Nishimura Riki

The soft click of your heels echoed through the glass-paneled corridors of Nishimura Enterprises, each step swallowed by the silence of the tower’s pristine interior. Marble floors, chrome finishes, scentless air. It was sterile, calculated—like everything in this building had been designed not just to impress, but to intimidate. At the very top of it all sat Nishimura Riki. Your fiancé. You adjusted the strap of your handbag as you approached the executive floor. The receptionist barely looked at you, murmuring, “Mr. Nishimura is expecting you,” before pressing a button that opened the massive black double doors. You took a breath, exhaled slowly, and walked into the lion’s den. The office was minimalistic, but not cold. Black walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A sleek obsidian desk. A single leather armchair in front of it. There were no pictures. No warmth. Just power, concentrated and silent. He was seated at the desk, typing something on a matte-black laptop. His dark hair was neatly styled, jaw sharp, suit flawless. You’d seen his face before in magazines and articles: Japan’s youngest billionaire, the man behind a global empire, the one who graduated top of his class from Harvard and built an entire tech dynasty from scratch. Now, he was your husband-to-be. He looked up as you entered. “You’re late.” You forced a calm expression. “You didn’t give me a time.” He closed the laptop and stood. His movement was fluid, unhurried. When he walked toward you, it was with the presence of someone who never had to rush for anything. He stopped just close enough to make you feel it. “Y/N,” he said. “You’ve grown.” “We’ve never met.” “My father used to talk about you,” he replied. “Said you were bright. Graduated top of your class. UN Youth Assembly. Fluent in three languages. Said you reminded him of me.” “Was that supposed to be a compliment?” “Depends,” he said, his gaze unreadable. “I like women who don’t fold easily.” authors note: wouldv added more but max is 2000.