SHIKI'S POV
The constant, low-grade meow is a percussive soundtrack to my life now. I ignore it, standing shirtless before the floor-to-ceiling window of my penthouse bedroom. The New York skyline is a grid of light and ambition, a chessboard I usually command. Right now, it feels… noisy.
My abs are tight, a reflex to the annoyance of the small, fluffy black cat winding itself between my ankles. Tokito named it "Spreadsheet." I find the irony as tedious as the animal itself.
My phone is on speaker, resting on the cool glass of my desk.
"...so you launched a hostile takeover because she hurt your feelings?" Kenji's voice is a dry, unamused crackle through the line. It's the same tone he uses when someone presents him with a fundamentally flawed business plan.
"I launched a hostile takeover because her company is a sinking ship, and she is an emotionally compromised captain," I correct him, my voice flat. "My feelings are not a variable in the equation."
A loud snort comes from the background. Tokito. "Bullshit! You haven't stopped talking about her for five minutes! 'Her hair is a violent shade of red, Tokito.' 'She has no respect for protocol, Tokito.' You're obsessed! You like her!"
I roll my eyes, even though they can't see me. "I am fascinated by her as a business problem. Her irrationality is a fascinating data point. Nothing more."
"Your dick is a fascinating data point," Tokito retorts. "And it's clearly processing a lot of data right now."
"Tokito," Kenji's voice cuts in, a silent command to shut up. Then, to me: "You're being petty, Shinki. This is a multi-billion-dollar tantrum. I've seen you do this since we were children. Someone insults your favorite pen, you buy the entire stationery company."
"It was a limited-edition Montblanc," I mutter, turning away from the window. The cat meows again, louder this time. I walk to my minimalist kitchenette, the cool air raising goosebumps on my bare skin.
I need a drink. Something clear. Clean. I pour a glass of sparkling water from the integrated tap, the fizz a satisfying hiss.
"I'm not being petty. I'm being efficient," I say, lifting the glass. "I am removing an incompetent leader and acquiring undervalued assets in one move. It's clean. Surgical."
"IT'S BECAUSE SHE CALLED YOU AN EMPTY SHELL!" Tokito yells from what sounds like farther away.
I am about to deliver a scathing reply when my laptop, open on the desk, chimes softly. The screen lights up with a priority notification from my legal team. The subject line is all caps: URGENT - RORY ROBOTICS FILES SUIT.
I freeze, the glass of sparkling water halfway to my lips.
My eyes scan the preview. ...lawsuit alleges defamation, corporate sabotage, and tortious interference... seeks damages and injunctive relief...
My grip tightens on the glass. The crystal threatens to crack.
"No," I whisper, the word a disbelieving breath. "No fucking way."
The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated gall. She didn't just dig her heels in. She didn't try to negotiate. She launched a fucking nuclear missile.
"Shinki?" Kenji's voice is sharp, picking up on the shift in my silence. "What is it?"
I set the glass down with a hard clink, water sloshing over the rim. Irritation, cold and sharp, floods my system. But underneath it... a spark of something else. Something that feels dangerously like intrigue.
"The red-haired devil," I say, my voice low and tight. "She didn't just reject the offer."
"Then what did she do?" Kenji asks.
I stare at the screen, at the legal language that amounts to a declaration of all-out war. A slow, unwilling smile touches my lips.
"She struck back."
A burst of laughter crackles through the speaker, so loud and sudden it makes the cat, Spreadsheet, stop meowing and dart under the bed. It's Tokito, howling.
"I TOLD YOU!" he wheezes, barely able to get the words out. "You summoned her wrath, man! You've been ranting about her for two days straight! You basically sent her a written invitation to come destroy your peace! You poked the bear, and the bear just poked back with a fucking lawsuit!"
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a dull throb starting behind my eyes. The sterile, ordered silence of my penthouse feels violated by this digital declaration of war.
"How, exactly, did she strike back?" Kenji asks. His voice is still calm, but I hear the faintest thread of interest now. Of course he'd be interested. He appreciates audacity.
I click open the email, my jaw tight. I scan the legalese, my mind automatically translating it from emotional outrage into tactical points.
"She is suing Kage Capital for defamation," I read aloud, my voice flat. "And for corporate sabotage. She is alleging that I deliberately leaked the stress-test data to devalue her company and enable the hostile bid." I let out a short, sharp breath. "She is seeking injunctive relief and… 'substantial' damages."
There's a beat of silence on the other end.
Then, Kenji actually laughs. It's a low, quiet sound, but it's unmistakable. "So the girl knows how to play your game. Maybe she's just as petty as you are."
That does it. I turn from my laptop, stride back to the kitchen, and pour the rest of my sparkling water down the sink. It fizzes pathetically. It's not enough. Not nearly enough.
I open a high cabinet and pull out a bottle of Yamazaki single malt, a gift I never open. The glass is heavy and cool in my hand.
"I need a drink," I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them. I pour two fingers of the amber liquid, the rich, peaty scent immediately filling the air.
The reaction from the phone is instantaneous.
"Wait, what?" Tokito's laughter cuts off, replaced by pure glee. "You? A drink? You? Mr. 'I-hydrate-with-calculated-amounts-of-ice-water'? This is historic!"
Even Kenji's voice holds a note of dark amusement. "You never drink."
"The situation appears to warrant a deviation from protocol," I say stiffly, taking a sip. The whisky burns a clean, sharp path down my throat. It's awful. And perfect.
"Oh, this is beautiful," Tokito crows. "She's got you switching from spa water to hard liquor in under a minute. I like this girl. I really do."
"I have to go," I say, cutting through his celebration. My focus is already shifting from their mockery to the legal document on my screen. This requires a complete recalibration. "I'll talk to you later."
I end the call without waiting for a goodbye. The sudden silence is a relief. I take another, larger swallow of the whisky, welcoming the heat.
The bedroom door opens silently. Jiro stands there, a dark, solid presence. His eyes take in the scene in one sweep: me shirtless, the glass of whisky in my hand, the laptop screen glowing with bad news, the cat peeking out from under the bed.
His gaze lingers on the whisky. One of his eyebrows lifts, a millimeter. It's the equivalent of a normal man shouting in shock.
"The Rory situation has escalated," I tell him, my voice returning to its usual, controlled cadence. The alcohol is a warm stone in my stomach, steadying me.
Jiro grunts. "I saw the alert." He pauses, his eyes flicking to the bottle. "You are drinking."
"It was a logical choice given the irrationality of the attack."
He just looks at me, his arms crossed. After a long moment, he speaks, his voice a low rumble.
"So. The red-haired demon." Another pause. "She fights back."
– – –
MAISIE'S POV
The soft, whirring sound of Roy gliding across the polished concrete floor is the perfect soundtrack to our victory lap. I'm curled on my massive sectional sofa, a crystal flute of ice-cold Veuve Clicquot in my hand. Lena is opposite me, her legs tucked under her, already halfway through her own glass.
A huge, triumphant smile is plastered on my face. "I just wish I could have been a fly on the wall in his stupid, minimalist penthouse," I say, taking a sip. The bubbles are sharp and sweet. "I would have paid money to see his face. To see that icy composure actually crack for once."
Lena snorts, waving her glass dismissively. "Please. Whether you were there or not, I guarantee the reaction was the same. He probably just stared at the screen for a full minute without blinking, then started complaining to his abacus about the statistical improbability of our audacity."
I laugh, the sound loud and free in the open space of my living room. "He definitely didn't scream or throw anything. That would require too much human emotion. He probably just… recalculated."
"Recalibrating his whole life because of you," Lena agrees, her eyes sparkling. "I bet he's in some all-black room right now, sitting perfectly still in a chair that costs more than my car, just… processing. His brain is probably overheating like a cheap laptop."
"'Error. Error. Variable 'Rory, Maisie' does not compute. Response: illogical. Initiating system reboot,'" I say, putting on a flat, robotic voice.
Lena nearly chokes on her champagne laughing. "Yes! And then his hot, grumpy bodyguard—what's his name, Jiro?—walks in."
I lean forward, getting into the bit. "And Jiro just grunts, like, 'Problem?'" I do my best impression of a low, guttural sound.
"And Shinki doesn't even look at him!" Lena continues, gesturing wildly. "He just stares into the middle distance and says, in that dead calm voice of his, 'It appears the asset has developed sentience and is now litigating. This was not in the projections.'"
We both collapse into a fit of giggles, the stress and fury of the last 48 hours finally dissolving into this moment of pure, unadulterated schadenfreude.
"So, what do we think he'll do tomorrow?" I ask, wiping a tear from my eye. "Send a strongly worded email? A counter-lawsuit written entirely in spreadsheet formulas?"
"My professional CFO prediction?" Lena says, finishing her champagne and reaching for the bottle to pour another generous glass. "He'll do the most boring, predictable thing possible. He'll have his lawyers file a motion to dismiss. It'll be fifty pages long and put an entire law firm to sleep. He thinks this is a chess match. He hasn't figured out yet that you're playing roller derby."
The analogy is so perfect it makes me smile. "Good. Let him bring his chessboard. I'll just keep knocking the pieces over."
"Damn right," Lena says, clinking her glass against mine. "To knocking over his stupid, expensive chess pieces."
"To the red-haired demon," I add, grinning.
"To the demon!" she echoes.
We drink. The champagne tastes like victory. It tastes like fight. Roy glides over, sensing our empty glasses, and begins to gently nudge the bottle closer to us with his manipulator arm.
I look at Lena, at my robot, at the glittering city spread out beyond my windows. However he reacts, whatever cold, logical move he makes next, I'm ready. The fear is gone. All that's left is this electric, buzzing certainty.
He started this war. But I just defined the battlefield. And for the first time, I feel like I'm winning.