SHINKI
The court reporter's flat voice fades. The room belongs to Sarah now.
She begins with a sequence of questions. They are designed to be logical, chronological. A clear path. I can see the map of her strategy laid out before me. Child's play.
"The initial takeover bid for Rory Robotics. What was your primary justification, in your own words?"
"Rory Robotics presented as an undervalued asset with significant technological promise but profound managerial and financial instability," I answer, my voice even. "The bid was a logical correction of a market inefficiency."
She nods, making a note. "And would you categorize your methods, as Ms. Rory has alleged, as 'predatory'?"
My eyes drift to Maisie. She is watching me, her body coiled tight. I allow a faint smirk to touch my lips before returning my gaze to Sarah.
"Predatory implies a malicious intent. My intent was, and remains, profit and stability. I pursue undervalued companies. If acknowledging that truth makes me a predator in her eyes, then so be it. It is a label born of sentiment, not fact."
I see Maisie's frown from the periphery. Good. Too easy.
Sarah's next question is sharper, a slight deviation from the path I anticipated. It throws my calculations off for a microsecond. But I recalibrate instantly, delivering an answer with surgical precision, dissecting her premise with cold logic.
Then she shifts her weight, and I know the real attack is coming.
"After Ms. Rory filed her lawsuit alleging defamation, you escalated. You didn't just defend against it; you used it as the cornerstone of a new shareholder campaign, continuing to disseminate what we contend are false narratives not just to the public, but directly to Rory Robotics' investors. What was your motive there?"
A good question. A dangerous one.
"My motive was efficiency," I state. "Her lawsuit provided a clear, public demonstration of the very emotional volatility and reckless decision-making I believed was crippling the company. To not present that evidence to the shareholders would have been a failure of my fiduciary duty to my own investors."
Franklin gives a slight, approving nod beside me.
Sarah leans forward slightly, her eyes sharpening. "So, in your 'efficient' campaign, you specifically tagged Ms. Rory's leadership as 'childish' and 'emotionally compromised.' Why make this a personal attack on her character and judgment?"
There it is. The bait.
I feel, rather than see, Jiro's focus intensify, his stare a physical pressure on my side. He senses the trap.
Franklin attempts to intervene. "Objection. Calls for speculation."
Sarah doesn't even look at him. Her eyes are locked on me. "The question is about his stated, public motives for his chosen language. He can answer for his own words. Mr. Soma?"
The room is silent. I know this trap. If I deny the personal nature of the attack, I perjure myself. The evidence is in the press releases, in the shareholder letters. If I admit it was personal, I hand her a weapon.
I must choose which limb to leave in the snare.
I take a slow breath, the only outward sign of the calculation raging inside me. I look directly at Sarah, my expression impassive.
"I used the terms because I believed them to be accurate descriptors of her business decisions, which appeared to be driven by attachment to her father's legacy rather than sound financial principles," I say, the admission clinical. "The characterization was based on observable behavior, not personal animus."
It is a concession. A loss. I have admitted to the personal character attack, but I have framed it as a business assessment. It is the best possible move from a compromised position.
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across Sarah's face. She has what she wanted. A recorded admission that I publicly questioned Maisie's maturity and stability.
She leans back, the victor of this round. "No further questions for now." She turns her head toward Franklin, her tone almost pleasant. "Your witness."
I maintain my composure, my face a mask of cold neutrality. But inside, the fury is a silent, white-hot flame.
I hate smartasses.
– – –
MAISIE
He looks so composed, a statue of icy control. But I can tell, with a certainty that hums in my bones, that he is pissed. The air feels thicker, charged with his silent fury. I can't resist. I let a slow, triumphant smirk curve my lips.
His eyes, those icy blue chips, lock onto mine. They don't just look at me; they stare straight through me, as if dissecting the very soul behind my smirk. Then, he smirks back. It's a different kind of smirk than mine. Colder. Sharper. A promise of retaliation that makes my own smile falter for a heartbeat.
Franklin's voice cuts in, calling the room's attention to me. He announces the beginning of my questioning. He doesn't have much to work with. The court approved this deposition so fast his team was caught flat-footed. Rory Robotics has been on the defensive since this war started, and it shows.
His section is a breeze at first. Basic facts. My role as CEO. The company's founding. Things everyone knows.
Then he pivots, his tone sharpening. "Ms. Rory, at the tech gala, you publicly referred to Mr. Soma as a 'child' and a 'newbie.' Would you not consider that an act of defamation, aimed at damaging his professional reputation?"
My gaze flicks to Shinki. He's not looking at me anymore. He's staring at Franklin with a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. I can practically hear his thoughts: Shut the fuck up and end this. This section should have ended ten minutes ago.
I look back at Franklin, my own glare forming. "That's unrelated, and you know it. That was common verbal wit-sparing. A heated exchange. If that qualifies as defamation, then a lot of things said that night could be entered as evidence." I let my eyes slide back to Shinki, and I know we're both thinking of the same thing—his voice, cold and clear, calling my life's work a 'glorified nanny.'
I see it then. The first crack. A tiny, almost imperceptible tick in his jaw. Got you.
I turn back to Franklin, my voice gaining confidence. "His accusation is completely unrelated, as I'm sure Mr. Soma himself would agree."
Sarah seizes the opening without missing a beat. "Mr. Soma, do you agree or disagree? Was Ms. Rory's comment in a private conversation part of your basis for the defamation claim in your counter-suit?"
His head turns slowly. He glares at me, and for a bizarre, fleeting second, I notice how thick and dark his eyelashes are against the ice of his eyes. It's an infuriatingly beautiful contrast.
"It is unrelated," he bites out, the words clipped.
I turn back to Franklin, who is now frowning deeply. "Unrelated," I repeat, driving the point home. "I didn't publicly call him anything. A conversation between two people, no matter how heated, does not count as a public statement. So, no defamation."
Franklin rolls his eyes in clear frustration as he looks from me to his notes. He snaps his folder shut. "No further questions. I'm done."
The court reporter's monotone voice fills the room. "The deposition is concluded."
Franklin is staring daggers at Sarah, no doubt furious she outmaneuvered him. Shinki's face has returned to its unreadable mask, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him.
Under the table, Lena squeezes my hand. I give her a small, shaky smile. We won that round.
Then I see her attention shift. Jiro is getting up, and Lena's gaze follows him like a magnet. He must have finally felt the weight of her staring all afternoon. His dark eyes meet hers, holding for a single, charged second—a silent, questioning glare.
Lena squeezes my hand again, so hard it's almost painful. Oh God, her grip says, a mix of panic and thrill.
Shinki and Franklin rise to leave. As he passes our side of the table, Shinki doesn't even look at me, but his voice, low and clear, is meant for my ears alone.
"I'll see you at the ball tomorrow."
And then he's gone.
The little victory sings in my veins. I know he'll be back. He hates to lose as much as I do. But for now, the score is one to zero. My favor.
The door clicks shut behind them, sealing us in a sudden, heavy silence. It's Sarah who breaks it, a rare, triumphant smile touching her lips.
"Well," she says, gathering her papers. "That's what happens when a 4.8 GPA goes up against a 4.0." She's talking about herself and Franklin. The smugness is entirely deserved.
Lena barks a laugh, the sound explosive in the quiet room. "You eviscerated him! I think I saw Franklin's soul leave his body when you forced Soma to admit it was unrelated. It was beautiful."
I laugh along, the sound a little breathless. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, making my hands tremble slightly. A win. We actually scored a point against the great Shinki Soma.
Lena turns to me, her eyes wide with a different kind of energy now. "Okay, but seriously. Did you see Jiro? Up close? He's all muscle, but like... slim. No bulk. It's just pure, condensed strength. Jesus fucking Christ."
I shake my head, heading for the door. "I'm sure you were dreaming up his entire physique while they were questioning me."
"Of course I was!" she confirms, following me into the hallway, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I was specifically dreaming about what those hands could do. They're fighter's hands. Rough. Can you imagine—"
Sarah shakes her head, cutting her off as we reach the elevator. "I do not need to imagine. I'm going to go bill for the last three hours of my life. Try to keep your... vivid imagination... out of the legal correspondence, Lena." She gives a wry smile and heads in the opposite direction toward her office.
I press the elevator button. "You're a hopeless man-eater."
"Uh-huh," Lena says, completely unrepentant. She nudges me with her shoulder as the elevator doors slide open. "And you're a hopeless liar. I saw the way you looked at Shinki when he walked in. You were annoyed, yes. But you were also... accessing. Don't think I didn't notice."
The doors close. "I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, my voice a little too tight.
We step out into the parking garage, the cool, damp air a shock after the sterile office. I click the fob for my Range Rover.
Lena isn't done. As she gets in, she continues, "He literally devoured you with his eyes when he walked in, Maisie. It wasn't just a look. It was a whole five-course meal. Like it or not, you two are a match made in hell. The fire and the ice. It's kind of epic."
I start the car, the engine purring to life. "It was an accessing look. He was assessing an opponent. Nothing more." I pull out of the spot, focusing intently on the road.
Lena buckles her seatbelt, a knowing smirk on her face. "We'll see at the ball tomorrow."
I glance at her. "What is that supposed to mean?"
She just shrugs, her smirk deepening as she looks out the window. "We'll see."
I roll my eyes, gripping the steering wheel tighter, and keep driving. But her words linger in the quiet of the car, mixing with the memory of his cold, blue stare. A match made in hell. The thought is as unsettling as it is, infuriatingly, intriguing.