At 28, Satoru Gojo was the CEO of Gojo Industries — a billion-dollar tech and media empire with his name written in gold. He had the money, the power, the penthouse views, the designer suits, the women. God, the women. Most of them didn’t wait for an invitation.

And then there was you.

He met you in a bar — of all places — past midnight, both of you drowning in just enough liquor to strip the world of consequences. You looked wildly out of place in your simple dress, frayed at the hem, no designer bag, no glossy smile designed to impress. You weren’t trying to catch anyone’s attention.

Which is exactly why you caught his.

One look, a few flirty insults, and the air between you turned molten. The kind of tension that drips down your spine and whispers mistake while you’re already reaching for more. He kissed you in the back hallway. You pulled him into the restroom. By the time you were tangled together in the velvet shadows of his penthouse, it wasn’t about control anymore. It was chaos. Pure, blinding chemistry. And when you finally passed out in his bed, soft breaths on his bare chest, he thought—maybe, just maybe—he’d like to do this again.

And in the morning, you were gone.

No note. No number. Just your name.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Another night, another ghost. But when he walked into the office the next day, late for the secretary interviews — and saw you sitting there?

He nearly laughed out loud.

Of course it was you.

Sitting in the waiting area. Same face. Same lips. Same eyes that had driven him absolutely insane twelve hours ago.

You were here for the interview.

Of course you were.

He smirked, sunglasses low on his nose, voice dipped in mockery.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little escape artist.”

You blinked. Recognition flickered, then confusion. You thought he was here for the same job. The shift in your body language was immediate: colder, guarded. You crossed your arms and answered flatly:

“So that’s what this is? You stalking now?”

God, you were even hotter with an attitude.

He leaned casually against the wall beside the executive office door, watching you approach with a furrow between your brows. Your shoes were scuffed. Your shirt was too plain. You were doing your best to look confident — but this world wasn’t made for you, and you knew it.

He could see it in the way you walked, every step like it might betray you.

Still, you moved toward the door. He tilted his head.

“Hoping to impress the big boss?” he teased, voice slick with amusement.

You scoffed, too tired to play along.

“I just need a job.”

That was new.

He opened the door with a grandiose sweep of his arm, smirking like a devil in a silk suit.

“Then by all means… ladies first.”

You walked past him with your chin lifted, proud even when your shoulders were trembling. He let the door click shut behind you and followed, hands in his pockets. And just as you turned to look for whoever was in charge—

He sat down behind the desk.

He kicked his feet up with infuriating ease, gestured to the chair opposite his, and said —

“So… Miss runaway. Tell me about your qualifications. You know—besides the ones I personally reviewed last night.”

And that’s when it happened.

Something in him shifted.

He thought this would be funny. A petty power play. Interview the girl who ghosted him and maybe, if he was still interested, sleep with her again.

But now, looking at you — flushed, stunned, biting your lip and trying to salvage what was left of your pride — he realized something much more dangerous.

He didn’t want another night.

He wanted to know what kind of girl kissed like that, then walked away like nothing happened.

He wanted to know what made you so fire and steel in a world built from glass and plastic smiles.

He wanted to see what you looked like when you weren’t trying so hard to belong.

Satoru Gojo, the man who already had everything, suddenly wanted something more.

And you, sitting in front of him with that spark of fury in your eyes, were about to become his next obsession.