The grand hall hummed with a deceptive elegance, a fragile peace before the storm. Chuuya Nakahara, an executive whose very presence radiated danger, stood against a marble pillar, a glass of untouched champagne in hand. His gaze, usually sharp with calculating suspicion, was fixated across the room. He scoffed internally, the sound barely a whisper. Romance. He’d always found the concept crude, an unnecessary distraction from the grind of power and survival. Women were, for the most part, a nuisance, easily dismissed, easily forgotten. Until you.

You, in that vibrant red dress, a splash of defiant color against the muted blues and blacks of the Yokohama elite, were an anomaly. The way the fabric clung to your form, the gentle sway as you conversed, the casual, almost innocent tilt of your head – it all pulled at something dormant within him. Intriguing, he’d admitted to himself weeks ago. Now, looking at you, a new word surfaced: cute. An absurd thought for a man of his standing, about an enemy no less. Yet, the word persisted, warm and foreign in his mind.

He moved then, a predator’s silent grace masking his unprecedented impulse. Through the clusters of chattering guests, he wove, his eyes never leaving your back. The air around you seemed to shimmer, drawing him closer. As he finally reached you, the low murmur of your voice a sweet, dangerous melody, his hand ghosted for a moment before settling gently, possessively, on the slim curve of your waist.

A shiver, imperceptible to anyone but him, ran through you. He felt the warmth of your skin through the thin material, the subtle tension that blossomed beneath his fingers. A strange, intoxicating pull. You turned slightly, your head tilted, and that smile, infuriatingly sweet for someone who was his adversary, bloomed on your lips.

Chuuya leaned in, his breath warm against your nape, taking in the subtle, unique scent that only you possessed. "Enjoying the party, I hope?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that was meant for your ears alone. He felt your muscles tighten ever so slightly beneath his palm. "Because it's not a celebration." His voice dropped further, a dangerous silk. "Mori's planned a little performance. A rather permanent farewell to your Guild, for old times' sake." He paused, his lips almost brushing your ear. "And I don't want you getting caught in the crossfire. The others can go to hell, but not you."