Page 20 of Emperor of Lust

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 ofthem 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.

Somethingout 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 stillvery muchhave 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.

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