Chapter 2 :Awakened desires
The chill of the evening had seeped deep into her bones, a damp cold that no amount of brisk walking could entirely dispel. Nami rubbed her arms vigorously, the friction doing little to warm her skin through the sleeves of the thin cardigan she’d thrown on over the red dress. She sighed, a plume of white mist escaping her lips into the crisp, rain-washed air. The city lights blurred and swam in the puddles on the pavement, reflections of a world that felt distant and surreal after the day she’d had.
Seeking solace, she ducked into a brightly lit convenience store, the warm, artificial air and the hum of freezers a welcome assault on her senses. She bought a can of hot amazake, the sweet, fermented rice drink a childhood comfort. Clutching the warm can between her hands, she found a spot at the mostly deserted bus stop, the metal bench cold even through her clothes. She took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through her chest, a small, simple pleasure amidst the emotional chaos.
The smooth, silent purr of a powerful engine was her only warning. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat, as the familiar, intimidating black sedan glided to a halt just a few inches from the curb. The passenger door opened, and the same stoic chauffeur from the morning emerged. He gave a slight, formal bow.
"Good evening, miss. I am Mr. Arima's chauffeur. He requests to offer you a lift." The man's voice was neutral, as if ferrying employees of his billionaire boss was a commonplace occurrence.
Nami’s eyes darted past him to the car’s tinted rear window. As if on cue, the interior light flicked on, illuminating the occupants. Her heart gave a painful lurch. There, in the back seat, sat Arima Kousei, his profile stark and severe. And beside him, leaning far too close, was Yuki Tanaka from the Marketing and Brand Synergy team.
Yuki was one of the few other employees who occasionally had face-to-face meetings with the CEO, though her team wasn't part of the high-stakes Project Genesis. She was famously ambitious and socially aggressive, the polar opposite of Nami. Right now, Yuki was talking a mile a minute, her hands gesturing animatedly, a brilliant, practiced smile plastered on her face. But Arima wasn't looking at her. His head was turned towards the window, his dark, unreadable gaze fixed directly on Nami.
A cold knot tightened in Nami’s stomach. The scene was a perfect, painful tableau of her deepest insecurities. Yuki, confident and glamorous even after a long day, already inside the sanctum of the CEO's car. And herself, shivering on a bus stop bench, clutching a cheap drink. Had he picked Yuki up out of professional courtesy after a late meeting? Or, a more cynical thought whispered, had he simply seen an attractive woman waiting in the rain and offered a ride? The idea made her feel sick.
The chauffeur was still waiting for her response. Yuki, noticing the car had stopped, finally paused her monologue and followed Arima’s gaze. Her smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was a look of assessment, of curiosity laced with a hint of territorial possessiveness.
Panic, sharp and instinctive, seized Nami. The thought of getting into that confined space with Arima’s intense, silent scrutiny and Yuki’s palpable, competitive energy was unbearable. It would be a form of social torture. She would be a mouse trapped in a car with a hawk and a cat.
She stood up abruptly, the half-finished can of amazake almost slipping from her numb fingers. "Oh, sir, it's fine. Really. Thank you for the offer," she said to the chauffeur, her voice trembling slightly. She turned and bowed quickly in the direction of the car, a stiff, formal gesture meant to convey gratitude and finality. "Thank you, Mr. Arima. But my ride is here. Good night, sir."
It was a lie, a desperate one. But as if the universe had decided to grant her a single mercy that day, the headlights of her bus appeared at the end of the street. Without a backward glance, she turned and ran, her sneakers slapping against the wet pavement, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't care if she looked foolish or ungrateful. She just needed to escape.
She scrambled onto the bus just as the doors hissed shut, swiping her pass with a shaking hand and collapsing into the first empty seat, her chest heaving. She didn't dare look out the window as the bus pulled away.
---
Inside the sedan, the silence was profound.
Arima Kousei watched the bus disappear into the flow of traffic, his expression granite. He had been… taken aback. The reaction was so foreign to him it took a moment to identify the emotion. In his world, his offers were commands thinly veiled as courtesy. People scrambled to accept them. They saw a ride in his car as an opportunity, a privilege, a story to tell. They did not… run away.
The woman next to him, Yuki, let out a tinkling, artificial laugh. "Well! That was rude. Some people have no sense of gratitude, do they, Arima-sama?" She shifted beside him, and he felt the deliberate, unwelcome pressure of her body against his arm. "Oh! So sorry," she purred, not sounding sorry at all, making a show of adjusting her position while ensuring the contact remained. "It's so cramped back here."
He found her presence, her perfume, her transparent maneuvering, utterly disgusting. He had given her a ride as a matter of logistical efficiency after a protracted meeting that had run late; her building was on the way to his own residence. It was a decision he now regretted. Her constant, inane chatter was an assault on his concentration, and her physical familiarity was a breach of professional decorum he would not tolerate again.
His attention was pulled away as his chauffeur, Koji, bent down and picked up a small object from the wet pavement where Nami had been sitting. It was a wallet. Not a corporate-looking bi-fold, but a soft, white wallet with a delicate pink cherry blossom pattern embroidered on it. It looked fragile, personal, entirely out of place in the world of black credit cards and corporate IDs.
Koji opened the passenger door slightly. "Sir, the young lady dropped this. Should I ensure it is returned to her at the office tomorrow?"
Arima’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where Nami had vanished. A complex, unfamiliar cocktail of emotions simmered beneath his calm exterior. There was irritation at her rejection, a prick to his pride he hadn't known could be pricked. But stronger than that was a surge of intense curiosity. Her flight was not the calculated play of a woman playing hard to get. It had been genuine, raw panic. She was an equation he couldn't immediately solve, a variable that refused to behave predictably. And Arima Kousei hated unsolved equations.
He reached out his hand. "No. I will handle it."
Koji, his face impassive, placed the small wallet in his employer's palm. Arima’s fingers closed around it. The fabric was slightly damp from the evening mist. He could feel the faint outline of a few cards inside. Without another word, he slipped it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, right over his heart.
The action was final. Koji nodded and closed the door, returning to the driver's seat.
Yuki, who had been too busy typing a message on her phone—likely bragging about her ride to someone—had completely missed the entire exchange. "As I was saying, Arima-sama, the brand synergy for the new line really needs a more aggressive push on social platforms. I have some fantastic ideas involving viral challenges…"
Arima did not respond. He leaned back against the leather seat, closing his eyes. The faint, lingering scent of lemongrass, turmeric, and something uniquely her seemed to cling to the air, a ghostly presence more compelling than the woman chattering beside him. He had her wallet. She would have to come to him on Monday. The thought was unexpectedly… satisfying.
---
The bus ride home was a haze of exhaustion and humiliation. Nami replayed the scene at the bus stop over and over, each time cringing at her own awkwardness. She had probably offended him terribly. He would think she was a rude, ungrateful peasant. Any professional goodwill she might have earned during their meeting was surely evaporating.
When she finally stumbled into her apartment, she felt hollowed out. She shed the red dress as if it were on fire, hanging it in the back of her closet, behind a row of shapeless sweaters. She took a long, hot shower, scrubbing at the smudge of turmeric on her wrist until the skin was pink, trying to wash away the memory of the day.
Later, wrapped in her oldest, softest pajamas, she mechanically made herself a simple dinner, but her appetite was gone. It was only when she went to pay for her groceries the next morning that she would discover the true consequence of her flight.
She reached for her wallet in her handbag. It wasn't there. A cold dread swept over her. She dumped the entire contents of her bag onto her kitchen table. Keys, phone, a half-eaten packet of mints, loose receipts… but no white and pink cherry blossom wallet. Her ID, her credit card, her train pass, a faded photo of her and Akari as children—all of it was gone.
Her mind raced, retracing her steps. The convenience store? She’d paid with loose change from her coat pocket. The bus? She’d used her monthly pass, which was… in her wallet. Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. She must have dropped it. But where? At the bus stop. The image flashed in her mind: standing up quickly, the can of amazake in her hand, her bag slipping from her shoulder…
And then she saw it again: the chauffeur bending down. He hadn't just been getting back into the car. He’d been picking something up. Her wallet.
Which meant it was now in the possession of Arima Kousei.
The realization was a sucker punch to her already fragile composure. She had to get it back. There was no alternative. But the thought of having to face him again, of having to ask for it, of acknowledging the humiliating scene… it was too much. Tears of frustration and fatigue welled in her eyes. Monday loomed before her like a trial, and she was already condemned.
---
The weekend passed in a fog of anxiety. Nami spent Saturday in the eighth-floor test kitchen, the only place she could find any semblance of peace. She followed Arima’s instructions to the letter, meticulously reducing the galangal by ten percent and using a digital timer for toasting the cumin seeds. The new batch of paste was, to her palate, perfectly balanced. The lemongrass sang through clearly now, and the bitter finish was gone, replaced by a warm, lingering spice.
But the professional satisfaction was overshadowed by the impending social ordeal. She practiced what she would say a hundred times. "Sir, I believe I may have dropped my wallet near your car on Friday. Did your chauffeur by any chance find it?" It sounded weak, pathetic.
On Sunday, Akari came over. Nami told her everything—the meeting, the critique, the bus stop, the wallet. Akari listened, her expression growing more and more incredulous.
“Let me get this straight,” Akari said, holding a cup of tea. “The CEO, who is a known tyrant, personally tastes your food, gives you specific, constructive feedback, and then, seeing you shivering at a bus stop, offers you a ride home. And you ran away from him?”
“He was with Yuki!” Nami wailed, burying her face in a cushion. “It was awful!”
“So what? Maybe it was a work thing. You said yourself her team meets with him sometimes. Nami, you have to stop assuming the worst. This isn’t high school. This is your career! And now he has your wallet? This is like a gift from the drama gods!”
“It’s not a gift, it’s a nightmare! What do I even say to him?”
Akari put her tea down with a decisive click. “You walk into that office on Monday, you hand him the revised paste, and you say, ‘Thank you for your feedback, Mr. Arima. The adjustments have been made. Also, I was wondering if you had my wallet. I must have dropped it on Friday evening when you were kind enough to offer me a ride.’ You say it with confidence. You own it.”
“I can’t,” Nami moaned.
“You can,” Akari insisted. “And you’re wearing the red dress.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Yes! You need every ounce of confidence you can get. That dress is your uniform now. It’s the dress you wore when you impressed him enough to get a second chance. It’s the dress of the woman who is too busy revolutionizing curry paste to accept rides from CEOs. Wear it.”
---
Monday morning arrived with the grim inevitability of a dentist appointment. Following Akari’s advice—or perhaps just because she was too emotionally drained to fight it—Nami put on the red dress. She felt a strange sense of resignation. The dress and she were now bound together in this bizarre saga.
She carried the revised sample of the “Sunset Gold Paste” in a insulated bag. The walk to his office felt even longer than before. Her palms were slick with sweat.
The secretary announced her, and she entered the vast, silent office. Arima was at his desk, reading a report. He looked up as she entered, his gaze immediately dropping to the dress, then flicking up to meet her eyes. Did she imagine a flicker of something—amusement?—in their dark depths?
“Ms. Watanabe. Punctual.” He gestured for her to approach the desk.
She placed the insulated bag on the edge of the desk. “The revised sample, sir. As you requested.” Her voice was steadier than she felt.
He didn’t open it immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I trust the adjustments were satisfactory.”
“Yes, sir. I believe the balance is much improved.”
A long, heavy pause. He was drawing it out, she was sure of it. He was enjoying her discomfort.
“Was there something else, Ms. Watanabe?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild.
This was it. She took a shallow breath. “Sir, I… I believe I may have been somewhat flustered on Friday evening. When you offered me a ride. I… I dropped my wallet. I was wondering if your chauffeur might have found it.”
Another pause, stretching out until she thought she would scream. Then, slowly, deliberately, he opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out the familiar white and pink wallet.
“This?” he asked, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a curious insect.
Relief and fresh humiliation washed over her. “Yes. That’s it. Thank you, sir.”
He didn’t hand it to her immediately. He placed it on the desk, his hand resting on top of it. “It is unwise to be so careless with one’s personal effects, Ms. Watanabe. Especially in the rain.”
The gentle reprimand felt like a lash. “I… I know. I’m sorry.”
He watched her for another moment, then finally slid the wallet across the polished surface of the desk towards her. “See that it doesn’t happen again. You may go. I will evaluate the sample and inform you of my decision.”
The dismissal was clear. She snatched up the wallet, her fingers closing around the damp fabric. “Thank you, sir.” She turned and almost fled, the door feeling like a barrier between her and a predator.
Once outside, leaning against the same stairwell wall, she clutched the wallet to her chest. She had survived another encounter. She had her wallet back. But as she walked back to the eighth floor, she had the unnerving feeling that she had lost something far more important in the exchange: the last vestiges of her anonymity. She was now firmly, undeniably, on Arima Kousei’s radar. And she had no idea what he intended to do with her.
The day passed with a strange, suspended quality. The initial terror of the wallet retrieval had subsided, leaving behind a low hum of anxiety. Nami tried to bury herself in work, focusing on the minutiae of ingredient sourcing for her curry paste, but her concentration was fractured. The memory of Arima’s fingers brushing against hers as he returned the wallet, the weight of his gaze, played on a loop in her mind.
One by one, the other members of the Creation and Evaluation team returned from their individual summons to the CEO’s office. The atmosphere on the eighth floor became a barometer of collective morale. Kenji came back first, his usual boisterous energy noticeably dimmed. He slumped into his chair, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“Well?” Riko prompted, unable to contain her curiosity. “How did it go?”
Kenji let out a long, low whistle. “The man is… intense. He tasted my smoked sea salt caramel concept. Said the idea had ‘commercial potential’ but that the execution was ‘pedestrian.’” He mimicked Arima’s flat, analytical tone perfectly. “He said the salt was too abrasive and the caramel lacked depth. Told me to go back to the drawing board.” He gestured vaguely towards his own body, a self-deprecating grin finally breaking through his solemnity. “Then he looked at me, at my whole being, and said, ‘And you should work on it.’ I think he meant my presentation skills, but it felt like a comment on my soul.”
Akira, who had returned looking pale and shaken, spun dramatically in his chair. “You too? He told me my umami broth was ‘one-dimensional’ and that I, personally, needed to ‘broaden my palate.’ I felt like I’d been intellectually X-rayed and found lacking.”
A wave of nervous laughter swept through the team. It wasn’t joyful laughter, but a release of shared tension. Mr. Tanaka, ever the diplomat, intervened. “He is pushing us because he believes we are capable of more. This is what leadership looks like. Take the feedback, internalize it, and improve.”
The camaraderie, born from shared trauma, was a small comfort to Nami. It confirmed that Arima’s brutal honesty wasn’t reserved solely for her. He was like this with everyone. Yet, the knowledge did little to quell the peculiar, fluttering nervousness in her stomach whenever she thought of their encounters, which felt layered with something beyond the professional.
Later that afternoon, as the sun cast long, golden shadows across the office, the phone on her desk buzzed. It was the Executive Secretary. “Ms.Watanabe? Mr. Arima would like to see you in his office. Immediately.”
The fluttering in her stomach turned into a full-scale avian riot. Immediately. The word sounded so urgent, so final. Had he found a flaw in the revised paste already? Had her clumsiness with the wallet and now the notepad incident—a memory that still made her cheeks burn—pushed him past the point of patience?
She stood on shaky legs, smoothing down the red dress she had, once again, worn under her cardigan as a form of psychological armor. She’d told herself it was because Akari had insisted, but a deeper, more stubborn part of her refused to be cowed into hiding again.
The walk to his office was a familiar march of dread. When she entered, the scene was both reassuring and terrifying. There, on his immense desk, next to a stack of financial reports, was the small ramekin of her golden curry paste. It was half-empty. A spoon lay beside it.
Arima was not at his desk. He was standing by the glass wall, looking out as was his habit. He turned as she entered, his expression unreadable.
“Ms. Watanabe. Come closer.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She approached the desk, stopping a safe distance away.
He gestured to the ramekin. “The adjustments were correct. The balance is significantly improved. The bitterness is gone, and the floral notes of the lemongrass are now prominent. It is… acceptable.”
Acceptable. From him, she suspected, it was high praise. A wave of relief so powerful it made her knees weak washed over her. She hadn’t failed.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
He picked up the spoon, tapping it lightly against the rim of the ramekin. “This is a solid foundation. It is what I want for the Genesis line.” He paused, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “But a flagship product cannot be a single note. I want you to begin testing to see if you can develop a complementary recipe. A variation. Perhaps a spicier version, or one incorporating a different set of aromatics. This paste,” he said, pointing to her creation, “is your final work for this particular product. The new task is to see if you can build upon its success.”
The directive was clear, and it was a vote of confidence. He wasn’t just approving her recipe; he was entrusting her with the next phase of development. The weight of the responsibility was immense, but it was a welcome weight.
She nodded, a genuine, if small, smile touching her lips. “I understand, sir. I’ll start right away.”
“Good. That will be all.”
Feeling lighter than she had in days, she turned to leave. In her haste, the cardigan she wore over the dress caught on the edge of his desk. The movement was sharp enough to dislodge the small, spiral-bound notepad she always kept in its pocket—a repository for spontaneous ideas, flavor combinations, and tasting notes. It fell to the floor with a soft slap.
She gasped and bent to retrieve it, but Arima was faster. In one fluid, swift motion, he scooped it up from the floor.
“Sir! My book!” she exclaimed, her hand darting out instinctively to take it back.
But he held it just out of her reach, his eyebrow arched. It was a simple, almost playful gesture, but on him, it felt charged with danger.
“A chef’s notebook,” he mused, turning it over in his hands. “The inner sanctum.”
Panic, different from her professional anxiety, flared within her. That notebook was raw, unedited. It contained silly ideas, half-baked thoughts, personal musings jotted down during late nights. It was an extension of her mind, and the thought of him seeing it was a violation.
“Please, sir, it’s just… scribbles,” she pleaded, her voice rising in pitch.
He said nothing, merely holding the notebook higher as she stepped closer. A frustrated puff of air escaped her lips, her cheeks puffing out unconsciously. He was so much taller than her. She moved towards him, jumping slightly to try and snatch it back. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips as he watched her futile efforts, his arm stretched high above his head.
Driven by a desperate need to reclaim her privacy, she did something utterly uncharacteristic. She closed the distance between them. Placing one hand on the arm of his high-backed swivel chair for balance, she stretched her other arm up, her fingers straining for the notebook. She leaned forward, her focus entirely on the small, tantalizing object in his grasp.
In her concentration, she was unaware of her own body. She leaned further, her center of gravity shifting. The soft swell of her breasts, barely contained by the dress, pressed lightly against the side of his face and shoulder.
The effect was instantaneous and electric.
For Nami, the world narrowed to the notebook. She managed to hook her fingers around the edge of the spiral binding and tugged it free. As she pulled it back, she finally registered the warmth of his skin against her chest. Her brain took a moment to process the sensation. She looked down.
Her body was flush against his side, her breasts pressed against his cheek and jaw. She saw the dark strands of his hair against the crimson of her dress. The intimacy of the contact was so shocking, so profound, that for a second, she froze.
Then, reality crashed down. She flushed a scorching, full-body scarlet and leaped back as if burned, clutching the notepad to her chest like a shield. The distance between them felt like a chasm.
“I’m s-so-sorry, sir!” she stammered, her eyes wide with horror. “I didn’t mean to—I was just—I’m so sorry!”
She was mortified. She had essentially just assaulted the CEO with her chest. She waited for the cold dismissal, the security call, the end of her career.
Arima had been equally stunned. The moment her soft, warm weight had pressed against him, a jolt had shot through his system. The mild, sweet scent of her perfume—strawberries and roses, something refreshingly uncomplicated—had filled his senses. And the feeling… had been unexpectedly pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that in a moment of pure, unthinking instinct, he had leaned into the pressure, turning his face a fraction of an inch into the softness before she pulled away.
Thankfully, her panic had been so complete that she hadn't noticed his momentary lapse. He cleared his throat, a rare flush of warmth creeping up his own neck. He adjusted his tie, a gesture to cover his discomposure.
“It’s alright,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual. He forced his expression back into its customary mask of impassivity. “But be careful, Ms. Watanabe. Not everyone in a position of power has such… gentle manners.”
The words were a warning, but they felt like a confession. He was telling her that he had been gentle, that he had not taken advantage, implicitly acknowledging the potential for the situation to have been very different.
Nami, too flustered to decode the subtext, simply bowed deeply, her face still burning. “Thank you, sir. It won’t happen again. Good day, sir.”
She all but ran from the office, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound of finality that echoed in the sudden silence.
Arima remained seated in his chair. He didn’t move for a long time. The ghost of the sensation lingered on his skin. The faint, sweet scent of strawberries and roses still hung in the air around him. He brought a hand to his face, his fingers brushing against the spot where her body had been.
He was a man governed by logic, by data, by ruthless efficiency. Emotions were variables to be controlled, not indulged. This… reaction was an anomaly. An illogical, inconvenient, and intensely distracting anomaly.
Nami Watanabe was no longer just an interesting equation. She had become a disruption. And as he sat in the quiet of his office, the city lights beginning to twinkle below, Arima Kousei was forced to admit, with a growing sense of irritation and fascination, that he had no idea what to do with her.
---
Nami didn’t stop until she was safely locked in a bathroom stall on the eighth floor. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal door, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her whole body trembled. She could still feel the imprint of his face against her, a brand of shame and something else, something she refused to name.
‘Not everyone has such gentle manners.’
What did that mean? Was he implying that he had… enjoyed it? The thought was too terrifying to entertain. No, he was being condescending. Pointing out her naivete, her clumsiness. He was reminding her of the power imbalance, of her place.
But the memory of his expression in that fleeting moment before she jumped back—it hadn’t looked angry or disgusted. It had looked… surprised. Startled, even.
“Get a grip, Nami,” she whispered to herself, splashing cold water on her face. She had to compartmentalize. The professional victory was what mattered. Her paste was accepted. She had a new, challenging assignment. That was the reality. The bizarre, physical incident was a aberration, a freak accident to be buried and forgotten.
When she returned to her desk, she avoided everyone’s eyes. She focused on her computer screen, pulling up research on different chili varieties and Southeast Asian herbs. She would lose herself in work. It was the only safe harbor she had.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of focused activity. The team, humbled and driven by Arima’s critiques, worked with a new intensity. The air on the eighth floor was thick with the smells of experimentation—toasting nuts, reducing sauces, fermenting vegetables. Nami spent hours in the test kitchen, working on a spicier version of her curry paste, using bird's eye chilies and a hint of smoked paprika. It was good, but it felt derivative.
On Thursday evening, as she was cleaning up, her phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Ms. Watanabe. A reminder regarding your personal effects. Ensure greater care in the future. The city is not always forgiving.
Her blood ran cold. It was him. Arima. How did he get her number? Of course, he was the CEO; he had access to everything. The message was ostensibly about the wallet, a continuation of his reprimand. But it felt like more. It felt like a thread, a connection he had deliberately established. It felt like he was letting her know that the incident in his office was not forgotten.
She didn’t reply. What could she possibly say? Thank you for the warning, sir? Sorry for assaulting you with my breasts?
She deleted the message, but the number was seared into her memory. The disruption, she realized, was far from over. The game had changed, and she was hopelessly out of her depth.
The two days following the notebook incident were a masterclass in suppressed panic for Nami. Every time her phone buzzed, her heart leaped into her throat, half-expecting another cryptic text from the CEO. None came, but the silence felt more ominous than any message. The memory of that fleeting, electrifying contact was a ghost that haunted her every waking moment. She threw herself into her work with a ferocious intensity, not just to prove herself for Project Genesis, but to build a mental fortress against the disorienting thoughts of Arima Kousei.
She decided to pivot entirely away from the curry profile. If "Sunset Gold" was her yellow entry, she wanted her next concept to be a study in contrast. She envisioned something pale, creamy, and elegant. She spent hours in the test kitchen, experimenting with a base of almonds and the rich, white flesh of fresh coconuts. She pounded the almonds and coconut meat until they formed a coarse paste, then patiently squeezed the mixture through a muslin cloth, extracting a milky, opaque liquid. She let it sit, allowing the natural oils to rise, creating a luxuriously rich nut milk.
In a separate pot, she cooked jasmine rice until it was impossibly soft, almost dissolving into a starchy porridge. This she blended and sieved, capturing the thick, creamy water. She combined this rice cream with the almond-coconut milk and placed it over a low flame, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon to prevent scorching. The air filled with a warm, nutty, and comforting aroma. She added a touch of coconut sugar for a deep sweetness, a generous pinch of salt to balance it, and then her secret: a carefully calibrated blend of white pepper, a hint of grains of paradise, and a single, finely grated tonka bean, which lent a subtle, spicy warmth that was completely different from the heat of chilies.
The result was a silken, off-white paste, fragrant and complex. She tasted it. It was wonderful—unexpectedly sweet yet with a sophisticated, spicy undertone that danced on the palate. Gathering her courage, she offered small samples to her teammates.
Kenji, after a thoughtful taste, grunted in approval. "This is different, Nami-chan. Not what I expected from you. It's... refined."
Yumi nodded, her eyes closed as she savored it. "The mouthfeel is incredible. So smooth. The spice is there, but it's a whisper, not a shout. It's brilliant."
Their praise bolstered her confidence. This was good. This was professional. This would give her something solid to focus on when she faced him again. She packaged a jar carefully, her hands trembling only slightly.
When she was summoned to his office on Friday afternoon, she deliberately chose not to wear the red dress. It felt too charged, too symbolic of their strange history. Instead, she chose a simple, light pink shift dress from a modest high-street brand. It was soft, feminine, and, most importantly, it didn't hug her frame. She paired it, as always, with her comfortable white sneakers. It was an outfit meant to project harmless normality.
She was ushered into his office. The scene that greeted her was different from before. Arima was seated at his desk, but the imposing formality was softened. He wore a light blue shirt, the first three buttons undone, revealing a hint of his collarbones. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong, corded forearms. A pair of sleek, black-framed glasses rested on his nose as he scrutinized a document. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, glinting off the silver of his pen and the dark strands of his hair. He looked less like an untouchable CEO and more like a intensely focused academic, a version of him that was, in its own way, even more disarming.
He looked up as she entered, and a subtle shift occurred in the room's atmosphere. He slowly took off his glasses, placing them neatly on the desk. The act felt deliberate, like a swordsman unsheathing his blade.
"Good afternoon, Sir," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Arima's gaze swept over her, from her simple sneakers to the soft pink of her dress. He did not comment on the color, but his dark eyes lingered for a heartbeat too long. The thought that flashed through his mind was unbidden and unwelcome: Stunning. There was a freshness to her, an unadorned simplicity that stood in stark contrast to the calculated glamour of the women who typically vied for his attention. The white sneakers, which should have clashed, instead completed the picture of a woman entirely comfortable in her own skin, a notion he found intriguingly at odds with her shy demeanor.
She approached his desk and placed the jar of white paste on it. "A new concept, sir. I wanted to explore a different profile."
He eyed the pale substance with open skepticism. "Sweet?" he asked, his tone implying that sweetness had no place in a serious product line.
"Sweet and spicy, sir. But the spice is... nuanced."
He opened the jar, and the unique fragrance—creamy, nutty, with a warm, peppery kick—wafted out. His expression didn't change, but she saw the slightest flare of his nostrils. He took a clean spoon from a drawer, dipped it in, and tasted.
A profound silence filled the room. Nami watched, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. He held the paste in his mouth, his eyes losing focus as he analyzed the flavor layers. Then, something remarkable happened. His eyes, when they met hers, widened just a fraction. It was the most significant display of surprise she had ever seen from him.
"Wow," he said, the word soft, almost to himself. He took another taste, slower this time. "I'm impressed. You managed to come up with something entirely new, and technically proficient, in just a few days." A small, genuine smile played on his lips, transforming his severe features. "And it seems I won't be giving you a revision."
The praise was so direct, so unqualified, that Nami felt a beam of pure joy break across her face. "Thank you, sir!"
"It's exceptional," he conceded. "But I wonder what it can be used for. It's delicate. A curry would overwhelm it."
"Perhaps as a base for a sauce for delicate proteins? Fish? Or as a gourmet spread?" she ventured.
"Perhaps," he mused. He turned to his laptop. "Come. Look at this. I have some concept recipes from the marketing team. I'd like your opinion on which would best suit this... what are you calling it?"
"Moonlight Velvet," she said softly.
He nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Moonlight Velvet. Come, stand here."
He gestured for her to come to his side of the desk. Hesitantly, she rounded the corner and stood next to his chair, leaning slightly to see the screen. He began scrolling through documents, each outlining a potential product: a simmer sauce, a marinade, a finishing glaze. She offered her thoughts, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke about her creation, pointing at the screen. "I think the glaze concept could work, but it would need a acid component to balance the sweetness..."
After about three minutes of this, the awkward position began to take its toll. Standing bent over, her legs started to ache, a dull throb building in her calves. She shifted her weight uncomfortably.
Arima noticed. Without a word, he reached out, his hand closing firmly around her wrist. Before she could process his intention, he tugged her sideways. Her balance faltered, and with a small gasp, she landed sideways on his lap.
Her eyes widened to saucers. "Sir?!" she squeaked, scrambling to get up, her face flooding with a hot, crimson blush.
His arm, which had guided her down, now tightened like a steel band around her waist, pinning her in place. The sensation of his hard thigh beneath her, the warmth of his body seeping through their clothes, was overwhelming.
"Your legs are tired. I merely offered you a seat," he said, his voice a low, calm rumble so close to her ear that she felt the vibration through her whole body. She shuddered involuntarily. "Don't worry. You're the first to occupy it." The statement was delivered with a chilling mix of nonchalance and possessiveness. "Just stay put if you don't want me to do anything... untoward. Now," he continued, as if discussing the weather, "what about this one?" He gestured back to the laptop with his free hand.
Nami was frozen. Every nerve ending was on fire. The part of her brain screaming for survival warred with the part that was terrifyingly, undeniably aroused by his sheer audacity and the raw power he exuded. His grip was firm but not painful; it was a cage of his will. Terrified of provoking him, she forced her eyes back to the screen, her mind a complete blank. She could feel the solid wall of his chest against her back, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Somehow, she managed to stammer out a few coherent sentences about the recipes, her voice thin and shaky. He responded, his own voice a low murmur by her ear, his comments sharp and intelligent. The surreal contrast between the professional discussion and their intensely personal position was dizzying.
When they reached the last document, he didn't let her go. Instead, he wrapped both arms around her waist, pulling her more firmly against his chest. Then, he did something that stopped her heart completely. He lowered his head and pressed his face into the crook of her neck.
His breath was warm against her skin. She could feel the slight scratch of his stubble. He inhaled deeply, as if breathing her in.
Her entire body went rigid. "A-Arima?" she stammered, his first name falling from her lips in a breathless, involuntary whisper.
He inhaled sharply at the sound, his arms tightening almost imperceptibly. The use of his name, so intimate and unguarded, seemed to affect him deeply. "I like my name on your tongue," he whispered, his voice husky and thick with an emotion she couldn't name. He held her for a moment longer, a suspended second in time where the only sounds were their breathing and the distant hum of the city. Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he released his hold. "Rest well."
The freedom was abrupt. She bolted off his lap as if launched, nearly stumbling in her haste. She grabbed the jar of Moonlight Velvet paste from his desk, not daring to look back at him.
"Good night, Nami," he said, his voice now back to its usual, composed tone, though she thought she detected a trace of that same huskiness beneath it. A small, undeniable smile played on his lips.
She didn't respond. She couldn't. She fled the office, her legs carrying her on pure instinct, the ghost of his embrace burning into her skin more branding than any touch she had ever known.
---
Arima listened to the frantic patter of her sneakers fade down the corridor. The smile lingered on his face for a few seconds before it vanished, replaced by a deep, contemplative frown. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. The scent of strawberries and roses, now mingled with the warm, nutty aroma of her paste, clung to him.
What had he just done?
It was a gross breach of professional conduct, an abuse of power, a potentially litigious offense. Every rational fiber of his being condemned the action. He had never, ever allowed a personal impulse to override his professional judgment to such a degree. Women had thrown themselves at him for years, using every trick in the book, and he had always remained detached, unmoved, even disgusted.
But Nami Watanabe was different. Her shyness was not an act. Her flustered panic was genuine. And the way she had said his name—"Arima?"—it had been a soft, shocked breath that had gone straight through him. It had unlocked something primal, a possessiveness he didn't know he was capable of.
He had wanted to shatter the professional distance between them. He had wanted to see how she would react. And her reaction—the blush, the shudder, the terrified arousal—had been more intoxicating than he could have imagined. The feeling of her small, soft body on his lap, the trust and fear warring within her, had been a drug.
He was playing with fire. She was an employee. A talented, valuable, and deeply vulnerable employee. This could destroy her trust, her career, and his own reputation. It was illogical, reckless, and stupid.
Yet, as he sat in the growing darkness of his office, the city lights beginning to glitter like fallen stars below, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. The memory of her warmth, her scent, the sound of his name on her lips, was etched into his senses. The equation had become infinitely more complex, and for the first time in his life, Arima Kousei wasn't sure he wanted to solve it. He wanted to explore it.
---
Nami didn't go home. She walked, her feet carrying her aimlessly through the neon-lit streets. Her mind was a chaotic storm of shock, humiliation, fear, and a treacherous, thrilling undercurrent of excitement. He had manhandled her. He had pulled her onto his lap. He had held her, inhaled her scent. It was a violation, an absolute crossing of a line.
But the memory of his arms around her, the solid strength of his chest, the whispered words—"I like my name on your tongue"—sent a jolt of pure heat through her core. She was disgusted with herself for the reaction. He was the CEO. She was a junior employee. This was a textbook case of harassment.
But was it? He hadn't been cruel. His touch, while firm, hadn't been groping or violent. It had been… possessive. Intentional. And when he had buried his face in her neck, it had felt less like an assault and more like a moment of profound, unexpected intimacy.
She found herself on a bridge overlooking the river, the water reflecting the city's lights in shimmering streaks. She leaned on the railing, the cool metal a grounding force. What did he want from her? Was this just a power trip for him? A way to alleviate the boredom of his immense power? Or was it something else?
The text message, the wallet, the notebook incident, and now this. It was a pattern. He was seeking her out, pushing boundaries, testing her. The thought was terrifying, but it was also undeniably thrilling. The most powerful, unapproachable man in the company was fixated on her, the most invisible woman in the room.
She thought of the smile on his lips as she left. It hadn't been a smirk of triumph. It had looked… pleased. Content, even.
A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. The game had escalated beyond anything she could have imagined. She was no longer just a participant; she had become the prize. And as she stood there, watching the dark water flow endlessly onward, Nami realized with a sinking heart and a traitorous flutter of excitement that she had no idea how to get out of it. Or if she even wanted to.
