Artwork by elevenharbor
1. SesshÅmaru
Five.
Four.
Three.
I counted the seconds within the frigid, undisturbed silence of my mind. The rhythmic, razor-sharp clicking of Christian Louboutin stilettos against the polished black marble corridor grew louder with every stride—a precise, mechanical metronome of impending irritation. My study, a sanctuary of minimalist architecture and soundproofed glass overlooking the sprawling, neon-drenched expanse of the modern metropolis, offered no true shield against the approaching storm.
Two.
One.
The double doors of solid, reinforced mahogany did not merely open; they yielded to an invasive, uncompromising force. At the exact center of the threshold stood my mother, her presence commanding the air in the room, her expression a masterclass in elegant, calculated disdain. A lesser creature, mortal or otherwise, would have flinched under the sheer, unadulterated venom of her glare.
I did not move. I merely turned the crisp page of the leather-bound treatise on classical economic theory I had been reviewing, refusing to grant her the satisfaction of an immediate reaction.
“Sesshomaru Taisho,” she began, her tone dripping with a frigid composure that mirrored my own. Her sharp, perfectly lacquered red nails tapped a steady, menacing rhythm against the heavy wood of the doorframe. “You have some explaining to do.”
I did not look up immediately. To be interrupted for something so profoundly pedestrian, so entirely beneath the dignity of our house, was a tiresome exercise in futility. It was the same cyclical, exhausting argument each week. If it did not begin with the tedious concept of matrimony, it invariably concluded there. It seemed her obsession with the preservation of our corporate and genetic empire had reached a fever pitch, unbothered by the passage of decades or the changing of human eras.
“Mother,” I said, finally raising my eyes, my voice devoid of any warmth or familial affection. “To what do I owe this unannounced and entirely unwelcome intrusion?”
My answer arrived in the form of a glossed tabloid hurled directly at my face. Without a shift in my posture, my reflexes caught it mid-air. Unrolling the paper, my eyes scanned the page. Superimposed over a horribly edited photograph of myself outside a nightclub were bold, offensive white letters:
BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR ON THE PROWL: KML EXEC SESSHOMARU TAISHO SPOTTED WITH A HAREM OF BLONDES!
“Interesting,” I murmured, my voice devoid of inflection. “A fabricated narrative. I do not tolerate blondes.”
“Stop conducting yourself like a stray hound in heat!” she snapped, her posture rigid as she bypassed my personal security protocols and entered the room without an invitation. “It is past time you end this farcical charade and settle down. The board is talking. The public is watching. Our investors are fluctuating.”
“You test my patience with these trivialities, Mother,” I replied, a cold, dangerous venom underscoring my words as I tossed the tabloid onto the desk. “I am simply not inclined toward matrimony. The concept of binding myself to another entity, particularly one of the fragile, fleeting creatures of this era, is entirely unappealing.”
“Not ready? You are bordering on forty!”
“I am thirty-three,” I corrected, my tone dropping to a dangerous chill.
Thirty-three—the precise mortal metric we had forged in the public registry to satisfy the tedious demands of human bureaucracy. It was a necessary, meticulously maintained lie designed to deter any inconvenient curiosity regarding my unchanging physical features, and to keep humanity from questioning our lineage, our wealth, and our absolute lack of aging. In truth, I had walked this earth for centuries, witnessing the rise and fall of feudal dynasties, the burning of castles, and the eventual pouring of the concrete that formed the foundations of this very skyscraper. To the fragile, fleeting mortal mind, we were an enigmatic, old-money dynasty of reclusive billionaires. They were entirely ill-equipped to comprehend the reality of what we truly were.
“Sesshomaru.” My mother warned back, her tone equally chilling.
“If your mathematical faculties have degenerated to the point of conflating my age with forty, I suggest a medical evaluation, not a lecture.” I folded my reading glasses and set them deliberately upon the abandoned book. “Furthermore, no one prevents your retirement. I am entirely capable of assuming control of KML Enterprise in your stead. In fact, the transition would likely benefit our profit margins.”
She scoffed, a sound like tearing silk, closing the distance between us until she hovered over my seated frame. Kimi Taisho was a tyrant of corporate strategy, an anomaly in both the ancient world and the modern one. An alumna of Harvard and Wharton who had allegedly balanced operating budgets at age thirteen and built a global venture capital empire by nineteen, she played the human game with a terrifying proficiency. Even now, her impeccable black pencil skirt, tailored silk blouse, and pristine white blazer gave no hint of her true nature.
To the media, she was an exceptionally well-preserved matriarch, a darling of the fashion and finance industries. To me, she was an entity centuries older than myself, an ancient power who treated modern venture capitalism with the same cold, lethal calculation she once used to rule vast northern territories long forgotten by written history.
She was a master of the cut-throat business world, and currently, she was applying that lethal, unyielding focus entirely to my personal life. I had been raised in her exact image, molded over generations with absolute precision, leaving zero room for error, vulnerability, or dissent.
“Do not flatter yourself, Sesshomaru,” she said smoothly, her voice dropping to a low, melodic purr that I knew to be far more dangerous than her shouting. “You know my stipulations. You want the empire? You want total sovereignty over the holding companies, the international shipping lanes, and the technological patents? Then you marry. You secure the succession. You stop generating bad press for this family. I will not have our centuries of accumulated wealth jeopardized by a public relations disaster.”
“Frankly, I care nothing for public opinion, nor do I care for the fragile sensibilities of human shareholders.”
“Sesshomaru—”
I rose from my leather chair, my six-foot-two frame easily eclipsing hers, my fists tightening at my sides as the dormant energy in my blood flared in response to her defiance. “I have served as the Chief Executive Officer of KML Enterprise exactly as you demanded since completing my Master's at Wharton. I have personally engineered the exponential, unprecedented growth of our international sectors, elevating your status and your personal net worth to heights that defy human comprehension. I reject weekly merger offers from global competitors who are begging for a fraction of the market share we hold. Tell me, Mother—in what capacity do I make this family look bad? My record is flawless.”
The raw intensity of the confrontation was causing a sharp, familiar throb behind my left eye. A migraine was blooming, a wretched consequence of suppressing my true nature within the suffocating, electrified confines of a modern corporate existence. The neon lights outside seemed to pierce through the glass, and I needed her gone. Immediately.
“This audience is concluded,” I stated, reaching for my tailored overcoat on the rack. I subtly checked my breast pocket, confirming the presence of my prescription bottle with a brief flick of my fingers.
“It concludes when I deem it so,” she barked at my retreating form, her elegance slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the predator beneath. “Take another step out of this room, and I will freeze your personal assets, starting with your vehicles, your offshore accounts, and your access to the primary trust.”
“I hold the legal titles to my vehicles. Just as I hold the deed to this very property upon which you are currently trespassing,” I spat back, turning slowly to face her, letting the full weight of my disdain bare itself in my eyes.
She smiled—a slow, venomous curl of cherry-painted lips that made my blood run cold. “You believe your human titles and your paper deeds protect you from me? Your threats are amusing, Sesshomaru. They might work on your foolish, undisciplined brother, but you know precisely what I am capable of achieving when provoked. I obtain what I desire, always. Do not cross me, boy. I gave you this life, and I can just as easily strip the comfort from it.”
The ensuing silence in the study was deafening, heavy with the weight of unspoken ancient power. I weighed her words with clinical detachment.
She was entirely ruthless; I had watched her dismantle international board members, bankrupt rival conglomerates, and strip executive families of their entire livelihoods without a shred of remorse or hesitation. Familial ties were a notoriously fragile shield against Kimi Taisho's wrath, and I had no desire to test if blood would protect my investments, my autonomy, or the empire I had spent the last half-century meticulously modernizing.
Hardening my jaw, feeling the bitter taste of defeat in the back of my throat, I piece-by-piece yielded. “Fine. I shall marry.”
“A wise decision,” she cooed, her rage vanishing instantly behind a polished, sweet mask of maternal pride. It was deeply disturbing how effortlessly she could manipulate her demeanor, flipping a psychological switch in an instant. “See? That was not so difficult, was it?”
“However,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through her satisfaction. “I require one year. It will be on my terms. And I will choose the individual. I will not be paraded around like a prize stallion for your aristocratic associates.”
“Very well. You have twelve months. But I retain absolute veto power,” she countered seamlessly, leaving no vulnerability in her defense. “The individual must meet my criteria, or you will wed the candidate of my choosing. On my terms, down to the very catering of the gala. Do we have an accord?”
Typical. Kimi Taisho never left a negotiation without securing the ultimate advantage. She was an assassin with her tongue, and every syllable carried weight.
“One year, Sesshomaru. Starting today. Do not disappoint me.” With a sharp turn on her heel, she exited, the rhythmic clicking of her stilettos fading down the stairs until she vanished from sight.
I exhaled a breath I had not realized I was holding. The marriage dilemma was not entirely new to me; I had scrutinized the problem extensively in private. The women I encountered were universally tedious—either transparently hunting my fortune, desperate to elevate their own social standings, or entirely vacuous creatures whose conversational abilities extended no further than fashion trends and seasonal galas. I had considered a contractual arrangement—a hired partner to play the role—but dismissed it. Deceiving my mother required a level of flawlessness a paid actress could never achieve, and I refused to invite her ridicule if the ruse failed.
The throbbing in my skull intensified, a violent cascade of pain that threatened to incapacitate me. I pulled the amber prescription bottle from my breast pocket, unscrewed the cap with a swift motion, and swallowed a small, bitter pill dry, ignoring the burning sensation in my throat.
“I require a distraction,” I muttered to the empty, cavernous room, my voice sounding hollow even to myself. I retrieved my smartphone from the desk and speed-dialed my personal assistant.
“Sesshomaru-sama!” Jaken’s voice squeaked eagerly, filled with its usual frantic energy through the receiver. “How may I assist you at this late hour? I am currently reviewing the quarterly logistics reports, but my time is entirely yours!”
“Cease the sycophancy, Jaken. Arrange for my transport to Yura’s establishment immediately. Call ahead for a walk-in appointment while you are en route to my location.” My speech was growing clipped, the syllables short as the heavy medication began to cloud my hand-eye coordination and dull my senses. “Book Kagome. Exclusively. If she is unavailable, make her available.”
“Understood, sir! Immediately!” Jaken paused, his tone shifting to a cautious, almost trembling whisper. “I presume Madame Taisho’s visit was... tumultuous? Should I prepare the legal team to contest any sudden corporate directives?”
“Do not tempt me, Jaken.”
“Of course, Sesshomaru-sama! Forgive me! I shall arrive at the front entrance in exactly thirty minutes,” he corrected quickly, terminating the call before I could reprimand him further.
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the edge of the mahogany desk, waiting for the chemical compounds to take effect. Kagome’s hands were the only remedy that consistently halted these agonizing, debilitating migraines. She was an anomaly in this wretched city—quiet, exceptionally perceptive, and entirely unimpressed by my wealth, my status, or the terrifying aura I typically projected. She operated out of a secluded, high-end holistic clinic owned by Yura, a place that catered strictly to the city's exhausted elite.
Over the past few months, she had inadvertently become an unwitting confidante during our sessions. She possessed a rare, quiet intelligence, effortlessly tracking the complex, aggressive financial rhetoric I spewed when aggravated by board meetings, occasionally offering practical, grounded insights that I had actually weaponized in executive boardrooms to devastating effect. She did not know who I truly was—she merely knew me as a deeply stressed, incredibly wealthy corporate executive named Mr. Taisho—yet she treated me with a unique blend of respect and complete lack of fear.
Perhaps I should simply retain her services permanently. She was far more effective, far more clinical, than Dr. Myoga, our parasitic old family physician and hematologist who served merely as an overpriced, licensed narcotics distributor for my chronic ailments. The jittery little man—a relic who had once managed my father's medical files and understood our unique biology better than any doctor—did nothing these days but offer archaic, trembling advice in my presence. He would hand over my refills with an ancient, violently shaking hand, clearly terrified that a single wrong move would prompt me to crush him like an insect, before practically vanishing from his own clinic out of sheer cowardice.
I glanced down at the amber bottle in my palm. Only three pills remained. Pathetic. A modern immortal relying on human chemistry and a cowardly old doctor to survive the psychological toll of a modern life.
I set a digital reminder on my phone to demand another prescription from Myoga by tomorrow afternoon, then tossed the device onto the desk.
Glancing at the minimalist silver clock on the wall, I groaned in genuine frustration. Only five minutes had passed since I had spoken to Jaken. The passage of time for humans was always a variable, subjective nightmare, but when one was anticipating relief from a physical ailment, minutes felt like agonizing centuries.
I closed my eyes and attempted to meditate, to channel the ancient energy in my blood and force the pain to recede, but it was to no avail. The concrete, the steel, the constant hum of electricity vibrating through the skyscraper's walls—it all acted as a dampener, a cage for my true self. Instead, I sat down upon the plush leather ottoman near the window and reached for the nearest object within my span, which happened to be the discarded tabloid.
I stared at the badly edited photograph again. The human paparazzi were like flies, buzzing around the carcass of my privacy, documenting every movement in hopes of finding a scandal. Whoever had authorized the publication of this specific piece was going to be hearing from my primary legal counsel by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I would personally ensure their publication was sued into bankruptcy.
Thirty minutes felt like thirty years in this modern hell. I looked out the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the tiny headlights of thousands of cars crawling along the highway below like lines of glowing insects. The humans hurried to and fro, living their brief, frantic lives, entirely unaware of the ancient predator watching them from the clouds.
What was taking that imp so long? If he did not arrive within the next ten minutes, I would replace him with someone who understood the concept of punctuality.
I stood up again, unable to remain still as the restless energy inside me clawed at my composure. I began to pace the length of the study, my steps entirely silent against the marble, a stark contrast to my mother's previous, arrogant display.
The history of our family was a long, bloody tapestry, and this modern corporate façade was merely the latest chapter. My father, the great general of our lineage, had built the foundations of our modern wealth before his untimely, disastrous demise. He had fallen in love with a mortal woman, a weakness that had ultimately led to his destruction in a catastrophic incident that the human authorities had written off as a mere automobile accident. He had left behind a fractured legacy, a human mistress who died shortly after childbirth, and a half-breed son—my brother, Inuyasha.
My mother, in an act of cold, calculated pragmatism, had legally adopted the boy. It was not out of mercy, nor out of love for my father's memory. It was to control the narrative. It was to ensure that the illegitimate child could not be used by rival families to fracture the estate or contest the corporate succession. She brought him into our household, placing him under the care of an endless rotation of strict, unyielding nannies. Her intention was to mold him into a tool for the company. Yet, his wild, undisciplined nature made him entirely unsuited for the boardroom.
I had resented him at first—this fragile, loud, emotional creature who shared a fraction of my blood. But as we grew older, both of us suffocating under our mother's totalitarian, absolute rule, a strange, unspoken understanding had formed between us. We were bonded by our shared misery. Two princes trapped in a golden, corporate cage, constantly measured against the impossible, ancient standards of a mother who did not know how to love, only how to rule.
Inuyasha had rebelled in his own loud, destructive ways, frequently making headlines in the gossip columns for bar fights and reckless behavior, while I had chosen the path of perfection, mastering the human financial systems to prove that I was the only true successor to the Taisho name.
Yet, despite my compliance and my flawless execution of her directives, she still demanded more. She demanded my complete submission to the institution of marriage.
The medication was finally beginning to take hold, a heavy, dull numbness creeping into the back of my neck, slowing the violent throbbing behind my eyes. My vision blurred slightly at the edges, the bright lights of the city smearing into streaks of gold and red against the dark glass.
I grabbed my overcoat, slipping my arms into the fine cashmere sleeves, and walked out of the study, leaving the tabloid and the ancient book behind on the desk. I descended the private elevator to the underground parking garage, where the air was cool and smelled of concrete and expensive gasoline.
As the silver elevator doors slid open, I spotted my private limousine idling near the exit. Jaken was already standing outside the rear door, his small, stout frame clad in a tailored black suit that looked entirely ridiculous on him, his hands wringing together in an agony of nervous anticipation.
“Sesshomaru-sama!” he scurried forward as soon as he saw me approaching, his eyes wide with anxiety. “The traffic in the central district was absolutely atrocious, a complete deadlock near the theater square! I apologize profusely for the delay, I assure you I commanded the driver to bypass the main avenues—”
“Silence, Jaken,” I said, my voice low and dangerously calm as I brushed past him and stepped into the plush, quiet interior of the vehicle. “Your explanations do not interest me. Inform me of the appointment status.”
Jaken scrambled into the front passenger seat, turning around to face me through the open privacy partition. His hands were wringing together in a frantic display of nerves.
“I apologize profusely, but I could not get a hold of the salon on my first two attempts. The lines were completely unresponsive! I am dialing them again right now as we drive.”
I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, closing my eyes as the limousine glided into the rain-slicked streets. “Your incompetence is grating, Jaken. Ensure the appointment is secured before we arrive.”
“Yes, sir! Ah—it is ringing!” Jaken’s posture stiffened as the call finally connected. Instantly, his anxiety inverted into a display of petty corporate tyranny.
“About damn time someone picked up!” he barked into the receiver, his voice echoing shrilly in the quiet cabin. “This is the third time I am calling, and I know for a fact your business isn’t swarming with customers at this hour. What kind of lazy employees does Yura hire these days?!”
I kept my eyes closed, the rhythmic throbbing behind my temple worsening with every octave Jaken reached.
“Well, she better step up her game!” Jaken continued to berate the unseen worker. “The phones shouldn’t ring more than three times, on the first attempt! That is unacceptable, at best! No matter. I need an appointment set up in the next fifteen minutes. I will not take no for an answer.”
There was a brief pause as the person on the other end spoke. Then, Jaken’s face flushed a violent purple.
“You wench! Don’t you know who I am?!?”
The sheer volume of his outburst pierced straight through my skull, thoroughly exhausting what little patience I had left.
“Jaken, enough,” I said, my voice low, cold, and cutting.
Jaken flinched violently, nearly dropping the phone. He cast a terrified glance at me through the rearview mirror before clearing his throat and dropping his pitch to a forced, arrogant drawl. “Yes, you impudent girl! It’s for Taisho-sama, and yes, he will have his usual treatment. Need I remind you? You must be new.”
He listened for a moment, nodding righteously as he expected total submission. But a beat later, his expression fractured. A different voice—higher, entirely too enthusiastic—had clearly intercepted the line. Even from the backseat, I could hear the muffled, eager greeting leaking from the receiver.
“Good evening, this is Erica speaking. I hear Taisho-sama would like to come in. I’ll get everything set up for him, just as he likes it.”
Jaken blinked, the phone hovering an inch from his ear. “Erica? If you are Erica, then who was…”
His eyes went entirely wide as the realization struck him like a physical blow. He turned around in his seat to face me, his skin turning a sickly shade of pale. He had just spent the last two minutes screaming insults at Kagome—the exact woman I had explicitly ordered him to book.
Panicking to salvage his monumental blunder, Jaken barked back into the receiver, his voice trembling with a desperate attempt at authority.
“Absolutely not! Erica, you will do no such thing. It is entirely irrelevant who is on the line right now—Taisho-sama is requesting Kagome. She is required for tonight, and she will be held exclusively for him for all of his appointments moving forward. See to it immediately!”
Without waiting for a response, he terminated the call, exhaling a breath of pure terror.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, grateful that the phonecall had ended. However, the looming matter still remained. The battle with my mother was merely postponed—a temporary truce in a war that had lasted for centuries.
One year. Twelve months to find a solution to an impossible problem, to find an individual who could satisfy my mother’s draconian standards while allowing me to maintain my absolute sovereignty.
The car glided smoothly through the streets, the muffled din of the city fading into a dull hum. My thoughts drifted back to the quiet salon—to the scent of incense, the ancient herbs, and the clear blue eyes of the only person capable of calming the storm in my mind.
The game had begun, and I had no intention of losing.
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