Money Talks | Twisted Oneshots
Pairing: Yandere!CEO Yuta Okkotsu x Captive F!Reader (MODERN AU)
Genre: Dark fiction, Psychological horror, Yandere, Power imbalance, Manipulation, Forced proximity
Word count: 10.6k
Warnings:
Dark content, non-con/dub-con implications, coercion, captivity, manipulation, abuse of power, forced marriage, psychological trauma, emotional dependency, surveillance/control, isolation, financial control, gaslighting, possessive behavior, violence, blood, restraint, intimidation, Stockholm syndrome themes, horror elements.
Please DO NOT read if you’re sensitive to these topics.
AN: This piece explores deeply unsettling themes centered around control, obsession, and psychological manipulation. The relationship portrayed is intentionally toxic and imbalanced, focusing on a yandere dynamic where power, dependency, and coercion blur the lines of consent. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
This piece was written as a commission. The core idea and dynamics were requested by the client, and I expanded on it with my own interpretation. Thank you for commissioning me<3
Masterlist
The office sat high above the city, glass walls stretching from floor to ceiling, swallowing the skyline of Taipei in muted reflections. Night had already settled in, but the lights below pulsed endlessly—neon bleeding into the room in soft, fractured hues.
Behind the desk, Yuta leaned back in his chair—sleek, black, expensive. One arm rested lazily against the armrest, fingers tapping once against the polished leather before going still again. His posture was relaxed, almost careless.
Almost.
A knock broke the silence.
He didn’t look up immediately.
“Come in.”
The door opened with a quiet click. An employee stepped inside, posture straight, though the tension in his shoulders was hard to miss.
“Sir,” he began, voice measured. “I’ve compiled the latest reports. All divisions are operating within expected margins. The cybercrime interception rates have increased by—”
Yuta’s gaze lifted then, slow, deliberate.
The man faltered for half a second before continuing.
“—by approximately eighteen percent this quarter. Most of the branches are maintaining efficiency levels.”
Silence stretched.
Yuta tilted his head slightly, as if considering it, though his expression barely shifted.
“Everything is going well, then,” he said, voice calm, smooth. “What’s the problem?”
The employee hesitated. It was subtle—but noticeable.
“…There have been complaints,” he admitted carefully. “From multiple branches. They’re reporting excessive workload. Some are requesting extended leave.”
A pause.
Then—barely perceptible—Yuta exhaled through his nose, something almost like amusement ghosting across his features.
His head shook once, slow.
“Increase their salaries,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Double it.”
The employee blinked.
“They won’t have anything to say after that.” There was no arrogance in his tone.
Just certainty.
“…Yes, sir.” The man nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face before he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Silence returned.
For a moment, Yuta didn’t move, his broad frame still and commanding in the dim light of the room, the air thick with the scent of arousal and submission. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat—straightening just slightly, his piercing gaze lowering under the table—to where you knelt trapped between his muscular thighs, the powerful cords of muscle flexing subtly as they caged you in place.
The zipper of his pants hung open, exposing his thick cock, still throbbing with unspent need, the veined shaft glistening with your saliva and a bead of precum leaking from the flushed tip after you had pulled your mouth away, gasping for breath, your lips swollen and slick.
The ease in his expression didn’t change, that calm, predatory serenity holding steady. But his voice did—quieter, colder, laced with an unyielding authority that sent a shiver down your spine.
“Who said you could stop… Y/N?”
His hand moved then, fingers tangling firmly in your hair, guiding your head back down without mercy, pressing your mouth against the hot, pulsing length of him. You parted your lips obediently, taking him in again, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head before sliding down, sucking with renewed fervor as his cock filled your mouth, stretching your jaw.
He groaned low, the sound vibrating through you, his thighs tightening around your shoulders to hold you steady. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice a cool thread of praise amid the command, his hips bucking shallowly to push deeper into the wet heat of your throat. “You’ve learned to do your job better, hmm… Keep going, just like that—suck harder, take every inch until I say otherwise.”
Your cheeks hollowed as you worked him, bobbing your head with desperate rhythm, the salty taste of him flooding your senses while his grip urged you on, unrelenting and possessive.
Your mouth worked him relentlessly, lips sealed tight around the girth of Yuta's cock as you bobbed your head, taking him deeper with each pass, the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your tongue. Saliva dripped from the corners of your stretched lips, mixing with the steady leak of his precum that coated your throat, making every swallow a slick, desperate effort. His fingers tightened in your hair, not guiding now but holding you firm, his hips thrusting up in controlled, insistent rolls that forced more of his length past your gag reflex, the head bumping the back of your throat until tears pricked at your eyes.
“That's it,” he rasped, his voice a low growl edged with that icy command, his free hand gripping the armrest as his thighs clamped harder around you, muscles bulging like iron vices. “Feel how hard you make me? You're mine to use, and you're doing so fucking well.” The praise sent a twisted heat pooling in your core, your body betraying you with a fresh wave of wetness between your legs, even as the ache in your jaw deepened.
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, your tongue flicking relentlessly over the sensitive slit at his tip, drawing out a sharp hiss from him. His breaths came quicker, ragged now, the calm facade cracking as his cock swelled impossibly thicker in your mouth, twitching with the building pressure.
“Don't you dare pull away,” he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, his grip yanking your head down until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base, his balls tight and heavy against your chin. You gagged softly, but held there, throat convulsing around him, milking him with involuntary spasms that only spurred him on. His thrusts grew erratic, hips snapping up faster, fucking your face with raw possession, the wet sounds of your mouth filling the room—slurps and gasps mingling with his deepening groans.
“Fuck, yes—take it all, every goddamn inch. You're going to swallow everything I give you, aren't you? Good girl, just like that.” The tension coiled in him like a spring, his body tensing, abs clenching under his shirt as he chased release. Then, with a guttural curse, he came—hot spurts flooding your mouth, thick ropes of cum hitting the back of your throat, salty and bitter as you struggled to gulp it down.
“Swallow it all,” he ordered through gritted teeth, holding you in place as his cock jerked, pulse after pulse emptying into you. You tried, swallowing frantically around him, but the volume overwhelmed, a few pearly drops escaping the seal of your lips, trailing down your chin and splattering onto the front of your blouse, soaking the fabric in warm, sticky evidence of your submission. He finally released your hair, pulling back just enough to watch, his chest heaving as the last shudders faded.
A smirk curled his lips, dark and satisfied, as he took in the mess—your flushed face, smeared lips, the damp spots blooming on your clothes. “Still a messy eater,” he drawled, thumb brushing a stray drop from your chin only to smear it further across your skin, his eyes gleaming with possessive amusement.
“Well, you look better this way—exactly how I like you.” The intensity lingered in the air, his cock softening but still heavy against your tongue, the taste of him lingering as you panted, body trembling from the ordeal.
Slowly, you pulled back fully, wiping your face with the back of your hand, smearing the remnants across your cheek before rising unsteadily from between his thighs, legs shaky as you straightened your disheveled clothes, the wet patches clinging uncomfortably to your skin.
Yuta's gaze never wavered as he watched you, his dark eyes hooded with lingering satisfaction while he casually tucked his softening cock back into his pants, zipping up with unhurried precision. The air in the office hung thick with the musky scent of your encounter, a reminder of the power he wielded so effortlessly.
You fumbled for the tissues on his desk, hands trembling slightly as you dabbed at the sticky patches on your blouse, the fabric clinging damply to your skin where his cum had seeped through. Each swipe only spread the warmth further, a humiliating brand that made your cheeks burn hotter than before. You could feel his stare like a physical touch, tracing the curve of your neck, the flush creeping down your throat, making you hyper-aware of every shaky breath you took.
A low, amused hum rumbled from his chest, drawing your eyes up just enough to catch the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, one finger tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the desk—a deliberate, taunting cadence that echoed in the quiet room.
“We go shopping tonight,” he said finally, his voice smooth and commanding, laced with that casual authority that brooked no argument. “Be ready to leave by six.”
“But before that…”
He paused, the words hanging in the air like a threat wrapped in silk. Slowly, deliberately, he extended his palm toward you, fingers splayed open in silent expectation. You knew exactly what he wanted—had known it for months now, the ritual ingrained like a scar.
You forced a smile, chill and practiced, though it felt brittle on your lips, like it might crack under the weight of resentment. Your hand dipped into the pocket, fingers closing around the cool metal of your phone. Hesitation gripped you for a beat—long enough to imagine smashing it against the desk, walking out, ending this—but reality crashed back in, heavy and unyielding. No choice. Not with what he held over you. With a steadying breath, you placed the device in his waiting hand, your skin brushing his just long enough to send a shiver racing up your arm.
Yuta's fingers danced across the screen, unlocking it with the passcode he'd long since memorized, scrolling through your messages, your photos, your digital footprint with the ease of someone who owned it all. A smile tugged at his lips, genuine this time, though no less predatory. “Improvements, I see,” he murmured, his tone almost approving as he flicked through whatever evidence of your 'progress' he deemed fit to inspect. Then, his eyes lifted to meet yours, piercing and unblinking. “But I'd rather like if you could look at me more lovingly, you know?”
“.......”
“I'll try,” You whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue. It wasn't what you wanted to say—not even close—but defiance was a luxury you couldn't afford. Not here, not with him.
He hummed again, a sound of lazy contentment, as if your capitulation was the most natural thing in the world. Satisfied, he slid the phone back across the desk toward you, his finger tapping once more in that infuriating rhythm. “That's my girl. Now, get out of here. I have work to do.”
“......” You snatched up her phone and turned on unsteady legs, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that released the breath you'd been holding. The hallway outside felt like freedom by comparison. Because that man... Yuta... he'd been blackmailing you for what felt like an eternity now…
—
It started the day you moved here. In Taiwan.
After countless applications, interviews that blurred into one another, and polite rejections that all sounded the same—you were finally selected. It had felt… earned. Deserved.
The first few months were exactly what you had imagined.
Structured. Productive. Yours.
You moved through your days with quiet precision—waking early, maintaining your routines, balancing work with discipline. Office hours were clean and efficient, your performance consistent. Even outside of it, your life held a certain rhythm—work, home, workouts, occasional evenings spent in the quiet comfort of a library or a café.
That says…
There was a café not far from your office—small, warm lighting, the kind of place that didn’t try too hard. You found yourself there often during your free time, seated by the window with a book or your laptop, exchanging small, familiar conversations with the staff, sometimes even other regulars. Nothing deep. Nothing personal.
Just enough to feel… at ease.
Like everything was going well.
---
Until it wasn’t.
The shift was subtle at first. Then obvious.
You were accused of something you didn’t do.
No clear explanation. No solid proof. Just… implication. A quiet suggestion passed around just loud enough to be heard, just vague enough to stick. You knew how these things worked. You also knew you weren’t imagining it.
There were people who didn’t like you. Maybe it was because you were new. Maybe it was because you didn’t try to fit in. Or maybe—because you were simply doing too well.
Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The result was the same. Your impression dropped.
Conversations grew shorter. Glances lingered a second too long before looking away. People who once acknowledged you began to avoid you altogether.
You noticed. You just didn’t react. It didn’t affect your work, and that was all that mattered.
---
Then came the call.
A transfer.
Not just anywhere—but to the CEO’s direct division.
You had stared at the notification longer than necessary, reading it twice, then a third time, as if the meaning might change.
It didn’t.
Even now, you weren’t entirely sure how it had happened. Others, however, had opinions. They didn’t like it.
You could feel it in the shift of the room, the tension beneath forced politeness. Working under the CEO—directly—meant better exposure, better pay, better opportunities. More profitable.
You understood why they resented it. And yet—You believed you had earned it. Your work spoke for itself. That had to be it. But in reality…
You were fooled.
—
The first few days in the new division were… normal.
Quiet. Professional. Nothing out of place. Which was exactly why the change didn’t sit right.
“Ms. Y/N.”
You looked up from your desk as the manager approached, a file already in hand before you even registered the movement.
“Yes?”
“I need you to take these to the CEO’s office.”
Your fingers paused over your keyboard. Then, slowly, you leaned back slightly in your chair, studying him.
“…Is there an issue?” you asked, tone even. “Something I need to be aware of?”
After what had happened before, you weren’t careless.
The manager blinked, almost caught off guard by the question. “No,” he said quickly. “Nothing like that.”
Your gaze didn’t shift.
He cleared his throat. “The boss wants to see his new employee.”
A pause settled between you.
You didn’t respond immediately. You weren’t entirely convinced. It was too sudden. Too direct. But there was nothing you could question without sounding… defensive.
A small nod followed, controlled, minimal. “I see.”
You reached for the file, fingers brushing over the neatly stacked papers before lifting it from the desk. Curiosity lingered, quiet but present. After all—This was the CEO.
Someone who handled far more than what was visible on the surface. Power, influence, decisions that shifted entire systems. You wondered what kind of person he was.
Without another word, you stood, smoothing out the fabric of your dress instinctively before stepping away from your desk.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
You stepped inside. Pressed the button. And waited. As the doors closed, your reflection stared back at you—composed, unreadable.
---
Once inside, the first thing you noticed was him.
Seated behind the wide desk, posture relaxed yet composed, phone pressed lightly against his ear as he spoke to someone on the other end. His voice was low—controlled, measured—but carried a quiet authority that didn’t need volume to be felt.
He didn’t look at you. Not even once.
You stepped forward anyway, heels muted against the polished floor, placing the file neatly on the desk—just within his reach, not too close, not too far. Precise. Intentional.
Then you stepped back. Far enough to maintain distance. Close enough to remain professional. And waited.
“…Handle it.”
That was all he said before the call ended.
The phone was set aside without a second glance, his attention shifting seamlessly as his fingers moved to the file you had brought. He flipped it open, scanning the contents briefly.
You didn’t waste time.
“Sir, the report includes the latest breach analysis from the eastern sector,” you began, voice steady, efficient. “The anomalies were traced back to—”
“Name?” The word cut through your explanation, quiet but firm.
You paused. A second, no more.
“…Y/N.”
A soft hum left him, almost absent-minded.
“Y/N…”
He repeated it—not as a question, not quite as acknowledgment either. Just… testing it.
“I heard you were accused of something in your previous division.” The statement was casual. Too casual.
Your fingers tightened slightly around nothing, though your tone remained even. “I didn’t do anything.”
He nodded. Slowly. Then, for the first time since you entered, he looked up. Directly at you. It wasn’t a long look. But it was enough.
“Oh, I know,” he said. “You did nothing.” A pause followed—brief, deliberate.
“It happens,” he continued, gaze steady. “Especially when you’re… an outsider.” The word lingered, though his tone didn’t change.
“But don’t worry,” he added, almost lightly. “You won’t be accused here.” Another pause. Subtle. Measured.
“Unless…” He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.
His attention shifted back to the file, conversation dismissed as easily as it had begun.
The silence stretched.
You remained where you were for a moment longer, standing still, processing—not the words themselves, but what lay beneath them.
Then it clicked. You were done here.
Without another word, you turned, heels sharp against the floor this time as you made your way out, the door closing softly behind you.
The interaction lingered for a moment. Then faded. At least—that’s what you thought.
The first encounter wasn’t anything significant. Nothing overt. Nothing that stood out. Not at the time.
The changes began quietly. Subtly. Within a week, your salary increased.
You had double-checked it yourself, brows knitting slightly before you approached your manager.
“There’s been an update to my compensation,” you said. “Is that correct?”
He nodded without hesitation. “For your performance.” That was all.
—
It should have been satisfying. And it was. At first. Then you started working more.
Staying later. Pushing just a little further each time. It wasn’t forced. It didn’t feel like pressure. Just a simple thought, repeating itself—The more you do, the more you get.
—
Days blurred into evenings. Evenings into nights. And somewhere in between—You began to notice him.
He would pass by your desk before leaving. Not every day. But enough.
“When are you leaving?”
The first time, you glanced at the clock.
7:55 p.m.
“I’ll be staying,” you replied. “Overtime.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Just looked at you. For a moment longer than necessary. Then he left.
—
The next time—
“Tonight as well?”
You gave a small nod. “Yes.”
A brief pause followed before you added, almost out of habit—
“Good night, sir.”
He didn’t return it.
—
Another evening.
You were midway through a data project, focus fixed, fingers moving steadily across your keyboard when his presence registered beside you.
“Would you like to have dinner?”
The question caught you off guard. Not because of what it was—But because of who it came from.
You hesitated. Only for a second. But it was enough. There were things you had learned the hard way.
Assumptions. Appearances. The way people watched, the way situations twisted into something they weren’t. You weren’t careless anymore.
“…I’m sorry, sir,” you said politely, eyes returning to your screen. “I’m working—”
“Overtime.” He cut in, voice quiet.
“I know.”
Silence followed.
Then, just as simply as he had appeared—He left.
You exhaled slowly, fingers pausing over the keyboard. A faint unease settled in your chest, subtle but persistent.
Maybe you shouldn’t have refused. Maybe it didn’t matter.
—
You told yourself it was nothing.
Things happened. For a reason. For the better. But this time—It didn’t feel like it.
Because the next call from him wasn’t what you expected it to be.
You had assumed it would be about work—perhaps the project you’d been handling, or even your refusal the other night. Either way, you prepared yourself before stepping into his office, posture straight, expression composed.
The door closed softly behind you.
For a moment, he said nothing. He simply looked at you. Not a glance. Not a passing acknowledgment. An assessment—slow, deliberate, as if he were taking in details you hadn’t offered.
You held his gaze, steady. Waiting.
“I would say…” he began at last, voice low, measured, “you’re very dedicated to your work.”
It took you a second. A small pause, followed by a quiet—
“…Thank you, sir.” Your tone was polite. Controlled.
“And also…” he continued, the faintest shift in his posture as his head tilted slightly, one brow lifting just enough to be noticed, “…a little obsessed with money. Hmm?”
The words settled between you. Not accusatory. Not entirely light either.
You blinked once. Twice. Then answered.
“…Who isn’t?”
For a fraction of a second—barely there—he seemed taken aback. Not by the content. But by the ease of it.
Then something shifted in his expression. Subtle. Amused. A quiet smile, not quite reaching his lips, but present in his eyes.
“Mm.” A soft hum.
“You’re exactly as I imagined.”
Silence followed. Longer this time.
Uncomfortable—not because of anything obvious, but because he wasn’t dismissing you. Wasn’t continuing either. Just… letting the moment stretch, keeping you there under his attention.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for something on his desk.
A black card. Sleek. Minimal. Expensive.
He slid it across the surface toward you, the motion slow, deliberate—the soft sound of it against the table louder than it should have been.
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
Your thoughts stalled. Just for a second.
“What…?”
The word didn’t leave your lips, but it lingered in your mind all the same.
Was he serious?
You looked at the card. Then back at him. Careful. Measured.
“…May I ask,” you said, choosing your words deliberately, “why you want to have dinner with me?”
A quiet hum left him. His fingers tapped lightly against the card—once, twice—before stilling.
“Would you prefer a direct answer?”
You didn’t respond. But you didn’t look away either.“Well…” he continued, tone unchanged, “it’s because I’m interested in you.”
A slight pause.
“Hm?” His gaze held yours, unwavering now.
“So,” he added, almost lightly, “I’m looking for a ‘yes’ from you… Ms. Y/N.”
“.......”
---
The dinner, in itself, wasn’t anything unusual.
At least—not on the surface.
The restaurant was exactly the kind you would have chosen on your own—dim lighting, quiet ambiance, the kind of place where conversations stayed private and the staff knew when not to interrupt. You had barely glanced at the menu before realizing… you didn’t need to.
He already had.
Dishes arrived—one after another—each aligning a little too well with your preferences. The flavors, the presentation, even the smaller details you hadn’t thought anyone noticed.
You didn’t question it. Not out loud.
“You should try this.” His voice had been calm as he nudged a plate slightly toward you, gaze steady, expectant without forcing it.
You did. And it was good.
The conversation stayed light. Controlled. Nothing intrusive. Nothing that crossed a line you couldn’t step back from.
If anything—It felt easy.
—
He dropped you off afterward.
The car slowed to a stop just outside your place, the city quieter now, the night settling in.
“Be on time tomorrow.”
That was all he said. No elaboration. No softness. Just expectation.
And then it continued.
The next day.
And the day after that.
Dinners became routine. Not every night at first. Then almost every night.
He would take you out without asking much anymore—as if the answer had already been decided. Different places, different settings, but always the same controlled atmosphere. Always the same attention.
“You have a good sense of style.”
The comment came one evening as his gaze lingered briefly—not intrusive, but deliberate—taking in your outfit, your shoes, the way everything sat just right.
And, the next day, something new would appear.
A box. A bag. Another pair of shoes. A dress. Jewelry.
Expensive. Thoughtfully chosen. And always—Just slightly different from what you usually wore.
The cuts were a little bolder. The fabric a little softer. The designs… more revealing than what you preferred.
Subtle. But intentional. And yet—You never wore them in front of him.
If he noticed, he didn’t say it. But the way his gaze lingered sometimes… told you enough. Let him think. Let him imagine.
Well, It didn’t stop there.
At some point, it extended into your routines. Appointments you hadn’t booked—but somehow existed.
A message waiting for you. A confirmation already handled.
Spa treatments. Hair appointments. Makeup sessions curated down to the smallest detail. And the next day—
He would look at you.
Not briefly. Not casually. But with that same quiet, assessing attention.
“You look beautiful.”
You weren’t unaware. You understood exactly what this was.
The way he looked at you—quiet, observant, taking in more than he ever voiced. The way he would sometimes reach out absentmindedly, brushing a loose strand of your hair back into place while speaking, leaning just a little too close without ever making it obvious.
It wasn’t accidental.
At some point, he had even offered—
“No need to arrange transport,” he said one evening, sliding a set of keys across the table. “Take one of mine.”
You had looked at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then taken it anyway.
You knew what he wanted. Even if he never said it out loud. And you—
You chose not to acknowledge it. Not directly. Instead, you let it play out. Slowly. Carefully.
Pushing just enough to see how far it would go. Because if you were being honest—You didn’t mind.
Not the attention. Not the luxury. Not the way he spent on you without hesitation.
You understood the exchange. Even if it remained unspoken. And for now—You were content to play along. Just to see how long he would keep going.
---
Yet things took a turn you couldn’t quite place.
Not sudden. Not obvious. But enough to unsettle the balance you had carefully maintained.
You had known—at some point—that he would become more direct.
You just hadn’t expected it to be… today.
---
“Y/N.”
The call had been simple. No context. No explanation. Just that.
Now, you stood in his office once again.
The same space. The same quiet. The same controlled atmosphere that seemed to close in just a little more each time you stepped inside. This time—He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.
“Sit.”
You did. Hands resting neatly on your lap, posture straight, composed as ever. He didn’t sit.
Instead, he remained standing, a faint smile playing on his lips—calm, almost casual. Too calm. Then, slowly—He moved.
Circling around your chair. Unhurried. Measured.
Each step deliberate as he came to stand just behind you, his presence settling in before his voice did.
“I wonder what I’m doing wrong…” A pause.
“Could you tell me?”
Your fingers pressed lightly together in your lap. “I… don’t understand what you mean by that, sir.”
A soft hum left him. You could almost feel it before you heard it.
“You do.” Another step. Closer.
“You’re just playing with me.” There was a shift in his tone then. Subtle. Lower. Not louder—but heavier.
“I liked it though… your act.” A brief pause followed, as if he were considering something.
“Well…” His voice dipped just slightly. “I’m getting a little impatient now.”
Silence pressed in around you.
“You don’t have any… business outside, do you?” The question came suddenly. Casual on the surface. But it wasn’t. Not really.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. A small movement. Controlled. “I don’t,” you said. Then, after a pause—
“…but what if I did?”
The air shifted. Barely. But enough.
“Then there’d be consequences.”
The words were simple. Spoken just as evenly as everything else. And yet—They landed differently.
You stilled for a second, caught slightly off guard by the response.
A quiet chuckle followed. Light. Almost dismissive.
“Well… I’m glad to hear that you don’t.”
He moved again, stepping around to stand in front of you now. Close. Not too close. Just enough.
“And misunderstandings happen in every relationship,” he continued, tone returning to that same calm ease, as if nothing had shifted at all. “So there’s nothing to worry about, hmm?”
His hand lifted. Familiar now. Fingers brushing lightly through a strand of your hair, smoothing it back into place.
A gesture you had, somehow, gotten used to. You looked at him. Directly this time.
“What relationship…?” The question was genuine. Unfiltered.
He stilled. Just for a moment.
His gaze settled on you—steady, unreadable—as if weighing the question rather than answering it immediately.
Seconds passed. Quiet. Heavy.
“Our relationship.”
Silence.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t soften it. Didn’t explain further. As if that alone was enough—
“That said…” He continued. A slight pause.
“To make sure…” His voice lowered just a fraction.
“May I kiss you… respectfully?”
The question came too suddenly. Too directly.
Your breath caught—just slightly—as confusion flickered across your expression, your body shifting in your seat, not quite pulling away, not quite leaning in.
He noticed. “If not…” He leaned forward. Slowly. Carefully.
Closing the distance just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath—close, controlled, intentional.
“Then you kiss me.”
You stared at him for a brief second—long enough for your thoughts to scatter, not long enough to gather them properly.
There were too many questions.
If you agreed—then what? And if you didn’t… then what?
Either way, it felt like a decision that wouldn’t stay contained to just this moment. Something that could follow you back to your desk, into your work, into everything that had already started to blur together.
Would it affect your job? Would it not? You couldn’t tell. A hesitation settled in your chest, quiet but firm.
“…Not here.” The words came out softer than you intended, but they were enough. An exit. At least for now.
He watched you. For a moment longer than necessary. Then—He smiled.
“Ah…” A quiet breath of amusement slipped into his tone.
“I didn’t know you were this bold.”
“....?” Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap.
“Well then,” he continued smoothly, straightening just a little, that same calm composure returning as if nothing had shifted at all, “be ready to leave by nine.”
A small pause.
“I have a few things to finish.”
The smile remained. Unchanged. And it was clear—There wasn’t really an option to refuse. Not without consequence.
You gave a small nod. Nothing more. Then stood, smoothing your dress instinctively before turning toward the door.
As you stepped out, the air felt… different. Heavier.
‘Am I making this worse?’ The thought lingered as you walked down the hallway, heels echoing softly against the floor. But then another followed, quieter—more rational.
‘If he fires me… I’ll find another job. It wasn’t the end of anything. It couldn’t be.’
Right?
By seven-thirty, your shift ended as it always did. Routine. Predictable. You packed your things, movements precise, controlled—like every other day.
On your way out, you noticed your manager still at his desk. Later than usual.
“Y/N.” His voice stopped you mid-step.
You turned slightly. “Yes?”
“Already?”
There was a brief pause before you answered. “…Yes.” A small tilt of your head. “It’s my usual time to clock out.”
“I see.” That was all he said.
But his gaze lingered a second too long as you turned and walked away.
Usually, Yuta would drop you home. It had become… routine. But today—You were alone. And somehow—The walk felt longer. The same streets. The same turns. The same distance.
Yet what usually took twenty minutes stretched into something heavier. Slower. Each step just slightly more reluctant than the last.
Almost as if—Your body was resisting. Sensing something your mind hadn’t fully caught up to yet.
And when you reached your apartment—You understood why.
He was there.
—
Yuta stood just outside, near his car, the faint glow of a cigar between his fingers, smoke curling into the night air in slow, deliberate spirals.
You stopped on the steps. For a second—Just to make sure.
It was really him. And by the time the confirmation settled—It was too late to turn back.
He had already seen you.
The cigar dropped to the ground, crushed beneath his shoe without a second thought as he began walking toward you. Unhurried. Certain.
Step by step until he stood in front of you. Close. Too close to pretend this was coincidence.
“I think someone didn’t hear me properly…”
His voice was calm. But something beneath it had shifted.
“You were supposed to wait, no?”
Your throat tightened slightly. A quiet swallow as you searched for something to say—Anything that made sense.
But he didn’t give you the chance.
“Ha…” A soft sigh left him, head tilting just slightly as if in mild frustration.
“I really hate it when I don’t understand…”
He leaned back just enough to give you space. Not out of consideration. But control.
“That’s why I keep asking you,” he continued, gaze settling on you once more, steady, unrelenting.
“Tell me…” A brief pause.
“What am I doing wrong?”
“......."
Well… you didn’t have an answer either. Not a clear one.
It wasn’t that you hated him—Or even the attention he gave you. If anything, you had accepted it… adapted to it, in your own way. But still—
Something about him didn’t sit right.
Maybe it was his presence. The way he carried himself—too controlled, too aware. Or maybe—It was just your instincts.
A quiet, persistent feeling somewhere beneath everything else, telling you to step back. To be careful. Even if you couldn’t explain why.
You exhaled slowly, trying to gather your thoughts into something that made sense.
“I’m just… not sure,” you began, voice measured, choosing each word carefully. “I’ve been trying to focus on my work, and I don’t really—” You didn’t get to finish.
The sharp sound of a lighter clicking echoed in the quiet space. He had already taken out another cigar.
A slow drag. Smoke curled between the two of you, thick, deliberate, as if filling the silence you hadn’t been allowed to complete.
“So you’re telling me…” His voice cut through, lower than before. Colder. Stripped of that usual calm ease you had grown used to.
“…I was patient for nothing?”
You stilled.
He exhaled, the smoke drifting past you as his gaze settled—direct, unyielding.
“After everything…” A brief pause.
“You’re still hesitant?” There was something sharper now. Not loud. But present.
“For what?”
Your fingers tightened slightly at your sides.
“I thought we were doing just fine.”
That was the closest you had ever heard him to losing that composure. Not fully. But enough.
—
He moved suddenly.
“Get in the car. You’re coming with me.”
The words came out sharp. Serious. Not a trace of that calm, composed tone he usually carried.
You blinked, taken aback. “…What?”
A small step back, your brows drawing together in a frown. “No.” The refusal was immediate. Instinctive.
A quiet sigh left him. Slow. Controlled.
“I don’t really like creating a scene in public,” he said, almost casually, though the weight behind his words didn’t match the tone. “Especially this late.”
A pause.
Then his gaze locked onto yours. Direct. Unmoving. Smoke slipped past his lips as he spoke again—
“Remember I told you before…” Another step closer. “That you won’t get accused here unless…” A faint tilt of his head.
“You disrespect me.”
Your breath caught slightly.
“Well,” he continued, voice even, almost thoughtful, “I’m feeling very disrespected right now, Ms. Y/N.”
A pause.
“I suppose this isn’t how you treat your boss.”
Your fists clenched at your sides. Tight. For a moment, you just stared at him—Trying to reconcile this version of him with the one you had been dealing with all this time. The one who smiled calmly. Who spoke softly. Who—Wasn’t this.
“You…” your voice came out lower now, controlled but firm, “also shouldn’t treat your colleagues this way.”
He blinked. Once. As if your response had genuinely caught his attention. Then—His head tilted slightly. A slow, almost curious motion.
“Oh…” A quiet breath of amusement followed.
“No.” His lips curved into something faintly resembling a smile.
“You’re not my colleague anymore.” A pause.
“You’re…” He stopped himself. Deliberately.
“…Well,” he added lightly, though the look in his eyes didn’t match, “I don’t think it would be appropriate to say it here, don’t you think?”
The smile lingered. Mischievous. Mocking. Something about it made your chest tighten.
Your heartbeat picking up—not from anything obvious, but from the unease settling deeper under your skin.
Your gaze flickered briefly past him—toward your building, the entrance just a few steps away. So close. If you could just walk past him—Get inside—End this—Resign tomorrow. Be done with it. The thoughts rushed through your mind all at once. Fast. Unsteady.
“Y/N…” His voice stopped you before you could move.
“I’ve been standing here for an hour now,” he said, tone quieter this time, but no less firm. “Not for you to just walk past, yeah?”
A pause settled between you. Then—A shift. Subtle.
“But you know what…” He exhaled lightly, almost amused again. “I don’t want to force you.”
Another pause. Deliberate.
“Well…” A slight tilt of his head.
“I don’t have to.” The words lingered.
“Do you know why?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he leaned closer. Slowly. Closing the space between you just enough for his presence to feel overwhelming without touching.
“Because…” His voice dropped. Lower. Certain.
“You’ll come crawling to me on your own.” The confidence in it—Unshaken. Absolute.
For a split second—Your body reacted before your mind did. A flicker of heat. Weakness. Something you didn’t like—something you didn’t trust.
And that was enough.
You pushed him back. Not hard. But enough to create space. “I’m resigning.”
The words came out sharp. Final.
Before he could respond—You turned.
Heels striking hard against the ground as you walked past him, straight toward your apartment, not stopping, not looking back.
Leaving him behind.
---
You were ready to face the consequences.
That’s what you had told yourself.
If it meant getting kicked out of the company—fine. If it meant another stain on your image—fine. You had been through that before.
You would deal with it. Get over it. Find something new.Start again.
That’s what you thought it would be. But the next day—Everything shattered.
The accusation wasn’t small. It wasn’t something you could brush off.
You were reported.
For stealing. Company data. Confidential information. And worse—
Money. Large amounts. Gone. And you—Were the one who “ran away” with it.
It didn’t even make sense. Not to you. Not in the way it unfolded.
You were arrested before you could even process it.
Hands gripping your arms. Questions thrown at you before you could answer the first. Your voice lost somewhere between denial and disbelief.
Your bank accounts were frozen. Your passport. Your visa.
Every document that tied you to the life you were building—Gone. Locked. Restricted.
—
Three days.
Three days of interrogation. Of repeating the same words over and over again—
“I didn’t do anything.”
But words weren’t enough. They never were.
“Do you have proof?”
Silence.
Because how do you prove something you never did?
This wasn’t what you had planned. Not even close. You had come here to build something.
A future. To settle. To grow. Not—This.
Your family… your relatives… everyone you had—They were in another country. Far. Out of reach.
You didn’t even know if they had heard. If they knew. If they believed it. And here—You had no one. No one to stand up for you. No one to help you. No one—
Except the one who had done this. Yuta.
You were sure of it. There was no doubt left in your mind. And now—You were sitting across from him.
—
The interrogation room felt smaller than it should have.
Cold. Closed. Suffocating.
A metal table between you. Harsh lighting above. Walls that seemed to absorb every sound and give nothing back.
The officer kept asking questions. One after another. Sharp. Repetitive.
“Where did you transfer the data?”
“Who were you working with?”
“Where is the money now?”
But you—You didn’t answer. Not anymore.
Your eyes stayed on him. Only him. Hatred. Clear. Unhidden.
He noticed. Of course he did. And it amused him.
A faint shift in his expression—barely there, but enough. Then—A soft tap of his finger against the table. Once. Twice.
“Enough.”
The officer fell silent immediately.
“I’d like to speak with her… in private.”
There was a brief hesitation. Then—
“…Ah, yes. Of course.”
The officer stepped back, glancing at the others in the room. A silent exchange. A nod.
Yuta hummed quietly, as if satisfied.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigar. Turning it slightly between his fingers before bringing it up.
“It’s okay to smoke here, right?”
The word ‘right’—It wasn’t directed at them. It was directed at you. But before you could respond—
“Of course, sir. Of course.”
The officer stepped in quickly, almost too quickly. A lighter placed neatly on the table in front of him.
“…Here.” The eagerness was obvious. Almost uncomfortable.
Yuta didn’t react to it. Not directly.
The officers left soon after. The door shutting behind them with a soft, final click. Silence settled. Heavy.
He placed the cigar between his lips, lighting it with ease, the flame flickering briefly before fading.
A slow inhale. Then—Without looking at you—
“Come here.”
Your body moved before your mind fully caught up. You stood from your chair. Took a step forward—
“Mm…”
You froze.
His gaze lifted slowly to meet yours. Calm. Unhurried.
“On your knees.”
With a silence that felt like torture to yourself—You bent. Slowly. Reluctantly. And then—You moved.
Crawling toward him. Just like he had said you would.
Each movement felt heavier than the last. Your palms pressing against the cold floor, your breath uneven, your thoughts loud—too loud—but none of it stopping you.
Because what choice did you have?
When you finally reached him—Close enough—He exhaled a slow puff of smoke, watching it drift between you before his hand moved.
A paper. He held it out to you.
Your fingers hesitated before taking it. Your eyes dropped to the page. And then—They stilled.
‘Marriage registry.’
You looked up at him instantly—disbelief written clearly across your face.
He only smirked.
“I can’t risk you running away right after getting out of here, you know…” His tone was calm. Casual. As if this—this situation—was something completely reasonable.
“So it’s better if we seal the bond.”
Your mind felt blank. Empty. Nothing was processing the way it should. You stared at the paper again. Then at him. Then back.
Nothing made sense.
He leaned down slightly, closer to your bent form, his presence closing in around you as his voice dropped near your ear—
“Come on…” A pause.
“You don’t want to stay here forever, do you?”
Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t understand why you’re doing this…” your voice came out uneven now, the composure you held for so long slipping just enough. “Is it… because of the money?”
A shaky breath. “I—I promise I’ll pay you back… someday… I will… so please…”
He shook his head. Slowly. Another drag of the cigar before he spoke again. “I have enough of that.” A pause. His gaze steady.
“I’m not interested in money.” A slight tilt of his head.
“But you.”
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