "why the fuck would I bring you with me?"
Lena's mouth opens, then closes. "I… I didn't ask you to! You dragged me out!"
"You were being harassed," he states, as if this is a simple, irrefutable fact that explains everything. He turns his attention back to Eleanor, raising one expectant eyebrow. He is a man waiting for a solution, not a discussion.
Eleanor, to her credit, doesn't blink. She gives a small, regretful smile. "The Alexander McQueen Persephone gown in blood crepe," she identifies with a glance, her professionalism impeccable. "A stunning piece. We've just checked our system. We have one left in the collection, but unfortunately, it's only available in black. The red is… officially archived for the season."
Jiro's jaw ticks. A tiny, violent movement. He says nothing, but the air around him grows colder.
Eleanor senses the danger. "We do, however, have several pieces from the same Resort collection in similar jewel tones. An emerald draped silk, a sapphire velvet cocktail dress, both with the same architectural—"
"I can't let you buy me a new dress," Lena interjects, her voice firming. The shock is wearing off, replaced by a stubborn practicality and a deep-seated unease at being this indebted to him. "It's too much. We should just… clean them."
Jiro turns fully to face her now. He takes a single step closer, and Lena has to fight the instinct to step back. He looks down at her, his gaze sweeping over the damp, stained fabric clinging to her skin.
"You're not letting me do anything," he corrects, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm buying it because you cannot walk back into that ball looking like a sweaty, messy bar rag. No one will believe it's whiskey. They'll assume you got nervous and had an unfortunate… accident." His dark eyes hold hers, pinning her in place. The implication is crude, deliberate, designed to shut down her protest through sheer embarrassment.
Lena feels her face burn. "That's disgusting."
"It's practical," he counters, unmoved. "People think disgusting things. Now, black or another color?"
Flustered, she scrambles for compromise. "Then we split the bill. Fifty-fifty."
A new emotion flickers in Jiro's eyes, something beyond irritation. It looks like offense. "Don't insult me," he says, the words flat and final.
"I didn't mean—I wasn't trying to insult you," Lena backpedals, hearing how it sounded. "I just meant… it's my fault too. I backed into you."
"Your fault was being crowded by an idiot. My fault was holding a glass. The dress is collateral damage." He dismisses her logic with a slight shake of his head. "The bill is not a discussion."
Eleanor watches this exchange like a tense tennis match. She clears her throat softly. "So… the black, then? We can have it brought up immediately. It's the same size?"
Jiro gives a single, curt nod, his eyes still on Lena. "The black is fine."
"Wait," Lena says, the fight leaving her in a rush, replaced by a desperate need for some semblance of fairness. "If you're getting the dress… then at least let me replace your shirt. Your shirt is ruined because of me. Let me do that."
Jiro's hand, hanging at his side, clenches into a fist. The frustration rolls off him in waves—at the situation, at the stain, at this infuriatingly persistent woman who won't just accept the clean, efficient solution he's offering. He's not used to having his decisions debated, especially not by a chatty CFO in a wet dress.
"No," he says, the word leaving no room for argument.
"But—"
"Go get changed," he cuts her off, his voice dropping into a tone that is utterly dismissive. He nods toward a nearby fitting room suite Eleanor has silently indicated. It's not a suggestion. It's an order.
Lena looks from his stony face to Eleanor's politely waiting one. The absurdity of it all crashes over her—the gala, Marcus, the spilled drink, this terrifyingly grumpy man buying her a five-figure dress in the middle of the night. She's too tired, too damp, and too emotionally wrung out to fight anymore.
With a sound that's half sigh, half groan of defeat, she turns and follows Eleanor toward the plush fitting room, the back of her gown still clinging unpleasantly to her skin.
Once the heavy curtain swishes shut behind Lena, Jiro turns to Eleanor. The tension in his shoulders eases a fraction, but the impatience remains.
"The shirt is not a concern," he tells her, his voice returning to a more neutral, though still gruff, register. "Disregard it."
Eleanor simply nods. "Of course, sir. The dress will be just a moment." She hesitates, then adds, "Can I offer you a cloth for the… residue?"
Jiro looks down at the dark patch on his chest. He shakes his head once. "It's fine."
He stands alone in the quiet, opulent room, a warrior in a temple of chiffon and silk. He doesn't look toward the fitting room. He simply waits, a statue of simmering resolve, the scent of whiskey and her faint, trapped perfume the only evidence of the chaos that has, once again, upended his meticulously controlled night.
The heavy velvet curtain of the fitting room swishes aside.
Lena emerges ten minutes later, transformed.
The black version of the Alexander McQueen gown is not a substitute; it is an evolution. If the red was a battle cry, this is a declaration of silent war. The same sculpted shoulders and severe corseting frame her torso, but the liquid crepe seems to absorb the soft light of the boutique, making her skin glow like alabaster against the void of the fabric. It hugs every curve with a possessive intimacy, perhaps even more so than the red.
And there is one stark, undeniable difference.
Where the red gown had a daring slit, this black iteration's slit is a masterstroke of provocation. It doesn't just suggest; it reveals. It climbs from the hem all the way up to the crest of her high thigh, a vertical line of shadow and pale skin that promises lethal grace with every step she takes.
She walks toward them, the dress whispering against the carpet. She moves differently in it—more carefully, more aware of the dangerous drape of the skirt, of the exposure. There's a new self-consciousness in her posture, a slight hesitation that wasn't there before.
Jiro's eyes track her approach. His gaze is not a man looking at a woman in a beautiful dress. It is a tactical assessment. He notes the fit, the fall of the fabric, the way the severe black makes her red-stained lips and the lingering shock in her eyes seem even more vivid.
His eyes catch on the slash of her thigh, pause for a fraction of a second too long, then continue their scan. Something tightens in his expression, a flicker of… something. Not approval. Not displeasure. A recalculation.
His eyes cut to Eleanor, a silent, questioning arch of his brow.
Eleanor, the consummate professional, offers a faint, apologetic smile. "The same design house, the same collection, technically the same gown. But the black iteration received what the designer called a 'nocturnal update.' The slit was… intensified. For drama."
Intensified. Jiro's jaw works slightly. He looks back at Lena, who has stopped a few feet away, unconsciously smoothing her hands down the hips of the dress. She feels the weight of his stare, and it makes her even more aware of the new, exposed landscape of her own body. Her cheeks flush.
Without a word, Jiro reaches into his inner jacket pocket—the side not stained with whiskey—and retrieves a sleek, matte black credit card. He holds it out to Eleanor, his eyes still on Lena. "Remove the tag."
It's not a request. It's an execution of a decision already made. He is purchasing the armor she now wears.
Eleanor takes the card with a nod. "Of course, sir." She steps away to a discreet terminal.
Lena stands awkwardly under his scrutiny. The silence stretches, filled only with the hum of climate control and the distant chime of an elevator. She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, remembering the dress's plunging backline. "Is it… too much?" The question escapes her, born of nerves and his unreadable intensity.
Jiro doesn't answer. He simply finishes his assessment, his dark eyes giving nothing away, then turns his head to watch Eleanor process the transaction. The question hangs, unanswered, making Lena feel more exposed than the slit ever could.
Eleanor returns swiftly, presenting the card and a discreet black folder with the receipt. "All done, sir. The dress is a triumph, if I may say so, Ms. Chen."
Lena murmurs a thanks, her eyes darting to Jiro.
He takes the card back, tucks it away. "Time to go." He turns and starts walking toward the exit, not checking to see if she follows.
"Wait," Lena calls, taking two quick steps in her new heels, the slit parting dramatically. "Your shirt. You didn't—"
"We're done here," he cuts over his shoulder, not breaking stride. The conversation is closed.
Flustered, she gathers the small bag containing her damp, whiskey-scented red gown and hurries after him, the black fabric swirling around her legs. The dozier holds the door, and they are back in the cool night. The Maybach is waiting, a silent shark at the curb.
The driver opens the rear door. Jiro gestures for her to enter first. It's not chivalry; it's logistics. She slides in, careful of the dress. He gets in after her, filling the spacious cabin with his presence and the faint, stubborn scent of whisky.
"Back to the penthouse," he tells the driver, his voice flat.
Lena's head whips toward him. "Your penthouse? Why? I thought we were going back to the gala. Or… or I should go home." Confusion wars with a spike of nervous anticipation.
He doesn't bother explaining. He leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. The message is clear: he is not entertaining further questions.
The drive is silent. Lena stares out the window at the blurring lights, hyper-aware of the man beside her, of the expensive new fabric on her skin that he owns, of the sheer, surreal turn her night has taken.
The car descends into the underground garage of a towering, sleek building in Midtown. It's a cavern of concrete and steel, populated by a silent fleet of automotive trophies: Rolls-Royces, Ferraris, a matte-black Lamborghini SUV. The Maybach glides to a stop near a private elevator bank.
Jiro opens his door. "Wait here."
He gets out and strides toward the elevator, his posture straight, the stain on his shirt a jarring note in the pristine, masculine environment. Lena watches him through the tinted window. She watches the efficient power in his walk, the broad set of his shoulders straining the ruined fabric, the way his dark hair is still perfectly, frustratingly in place.
A treacherous thought unfurls in her mind, clear and shocking: He is so attractive.
And not in a safe, charming way like Marcus. This is different. This is the attraction of a sheer cliff face, of a dormant volcano. His roughness, his grit, his utter lack of soothing words or gentle manners… it should be a glaring red flag. A siren blaring Danger, keep away.
But for her, in this bewildering moment, it isn't a warning. It's a pull. A magnetic, unsettling tug low in her stomach that whispers something terrifying and thrilling: it makes her want to see what would happen if all that controlled, silent intensity were to break. If it were directed at her, not in annoyance, but in…
Jesus! She cuts the thought off, pressing her cool palms to her flushed cheeks inside the car. What is wrong with her? She just escaped one problematic man. Why is her brain now doing backflips over this one, who is arguably more terrifying because he doesn't even bother to hide his sharp edges?
She watches him reach the elevator, tap a code, and disappear behind the brushed steel doors without a backward glance.
Alone in the quiet, opulent car, she sits in the dress he bought, in the garage he owns, waiting for a man she doesn't understand, and realizes with dawning, uncomfortable clarity that the red flag isn't pushing her away.
It's drawing her in.
— — —
The elevator doors sigh open into Jiro's penthouse. The space is a study in disciplined shadow. Polished concrete floors, a single low sofa the color of charcoal, and walls of glass that hold back the glittering nightscape of Manhattan. No art. No clutter. Just the hum of silence and order.
He goes straight to his bedroom, an extension of the same stark aesthetic. He strips off the whiskey-soaked shirt, dropping it into a hidden laundry chute with a look of pure distaste. The cool air brushes his bare skin. His torso is lean, but layered with the corded, functional muscle of a fighter, not a gym enthusiast. A few pale scars—faded souvenirs from another life—map his shoulders and ribs.
He is pulling a fresh, black dress shirt from a hidden panel in the wall when his phone vibrates on the low bureau. He picks it up without looking. "Nani?"
Shinki's voice is a controlled line, but Jiro hears the strain beneath. "Are you done playing personal shopper? The CEO requires her CFO. It appears she needs… emotional support." The last two words are uttered like a clinical diagnosis of a faulty component.
Jiro's hand stills on a shirt button. His dark eyes narrow at his own reflection in the window. "How do you know that? Spill."
A beat of silence. "It's nothing serious. A minor… altercation. She is stable."
Jiro can hear the lie. It's in the too-careful wording, the unnatural pause. Shinki is many things, but he is never vague about problems. If he is being vague, the problem is not minor; it is deeply, personally inconvenient.
"Fifteen minutes," Jiro grunts, and ends the call.
He finishes buttoning the shirt with swift, efficient motions. The pristine white cotton is a stark contrast to his grim expression. He selects a new suit jacket—identical to the one left in the car—from the panel and slings it over his shoulder. He does not look back as he leaves the ordered silence of his sanctuary.
The underground garage is just as quiet when he returns. He opens the car door and slides in beside Lena. "Back to the library," he tells the driver, his voice filling the sealed space.
He does not look at Lena. He feels her presence instead—a nervous energy that vibrates in the air between them. From the corner of his eye, he sees her fidget, her fingers plucking at the heavy crepe of her new dress. She turns to stare fixedly out her window, putting as much of the wide seat between them as possible.
In her effort to retreat, she does not notice how the dangerous slit of the black gown falls open. The interior car light, dim as it is, spills over the smooth, pale skin of her exposed thigh, tracing a line from her knee to the shadowed apex where the fabric begins again.
Jiro's gaze, which had been fixed ahead, drops. He stares for a long, still moment. He does not understand why he looks. It is data. A fact. The dress is a weapon, and the weapon is currently unsheathed. The sight stirs nothing in him but a low, pragmatic annoyance. It is a vulnerability. A distraction.
"Cover up," he says, his voice a low rumble that makes her jump.
Heat floods Lena's cheeks. She yanks the edges of the slit together, clutching the fabric in a tight fist over her knees. Humiliation burns through her, sharp and bright. The rest of the ride passes in a silence so thick it feels solid.
When the car stops at the library's service entrance, Jiro is out before the driver can move. He does not wait, does not offer a hand. He simply expects her to follow. Lena scrambles out, the black gown swirling around her ankles, and hurries after his retreating back through a side door.
They re-enter the gala's cacophony near a grand marble column. Jiro's eyes scan the room and find Shinki almost immediately. He stands apart, a solitary figure near a statue, a glass of water in his hand. His posture is too perfect, his shoulders stiff beneath his impeccable suit. He is trying to look relaxed and failing utterly.
Maisie is not far from him, but she is not with him. She stands by a potted palm, looking at her phone. A careful five yards of polished floor separate them. The distance is charged, alive with something that just happened. She looks pale, but composed. Her eyes, however, are a little too wide, a little too bright.
Shinki's icy gaze catches Jiro's and flicks to Lena. A barely perceptible nod.
Maisie looks up. Her eyes find Lena, and a flicker of relief passes through them before they widen again at the sight of the new, devastating black dress. Her gaze then darts to Shinki, and a complicated, painful tension tightens her mouth. She looks away quickly.
Lena, standing awkwardly a step behind Jiro, feels the strange, crackling atmosphere. She sees the fragile shell around Maisie. She feels the coiled fury in Shinki's stillness. And she is intensely, acutely aware of the silent, immovable man beside her, who seems to be the only one not affected by any of it.
Without a word, Shinki and Lena move. It is a silent, tactical exchange. Lena walks toward Maisie, her face softening with concern. Shinki closes the distance to Jiro, his steps measured.
As they pass, Shinki's eyes find Maisie's. He gives her a single, short nod. It is not friendly. It is an acknowledgment. A marker placed. She meets his gaze for a heartbeat, then looks down, turning fully toward the approaching Lena. They move away from the men, a bubble of shared, feminine crisis forming around them.
Shinki stops in front of Jiro. He says nothing for a moment, his jaw working. He looks out at the crowd, his blue eyes cold and distant. The stiffness in his shoulders speaks of a violent desire carefully caged.
Jiro watches him. He sees the truth Shinki would not say on the phone. He sees that something happened, and that rage lives in its shadow.
"Let's walk," Shinki says, his voice devoid of all emotion. He turns, and Jiro falls into step beside him, two dark shapes dissolving back into the glittering, oblivious crowd. The silent understanding between them needs no words. The problem has been identified. The response is simply a matter of time.