Chapter 5: The Witness
The humidity of Singapore clung to the skin even through the penthouses’s climate-controlled perfection. Morning light, sharp and white, cut across the polished concrete floor, illuminating a breakfast tableau of tropical fruits and silver domes. Serena was discovering Dominic’s rituals. He rose at five, worked for two hours, and expected her to be awake, dressed, and sharing coffee by seven-thirty. It was a test she was determined to pass.
She sipped her kopi, the strong local brew bitter on her tongue, and watched him scan a financial report on a tablet. He wore a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms. Fresh from his shower, he smelled of cedar and clean skin, a stark contrast to the man who had, just hours before, pinned her to the floor-to-ceiling window as the city glittered below, her cries muffled against the cool glass.
“Stop thinking so loudly,” he said without looking up.
“I was thinking about the Marina Bay Sands pool. Can we go?” The question was a probe, a little claim to something resembling a normal outing.
“It’s a tourist trap. We have the pool here.” He finally glanced at her, his gaze dropping to the collar of her silk robe. It was his, charcoal grey, swallowing her frame. A faint, smug smile touched his lips. “It looks better on you.”
The private elevator dinged softly.
They both looked up. Dominic’s expression didn’t change, but a subtle tension entered his shoulders. The doors slid open to reveal a man in his late forties, impeccably tailored, with a sharp, anxious face. He carried a leather folio and an air of urgency.
“Marcus,” Dominic said, his tone flat. “You’re early.”
“The figures from Tokyo just landed. They’re… problematic.” Marcus’s words tumbled out before his eyes fully processed the scene. He took in the intimate breakfast setting, the platter of untouched pastries, the two of them in morning dishabille. His gaze landed on Serena, lingered on the robe, then snapped to the distinct, purple bruise just above the collar bone, its twin hidden by the fall of her hair. His jaw went slack.
The silence was electric. Serena felt a hot wave of blood flood her cheeks and chest. She had the insane impulse to pull the robe tighter, but forced her hands to stay limp in her lap. She was not ashamed, she told herself. This was a choice.
Dominic observed Marcus’s shock with detached amusement. He reached for the sterling silver coffee pot, the movement leisurely. “Coffee, Marcus? You look like you need it.”
“I… no, thank you, sir.” Marcus’s professionalism warred with sheer, unadulterated surprise. His eyes flicked between them. “I didn’t realize you had… company.”
“This is Serena,” Dominic said, as if introducing a piece of art. He poured a second cup for himself, the rich aroma filling the strained space. “Serena, this is Marcus Thorne, my Chief Financial Officer and longtime panic merchant.”
“A pleasure,” Serena managed, her voice thankfully steady.
Marcus gave a stiff, minuscule nod, his eyes glued to Dominic, begging for guidance.
“You said the Tokyo numbers are problematic. Define problematic.” Dominic leaned back, sipping his coffee, the picture of calm.
Marcus cleared his throat, visibly struggling to reboot his brain. “The yield projections from the Shimizu factories are dramatically overstated. Their internal audit, which we just acquired, suggests a fifty percent overestimation. The acquisition price needs to be renegotiated from the ground floor. Immediately. The board is—”
“The board will have kittens. I’m aware.” Dominic set his cup down with a precise click. “We leave for Tokyo tonight. Push the meetings to tomorrow.”
“We?” Marcus blinked.
“Serena’s coming.” Dominic’s statement was absolute, a stone dropped into water. He looked at her, his blue eyes holding a challenge. “A change of scenery. The Park Hyatt has better sushi.”
The casualness of it, the sheer audacity to declare she was simply coming along on a multi-billion dollar corporate salvage operation as if it were a weekend jaunt, stole the air from her lungs. Marcus’s stunned expression mirrored her internal chaos. This wasn’t a hidden weekend in Lisbon. This was his work. His world.
“Dominic,” she started, a weak protest.
“You’ll need clothes for three days. Formal. Business casual. Evening. Use the concierge.” He turned back to Marcus, dismissing her nascent objection. “Have the full due diligence packet loaded onto the secure server by 4 PM. I want to see the original data sets, not the summaries. And cancel my call with the French minister.”
Marcus, swallowing hard, nodded. “Of course. Tonight’s flight is on the G650. I’ll… inform the crew.” He risked one more bewildered glance at Serena, then backed toward the elevator, his orderly world visibly tilted.
The doors closed, leaving a thick silence.
Serena found her voice. It was low, vibrating with a mixture of anger and sheer disbelief. “I’m coming to the Tokyo acquisition?”
“You heard me.” He picked up his tablet again.
“I’m not a piece of luggage you can just add to the manifest! I have no place there. Your CFO just looked at me like I was a particularly disruptive bug on your windscreen.”
“Marcus looks at everything that way. He’s paid to worry.” He scrolled, unperturbed.
She stood up, the robe swaying. “This is insane. What am I supposed to do while you’re… renegotiating from the ground floor?”
“Shop. See the city. Be in my bed when I get back.” He finally met her eyes, and the cool command in them was like a physical touch. “You wanted to see the rabbit hole, Serena. You’re at the edge. This is what it looks like. My world isn’t just penthouse suites and spontaneous flights. It’s boardrooms and bad numbers and moving a team of two hundred people across the globe because a spreadsheet lied. This is the raw machinery. You said you wanted in.”
“I didn’t say I wanted a front-row seat to a corporate takeover!”
“You’re getting one.” He stood, looming over her even in the spacious room. He traced the line of her jaw with a single finger. “Feel that? That’s your heart racing. It’s not from anger. It’s from thrill. You’re terrified and electrified. You love it.” His thumb brushed over the bite mark on her collar, a deliberate, possessive gesture. “He saw this. He knows what it means. Every person in that boardroom in Tokyo will know what it means when you walk in with me. That you’re mine. That I take what I want, and I keep it close. It’s a message. One I want sent.”
The humiliation she’d felt under Marcus’s gaze twisted, transforming into something darker, more potent. Arousal, hot and undeniable, coiled in her stomach. He was using her as a prop, a statement of power. It should have enraged her. It did enrage her. But it also, damningly, thrilled her. To be so wanted, so blatantly claimed, even as a tactic.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered, but the fight had left her voice.
“And you’re coming to Tokyo.” He kissed her, a hard, brief stamp of ownership. “Now go. Concierge. Pack. Be ready at six.”
She walked back to the bedroom on unsteady legs. The black credit card was on the dresser where she’d left it. She picked it up, the plastic cool and rigid. A tool. A key. A shackle.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror, the robe hanging open, the vivid mark on her skin like a brand. You’re mine. He was rewriting her, chapter and verse. The flight attendant with the orderly life and the Protestant work ethic was fading, replaced by this woman in a silk robe, being packed for Tokyo by a stranger, her body a map of a ruthless man’s desire.
A slow, defiant smile touched her lips. If she was going to be a message, she’d be a fucking devastating one.
She picked up the phone and called the concierge. Her voice was clear, confident, the perfect service-professional tone she used in first class. “Yes, hello. I’ll need a wardrobe for Tokyo. Three days. Let’s start with a Alexander McQueen suit. Ink black. And I’ll need something for evening. Something by Tamara Ralph. Yes, the bespoke service. Mr. Reynolds’s account.”
She hung up and placed the card back down. The rabbit hole was deep and dark. She was no longer falling.
She was diving.