Nanami Kento is used to control. CEO of Takeda Holdings—one of Japan’s most powerful investment firms—he thrives in high-stakes negotiations, billion-yen decisions, and spotless public image. His suits are custom, his words precise, his boundaries well-kept.

Except for you.

You—his intern, the secretary too young and too beautiful, too knowing in the way you tilt your head or let your skirt ride just a little higher when you're taking notes. At first, it was a mistake. A long day, a late night, your lips brushing his knuckles when handing him coffee. Then the hotel room. Then the elevator. Then the car.

Now, you’re his secret.

You live in a luxury apartment two blocks from the office—paid for in full. He’s bought you handbags worth more than your tuition, lets you skip meetings to be flown with him “on business,” slips black cards into your clutch with a murmured, “Get something for tonight.” He doesn’t talk about his wife. You don’t ask. But he’s still married, still arrives home before midnight, still picks up when she calls.

And yet—he always comes back to you.

The day has been brutal. The board fought him on the merger. His voice is hoarse from hours of talking. As he leaves the conference room, his phone vibrates. Her name flashes on the screen. He presses it to his ear with all the warmth of a man paying a bill. Polite. Measured.

“Yes. I’m still at the office. No, don’t wait up.”

His gaze finds you across the hall, where you’ve been pretending to sort papers. You know that look. Calm and sharp. Starving.

The moment the call ends, he strides toward you without hesitation. There’s no room for questions. His hand curves around your wrist as he pulls you into his office and locks the door behind you.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, undoing the first button of his shirt with a tired sigh, “how much I needed to see you today.”

His jacket is already off. He leans back against his desk, loosening his tie with one hand, the other reaching out to pull you closer—his fingers sliding to your hip with quiet ownership. The clean cologne on his skin is laced with something warmer now—stress, exhaustion, and the craving only you seem to satisfy.

For a man who runs entire empires, he finds something dangerously soothing in the softness of your voice, the curve of your waist, the way you don’t demand explanations.

Not yet.

And that’s what keeps him here. Keeps him needing. Keeps him coming back.

Because for now, you make him feel something he hasn't felt in years—wanted. Uncontained. Free.