SEVEN

Sana Minatozaki can go fuck herself.

That’s your measured opinion. You don’t care where she is. Dead, six feet under, beyond the veil, wherever —so long as someone gives her a proper kick to the rear.

Eyes are up from their desks, turning onto you, horrified maybe. Then again, your fists are clenched and your elbows locked as you maintain a pace that begs to break into a run. If there’s a scowl on your face, you doubt its efficacy all at the rainwater in your shoes squeaking on the end of every step.

A promotion was how it had all been pitched to you: fated, bound, hands tied to this incorrigible bag of hot air. If the ship’s going down, set to fail, you’ll be right there with her, and you can feel the water pooling at your feet, figuratively speaking.

-

“So?” Sana commits to the question once you’ve got yourself halfway through the door to your office, dripping wet. It’s unconvincingly casual. “You wanted to see me?”

A tragedy; in fact, you want nothing less, but it’s in the job description, a necessary evil. The baker bakes. The cobbler cobbles. And the manager manages, supposedly—you’ve mostly just been tearing your hair out.

“Honest to god,” you say, and you’ve never meant it more in your life, “I think I’m starting to understand it now. This whole revolving door of staff and management these past couple months.”

Sana tilts her head onto this inquisitive angle, and a bundle of copper hair falls across her cheek before getting dragged back behind her ear. “Oh? And what all did you figure out?”

“That you’re a royal pain in the ass,” you answer, untangling your arms from the soaked sleeves of your coat. “And a lot more trouble than you’re worth.”

“ Well.” The word is accompanied by a ridiculous sigh and the sound of her tongue clicking against her teeth. “You don’t suppose that’s on you? No one promised you it’d be easy.”

There’s a quiet pause, Sana slants her lips into a smirk, and that’s more or less how it always starts between you.

“No one promised anything,” you grumble.

Of course, the writing was on the wall, probably in big, bold letters too, you don’t know—you weren’t too interested in reading it—there were more important things on your mind. Fame; wealth; success; bragging rights; you’ll only let yourself call it hubris once you’ve really stepped in it, finally found something you couldn’t talk your way out of, come up with reason to believe there would be no digging yourself out. But until then—

“By the way…” Sana’s voice trails as she leans into the arm of the sofa, cheek resting on her hand, and then she furrows a manicured brow. “Why are you, like, totally soaked?”

You’re lenient or something, so it’s a question of your own you’ll trade with her, undoubtedly a better deal than she deserved. “Okay, sure then—let’s get into it. What’s your guess? Why is it do you think I had to chase down some jagoff in the middle of a damn rainstorm?” You toss Sana’s phone from the soaked pocket of your pants onto the table, and she watches it bounce and flip until it rests screen-side down. “It’s unlocked I guess. So, why don’t you do me a favor and just help me get out in front of it all; what the fuck did you have on there?”

“Oh.” Her voice fills with worry, head cocked anxiously. She seems completely taken aback, but like with most things, it’s all just a front, you’ve learned—and here, you couldn’t be more on the nose. She holds back a laugh, adding, “photos, videos —I mean, I don’t know, it could be anything. I’m a little disappointed you didn’t check yourself.”

“ Sana,” you groan. It’d be foolish not to believe her; it really could be anything, but that’s beside the point. You find the edge of your desk with your thighs, lean back, and you’re shaking your head. “The next time some shameless opportunist stumbles upon your phone and that meticulous archive of bad decisions, maybe I ought to just let you deal with it.”

She raises her eyebrows at you, mulling it over for a second like she was ever once invested in being useful. “That’s like, what the publicists are for aren’t they?”

Sana’s young, you remind yourself. It’s good practice. But she’s old enough to know better, what all she’s doing, how dangerous she can be. It’s not like her praises are hard to come by around the office: the beautiful Sana Minatozaki, an angel among us, she’s perfect! If you can hear them in passing through the glass windows of your office, so can she; they’re right on the money, mostly, but you’re also not so easily fooled—or rather, you aren’t anymore. See, you get in front of a girl like her, and she’s got these big, bright, beautiful eyes, a face that never fails to be the most charming in the room without boasting about itself, a body like that, legs like those —

“Look.” You blink several times.

Caught yourself staring.

“I mean, sure—but I can’t imagine that’s going to be an easy one to spin.”

She cocks an eyebrow in something like curiosity. “ What’s not going to be?”

“The video Sana—the one where you’ve got your lips around some cock like it’s a cheap homemade porno.”

“So then, you did take a look,” she says, rising onto the pointed tips of a pair of black heels. It’s a sign, an omen, a premonition—the renewed smirk on her lips that speaks louder than that soft, measured voice of hers might ever dare. “Hard opportunity to pass up, huh?”

“For god’s sake—” Going with your gut, you cross your arms. And your voice searches frantic for a commanding tone. “If it isn’t my job to know how you’ve fucked up.”

“And I so very much appreciate all your wonderful effort,” she over-enunciates through each syllable of your name. That same exact pleasantry she’d wish to the staff and crew at the end of a photo shoot, a recording, some nonsense event or another—only now, it’s derisive, laced with this sarcastic edge that is anything but subtle.

“It isn’t funny, Sana.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

You don’t. Though there’s still a lot to see admittedly, a lot to take in, most of it beyond damning. A long leg of hers ruffles and furls the bottom of her dress until she’s a step closer, two steps now actually. You can take your pick—start at the bottom up or from the top down, and the result is just about the same by the time you’ve gotten to her tiny waist: she’s gorgeous.

For a lot of reasons however, you’re not about to leer.

Her shoulders square to yours and you remind yourself she’s not very tall; even in those ridiculous heels, she comes up just shy of your nose. Between you and absolutely nobody else, you have considered it, let it fill an evening of fantasy or two—how she might bend and fold, how her small, tight body might be best put to use, the faces she’d make cumming on your cock, the sound of her straining voice when you really—

No, you’re absolutely not leering.

“I’m serious,” you hear yourself say, and it’s shaky, struggling to come across resolute, hardly anything convincing. “Just keep on fucking around—I promise you; you’re on your own.”

“Oh, is that so?” She smiles again, and you note how it deepens a dimple in each cheek. “And when it all comes crashing down—how should I ask that the director refer to you in their letter to the board: idiot or incompetent?”

Eyes glowing, she seems wholly uninterested in the stark departure from how she normally needles you—all that subtext and words unsaid. You simply raise an eyebrow. There’s a pause, and she raises one back.

“ Ahem,” you try to recover.

Sana leans into you, one hand on either side of your waist, palms flat on your desk. And there’s that thought running a muck in your head again: all those musings about power dynamics, authority, subordination, governance, whatever it is this mess is you’ve gotten yourself into. It’s comical. You’d never once had a problem with any of your previous assignments. Dahyun? Delightful. Tzuyu —a total saint. Nayeon might as well have managed herself. It’s unclear when or how, but the woman in front of you had puzzled out that she was capable of anything—destruction, demolition, devastation. You knew it; she knew it too; Sana could ruin you.

“ Hmm?” she adds, smug and indignant.

“I’ve given it some thought,” you start, letting a heavy sigh roll through your chest like that’s ever been some herald of a rousing speech. But there is a plan, or at least what you’d learned about in those binders and seminars on this kind of stuff. “Look, to be honest, you’re going to hate me for it—but we’re going to be moving to some sort of curfew; until all this gets sorted out.”

“A curfew?” Her eyebrows twist, disappointed.

“Among other things,” you say, and now you’re digging a heel into the dirt of this forsaken partnership. “No more clubs.”

“ No more clubs?”

“No boys, no bars, and for god’s sake Sana—no fucking filming yourself having sex.”

“No boys?” she gawks like it’s the most egregious of what you’d asked, mouth dropping agape in this faux outrage.

“Just until we hit a groove; figure out what works; find our rhythm.”

“ Find our rhythm?”

“You can stop repeating me.”

“You can stop repea—” She takes a beat to swallow down the rare slip-up, eyes looking for even a momentary weakness in yours. But you’re a professional; she comes up empty. Her brows relax and she tilts her head. “ Reprimanding me.”