Emperor of Lust: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Emperor of Lust: Chapter 7

For the first time in what feels like days, I let myself exhale fully, savoring a rare sense of peace as the morning light filters into my bedroom.

It’s been four days since Damian’s penthouse. I’ve been tensely anticipating his next move—a message, another sudden, unnerving appearance—anything that would signal he’s still playing this insane game. But…nothing. Nada. Just silence, thank God.

He bought it.

That carefully crafted “confession” email I showed him—detailing the Mori-kai’s financial strain and my diligent, if misguided, plan to stabilize everything—was, obviously, bullshit.

Like fuck am I telling my family I’ve been secretly working with underworld lunatics and putting all our legitimate business assets in danger by funneling said lunatics’ dirty money through them.

Damian sure seemed to buy it, though.

I grin as I think about it, savoring the sweet victory snatched from the jaws of a predator. I outmaneuvered him, stripped him of the power he’d tried to hold over me. Boy, I’ll bet the fucker was surprised.

As I stretch my legs and stand by the window I feel lighter, like a weight’s been finally lifted. It’s surreal, this quiet sense of freedom, the feeling that I might actually have my life back. I close my eyes, breathing in the calm of the morning.

Yet beneath the surface, there’s a strange, nagging sensation. A faint disappointment I can’t quite shake. It’s absurd. I should be celebrating my victory, not second-guessing it. Damian’s absence is a blessing, a chance to return to the order and predictability I’ve built my life around. So why does part of me feel strangely…unsatisfied?

Enough. I shake my head, dismissing the thought.

My morning routine unfolds with welcome normalcy—work out, mediation, invigorating shower, coffee brewed to perfection, a quiet breakfast alone. By the time I finish getting ready, the sense of control is back, grounding me once more to the precise, structured world I know and command.

Later in the morning, I step through the sleek glass doors of Mori Holdings, the corporate headquarters for my family’s legitimate empire. The modern building stands proud in the heart of Kyoto, an unmistakable beacon of the Mori-kai’s influence. This office is the respectable, polished face of our family, hiding the underworld dealings that run like hidden roots beneath our empire.

As I step into the elevator, I take a deep, centering breath. The day stretches ahead, a series of meetings, decisions, all of them perfectly planned, perfectly scheduled. The predictability is comforting, a reassurance that I’ve regained control.

The elevator doors glide open to reveal the top floor, home to Mori Holdings, the office already buzzing with purpose, employees moving with a sense of efficiency. My staff is well aware of my high standards and need for order. It’s what keeps Mori Holdings running smoothly and ensures our public face remains untarnished by our darker dealings.

My secretary Emi greets me with her usual efficiency, her voice soft and discreet as she offers a quick rundown of the day’s appointments.

“Good morning, Ms. Mori,” she murmurs with a small bow. “I’ve organized the financial reports you requested, and Mr. Nakamura confirmed he’ll be ready for your 10:30 meeting.”

“Thank you, Emi,” I reply with a brief smile.

I head down the hall toward my private office, a space I designed with painstaking precision. It’s an expansive room, the sharp, architectural lines softened by traditional touches—a reminder of our family’s heritage and the weight of our legacy. I’ve decorated with care, each piece selected for its symbolism: delicate scrolls depicting cranes, foxes, and scenes from legends, a nod to the spirit of “The Fox” I’ve lately decided to embody perhaps a bit too literally. Everything has a place and each item is meticulously arranged, speaking to the control I keep over my life.

As I step into the office, though, something catches my eye—a disruption to the perfect order I maintain.

Something out of place.

There, resting in the center of my otherwise immaculate desk, is a small, delicate origami crane. I stop, staring at it, a strange chill finger-walking up my spine.

This isn’t mine.

I didn’t leave this here.

My desk was, as always, perfectly clear when I left last night, every document filed, every item returned to its place. The crane is a deliberate presence, as if someone has placed it there to disturb the careful balance of my world.

I approach the desk, studying the crane’s crisp folds, the sharp lines of its wings and beak. It’s almost unnervingly precise, each crease perfect. I pick it up, feeling the strange weightlessness of it in my hand. It’s just a folded piece of paper, yet it unsettles me in a way I can’t explain.

Frowning, I press the intercom. “Did anyone come into my office yesterday after I left, Emi?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, though a thread of unease weaves through my voice.

Emi’s response is immediate and confident. “No, Ms. Mori. No one’s been in there since yesterday. I’m sure of it.”

I glance down at the crane, the unsettling chill spreading. “Thank you, Emi,” I say, clicking off the intercom. I set the crane back down, its delicate form standing out starkly against the clean lines of my desk, a jarring disruption in my otherwise orderly space.

I take a step back, studying it with a strange, inexplicable dread pooling in my stomach.

Let it go.

I force myself to exhale. It’s nothing, literally just a piece of origami. For all I know, it’s one of the nighttime janitors trying to be sweet or cute. But the problem is, even though I’d love to say I’ve moved on, I still very much have something darkly, dangerously deviant on my mind.

Something named Damian.

Something that found me tied up and at his mercy, and rather than freeing me immediately, fucked my mouth.

Came down my throat.

Used me.

Except… I don’t feel used. Not in a bad way. And that’s…kind of fucked.

Right?

The restaurant is immaculate, all polished wood and sleek, minimalist décor, with soft lighting casting a warm glow over the high-end clientele seated at politely spaced tables.

It offers the perfect backdrop for people like me, people who cultivate an image of controlled elegance. And sitting across from me, also impeccably dressed, also with every strand of hair in place, is Scott.

Scott Hiroyuki—a San Francisco transplant now living here in Kyoto— is, in many ways, the perfect accessory. He’s tall, good-looking, and just aloof enough to look mysterious in photographs. As the CFO of a prominent financial firm, he’s accomplished, wealthy, and—importantly—understands me and my life.

That is, he understands the “CEO of Mori Holdings” version of me, not the version that races street bikes late at night through the streets of Kyoto with her tattooed Yakuza twin brother, or brokers illicit deals worth billions of Yen with her other brother, an Oyabun.

Scott’s been my pseudo-boyfriend for nearly a year now, our “partnership” carefully curated, our appearances together flawlessly executed. On paper, he’s the perfect fit for a girl-boss like me, and for his part, Scott seems content with our arrangement, too, each of us playing the role we’ve chosen without complications.

Part of that arrangement, which has worked out fine for me, is that we don’t sleep together. In fact, I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the times we’ve kissed on the mouth. No tongue.

It’s possible Scott is using me for his image as much as I’m using him for mine. Japanese business culture can be…well, a bit less modern-thinking than in the US. I’ve even wondered at times if he’s gay, or simply asexual, both of which would necessitate a “cover” like me for him to keep up appearances in the Japanese business world.

But even aside from all that, something about Scott has always felt…hollow. Like he’s more a reflection of what I think I should want, not a person I truly desire. He’s polite, almost painfully so, and as he launches into a story about some unfortunate mishap with expense reports at his firm, I can’t help but feel for the millionth time that his version of polite is too polite.

Soft. Neutered.

I only half-listen as he prattles on, his voice devoid of any passion or excitement.

“And then the accountant accidentally charged the vendor twice,” he sighs, pausing to take a sip of his tea. “It was a mess. I had to spend hours going over the numbers with him.”

I nod, my mind already drifting. I’m not sure if Scott has ever noticed the way my attention slips during these lunches. Probably not. If he has, he’s far too polite to say so because…well, see above.

Just as he gets into yet another detail about the accountant’s error, I cut him off, the words spilling out totally unplanned. “This isn’t working for me anymore, Scott.”

He blinks, pausing mid-sentence, a small frown twisting his lips. “Oh.” He sets down his tea, folding his hands neatly on the table. “I see.”

I take a deep breath, the weight of the decision I’ve literally just made settling over me. “I’m going to Tokyo soon for work, and I’ll be there for some time.”

I mean, it’s not a lie.

Scott nods, his expression untroubled. “That makes sense,” he says with a calm acceptance that only underscores how right I am about this. He doesn’t look remotely upset; he’s not even surprised.

A faint smile touches his lips. “Thank you for telling me so directly, Hana,” he says, polite as ever. “You’ve always been straightforward, and I appreciate that.”

For a moment, I feel a twinge of guilt, but it quickly passes. This relationship was never built on anything substantial, and we both know it. Scott offers a small, respectful nod, as though we’re negotiating the end of a business partnership rather than a romantic relationship.

I give him a soft smile midway between gratitude and relief. “Thank you, Scott. For everything.”

He nods once more, taking a measured sip of his tea. “You’re welcome, Hana.” He raises his cup slightly, a gentle toast to what we had—perhaps to what we never truly had at all. “Good luck in Tokyo.”

I raise my own cup in return, inclining my head gracefully. And just like that, it’s over—as neat, polite and tidy as the man sitting across from me.

When Scott walks away, I remain at the table a minute longer. I reach into my bag, my fingers tingling as they replace the pointed edges of the little origami crane tucked inside.

Maybe I’m not looking for neat, polite and tidy at all.

Maybe I’m looking for chaos and disorder, and sharp, violet eyes.

As dusk settles over Kyoto, I drive up the winding mountain road back home. Kenzo’s men nod when they see me, waving me through the Torii gate outside our estate. Lanterns line the stone driveway leading to the main house, bathing the gardens and koi ponds in a soft glow.

The car rolls to a stop and I step out, breathing in the cool evening air. Annika calls to me through the kitchen window. She’s bravely trying to cook—well, either chicken or tuna, but it smells like pure soy sauce.

After promising her I’ll come back after I change, I make my way to the entrance to my private wing, carefully removing my shoes at the door and changing into slippers. My feet pad softly on the polished floor as I walk, the sound echoing quietly in the silence. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls frame the city below, the lights of Kyoto like distant, scattered stars.

I pause for a moment in the dark, minimalist hallway of glass and muted tones, frowning when I see a window slightly open. A soft evening breeze rustles inside as I walk over and shut it, how it’s supposed to be.

How I left it.

Stay the fuck out of my damn wing, Takeshi.

This is one of the reasons I like living here in my own private sanctuary: everything in the space is kept in place.

I step into my room⁠—

…and freeze, my pulse jumping as my eyes stab across the room and land on my neatly made bed.

There, sitting in the very middle, is another origami crane.

This one, however, is different. Unlike the one in my office earlier, this crane is bound.

Red yarn wraps tightly, almost artistically, around the delicate paper bird, binding its beak downward and its wings back. My breath catches and I step closer, my pulse quickening with each step.

I don’t have to wonder this time if it’s a nice janitor. I know who put this here.

I was wrong.

He’s not fucking done with me at all.