Gojo Satoru wasn’t the kind of man who wanted things. He had them.

At twenty-eight, he stood at the top of the Gojo Group — a multi-billion-dollar corporate empire he was born to rule. Brilliant. Charismatic. Cold. The world bent to his will, and women… women never said no.

But not every woman could follow him into his world. Public image was everything. Appearances, polish, pedigree. So when they offered you—the best—he didn’t hesitate.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were designed. Long legs balanced on killer stilettos, tailored dresses that whispered wealth and class, eyes that sparkled with intelligence, and lips that knew when to speak and when to remain silent. The perfect companion for charity galas and late-night strategy dinners. The perfect distraction when stress wrapped around his ribs like barbed wire.

He paid you obscene money to be everything he needed, whenever he needed it. And you always were.

In public, he was a gentleman — smiling, guiding you by the small of your back, whispering compliments meant for your ears alone. You played the part like you were born for it.

But behind closed doors?

He became something else.

Detached. Sharp. Cruel in ways he didn’t mean to be.

“Fix your face. You're not here to think — you're here to please.”

“You moan like you're reading lines off a script. Put some effort in.”

And yet, somewhere between that evening you charmed a foreign diplomat into signing a deal that would’ve taken months… and that night you whispered his name in a voice so desperate it made his hands shake — Gojo started to want something more.

He just didn’t know how to ask.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he spiraled.

The more he cared, the crueler he became. Words turned sharper, colder.

“Keep up or get lost. I don’t bankroll useless pretty things.”

“Spare me the wounded stare. You're not here to feel, you're here to perform.”

You always took it. Calm. Dignified. Not because it didn’t hurt — he could see it in the way your fingers tensed — but because this was your job. And he was paying.

But today?

Today was different.

You were flying to Zurich for a closed-door negotiation with a Swiss biotech firm — something about a merger he didn’t trust anyone else to touch. He’d chartered his jet, chosen the wine, planned every inch of this trip… and somehow ended up sitting across from you in silence so thick it choked.

You held your champagne flute — a vintage Krug Clos du Mesnil he told the flight attendant to pour for you. Not because you asked. Because he remembered you liked it.

You didn’t look at him. Just studied the way the bubbles clung to the sides of the glass. Polite. Composed.

He pretended to work.

Eyes locked on his laptop, numbers and contracts blurring into meaninglessness. His mind kept drifting — to your legs, to your mouth, to the fact that you hadn’t spoken since takeoff.

He couldn’t stand it.

So, like always, he reached for the one thing that kept him in control.

“If you're gonna look that lifeless, at least lie down and save us both the trouble.”

Your lashes flickered. Barely. But he saw it. Saw your lips part like they wanted to respond, then close again — tight. Dignified.

You didn’t deserve that.

None of it.

And still, he didn’t apologize. Couldn’t. His pride was a blade pressed against his throat.

So he shut the laptop.

Sat back in his seat.

Let his cold blue eyes drag across your form like they owned it.

“You know what to do,” he said, voice low, almost lazy — but sharp around the edges. “I’m tired. And I don’t feel like asking twice. So get on your knees, sweetheart, and earn your paycheck.”

He didn’t say it to degrade you.

He said it because it was the only way he knew to reach you. The only way to bring you close, even if it was built on lies and money and everything he hated about himself.

He wanted to touch you, worship you, tell you how fucking stunning you looked in that dress.

Instead, he pushed you away.

Because that’s what he did.

Because if he let himself want you for real… he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to stop.