Chapter 6: Crossfire

The BMW's leather seats still smelled of Shangguan's cologne when I stormed into the office Monday morning. His apology texts glowed unread on my phone — 17 in total. Erena's bento box sat pristine on my desk, chopsticks conspicuously absent. 

"Forgot these?" Shangguan materialized holding disposable hashi, his glasses fogged from tea steam. 

I stabbed at salad leaves. "I'm quitting." 

The chopsticks froze mid-air. "Because of the match?" 

"Because I'm tired of being collateral damage in your endless pissing contests." 

His exhale fogged the glass partition. "Arata's not—" 

"Save it." I gestured at the bullpen where paralegals clustered like vultures. "They've already photoshopped me into a gravure spread titled *The Homewrecker's Guide to Corporate Ladders*." 

The week unfolded like a legal thriller gone wrong. By Friday, my desk hosted three anonymous bouquets — two lilies (funeral white), one roses (blood red). Shangguan intercepted the fourth, a venomous cactus, before I could trash it. 

"Evidence," he declared, marching to HR. 

Maki's wedding rehearsal offered temporary asylum. Brian fumbled through tea ceremony steps while Erena and I snickered behind paper screens. The respite shattered when Arata's cousin "mistakenly" delivered a photo album to the venue — every page documenting my week from hell. 

"Psychological warfare," Maki assessed, flipping through surveillance-grade shots of me buying tampons. "Classic Oda clan tactics." 

I drowned my rage in matcha tiramisu. "Why me?" 

"Because you're the first woman Zhi's feared losing." Brian's Oxford accent softened the blow. 

The reception became a battlefield. Shangguan arrived uninvited, his Armani tuxedo clashing with Oda's smirk. They collided at the sake barrel, their whispered threats audible over shamisen music. 

"Enough." I stepped between them, wedding kimono sleeves flaring. "Oda-san, your insecurity's showing. Zhi-kun, grow a spine." 

The silence could've preserved tuna. 

Shangguan's fingers brushed mine retrieving a fallen hairpin. "You're right," he murmured. "About everything." 

By midnight, tabloids buzzed with three scandals: Oda's stock manipulation, Arata's annulled engagement, and a blurry shot of Shangguan helping me into a taxi — labeled *The Dragon's New Jewel*. 

Maki texted at dawn: 👘🔥❓ 

I stared at the azure dress finally hanging in my closet. Tokyo's chessboard had new players, and checkmate smelled suspiciously like sandalwood and poor life choices. 

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**Zhi's POV: The Pawn's Gambit** 

Recruitment Question #38: *Would you date your superior?* 

Lin Yu's file photo showed a woman allergic to bullshit. At 29, she'd survived Japan's gauntlet — language schools, vocational traps, the soul-crilling *shūkatsu*. Perfect. 

Her interview was a masterclass in annihilation. 

"Japanese men mistake wallets for personalities," she'd told a crimson-faced Sano. I'd choked on green tea. 

Weeks later, her bento aromas weaponized hunger. Her spreadsheets outran my thoughts. Her laughter in the break room — rare, unguarded — became my nicotine. 

The Roppongi sighting unraveled me. That azure dress, the way she'd fled — as if my existence contaminated her joy. 

Oda's challenge forced clarity. Every backhand she smashed screamed *I'm not your trophy*. When security footage leaked, I finally understood Father's warning: *In our world, love is collateral damage*. 

Tonight, her resignation letter mocks my desk. The cactus thrives in moonlight. 

I dial the only number that matters. 

"Sano. Freeze all transfers from the Oda account. And book two tickets to Shanghai — economy." 

The game's not over.