The Heiress Gambit-Chapter 88- Let’s Catch Up

PAIGE

The soft grey light of a New York morning filtered through the bedroom windows. 7 AM. I was still curled in the warmth of the duvet, watching him. Reomen moved around the room with a quiet, efficient energy, the kind he always had before a major business confrontation. It was like watching a panther stretch before a hunt.

He finished adjusting his cufflinks, the platinum catching the light, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. His hand, warm and sure, rested on my hip over the covers.

"I want you to rest until it’s time," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "Yamada confirmed the board meeting is at noon. I don’t want you stressing yourself. We both need to be at our absolute best to face Shunsuke and the rest of those vultures." He leaned down, and his lips were soft and firm against mine. It was a kiss that held a promise and a command. "I love you."

The familiar words settled deep inside me, a calming balm against the low hum of anxiety for the day ahead. "I love you too," I murmured against his lips.

He stood up, and in one fluid motion, slipped his phone into one hand and his other into the pocket of his trousers. It was such a simple gesture, but he made his impossibly expensive Brioni suit look as casual as a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The effortless power in that simple act was both intimidating and wildly attractive.

I propped myself up on my elbows, a slow, sarcastic smile spreading across my face. "You know, most people just carry their phone. You have to pose with it. Like you’re in a damn commercial for ’Billionaires: How to Look Casual While Dominating the World.’"

He didn’t even break stride as he walked toward the door. He just glanced back over his shoulder, a wicked, knowing glint in his dark eyes. "And most people sleep in old t-shirts, Black Cat. You’re currently using a five-thousand-dollar Frette duvet as a burrito shell. We all have our vices."

I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me. Even now, he could do that.

"I’ll come get you at 11," he said, his tone shifting back to business.

"I’ll be waiting," I replied.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room felt suddenly too large, too quiet. The silence left space for my thoughts to rush in. The board meeting. Shunsuke. The memory of Payton, pale and broken in her hospital bed. The feel of my mother’s hand in mine. It was a whirlwind, and I was stuck in the eye of the storm, waiting for the other side to hit.

I needed a voice that wasn’t steeped in billions and betrayal. I needed something real.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand and scrolled to Leon’s number. I hadn’t spoken to him since before the whirlwind trip to Tokyo. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He picked up on the second ring. "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, what the billionaire dragged back from his international lair? I was starting to think you’d been traded for a newer model."

His voice, full of familiar, grumpy concern, was an instant comfort. "Sorry, Leon. It’s been... a time."

"We talking ’need a bottle of wine’ time or ’witness protection program’ time?"

"A solid ’witness protection’ with a side of ’international incident,’" I said, my voice only half-joking.

We talked for a few minutes. He told me about the bar, about a new cocktail he was perfecting, about the mundane, beautiful normalcy of his life. It was a lifeline. Then, he asked the question I knew was coming.

"So," he said, his tone turning serious. "How are things? Really, P."

I took a deep breath. How could I even begin? The ambush, the yakuza, the shooting, the family collapse... it was too much.

"A lot has happened, Leon. A lot. It’s... it’s not a phone talk." I made a decision. "Come over. I’ll text you the address."

"To the dragon’s tower? Seriously? Will his royal highness have me thrown out by security?"

"I’ll clear you with security. Just come. Please?"

"Okay, okay. For you. Text me."

I ended the call and quickly typed out the penthouse address, sending it to him. I put the phone down and hugged my knees to my chest.

The calm before the storm was here. But for the first time in a long time, I had my king by my side, and my best friend on the way. However this day ended, I wouldn’t be facing it alone.

– – –

The next hour and a half passed in a blur of steamy water and soft towels. I took my time, letting the hot water ease the lingering tension from my muscles.

I didn’t dress for war, not yet. I pulled on soft, comfortable leggings and a loose cashmere sweater, something that felt like a shield of normalcy.

Just as I was running a hand through my damp hair, the intercom buzzed. The security chief’s crisp voice announced, "Ms. Isumi, there’s a Mr. Leon Bradley here for you."

A genuine smile, the first real one of the day, touched my lips. "Let him in, please. He’s my guest."

I made my way to the vast living room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city. A moment later, the elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Higashi, who moved with a silent, graceful efficiency, led a wide-eyed Leon into the room.

"Your guest, Ms. Isumi," she said with a slight, respectful bow.

"Thank you, Mrs. Higashi," I said. "Could you please bring my breakfast? The usual tamagoyaki and miso soup, please." I then glanced at Leon, a knowing smirk on my face. "And for him, spaghetti and meatballs."

Leon’s head whipped toward me, his eyes going even wider. "You remembered?"

I just winked. Mrs. Higashi bowed again. "Of course, miss." She turned and glided silently out of the room.

The second the door clicked shut, the formal atmosphere shattered. Leon crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped me in a hug so tight it stole my breath. It was all familiar warmth and the faint, comforting smell of the bar he worked at—lemons and clean linen.

I let out a soft "oof," patting his back. "Baby, baby, baby," I whispered, a gentle reminder. "Easy. There’s a... you know. A tiny passenger in here."

He instantly released me, his hands flying up as if he’d been burned. "Shit! Sorry! Sorry, P. I forgot, I just..." He looked at me, his expression a mixture of panic and overwhelming relief. "I was just so damn glad to see you in one piece."

I laughed, the sound feeling good in my chest. "It’s okay. Just... maybe no more bone-crushers for a few months."

He took a step back, finally taking in the room—the soaring ceilings, the abstract art that probably cost more than his entire apartment building, the breathtaking view. He let out a low, slow whistle, running a hand through his already messy hair.

"Okay, seriously, Paige," he said, his voice full of mock awe. "This is... a lot. I mean, I knew the guy was loaded, but this is ’sold my soul to several devils’ kind of loaded. And you have a staff? An actual, bowing, ’yes miss’ staff? Who the hell are you right now?"

I collapsed onto the plush sofa, tucking my feet under me. The familiar banter was a balm, a connection to the person I was before all this. "I’m the same person who’s about to watch you inhale a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in the middle of a multi-million dollar penthouse," I retorted, grinning. "Some things never change."

He shook his head, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face as he sat opposite me. "Yeah. Some things don’t." His smile softened, his eyes turning serious. "Now, start talking. But first... are you really okay?"

"I’m fine now," I said, the words feeling true as I said them. "But let me... let me work up to it." I needed to ease into the madness. "First, tell me about Mark. And the great spice rack war. I need something normal."

Leon let out an exasperated sigh that was so dramatic it was clearly fake, but his eyes lit up. "Don’t even get me started! The man has developed a full-blown obsession. It’s not enough to have them alphabetized. Oh no. Now they have to be grouped by cuisine of origin and then by heat index. I used cayenne in my eggs yesterday, and I thought he was going to have an aneurysm because it was in the ’Mediterranean’ section and not the ’North American’ one. It’s a spice rack, Paige, not the Library of Congress!"

I laughed, a real, deep laugh that felt like it loosened something tight in my chest. This. This was what I needed. "See? This is the kind of problem I miss. The kind that doesn’t involve international hitmen."

His smile softened, seeing right through me. "Okay, okay. Laughter achieved. Now, spill. You said your weekend and Monday were a rollercoaster. What kind? The fun kiddie coaster or the ’I-think-I-left-my-stomach-on-that-loop’ kind?"

I took a deep breath, my gaze drifting toward the skyline. "The kind that makes you question reality, Leon." I brought my hands together in my lap, my fingers lacing tightly. "It started with a meeting. With my uncle, Yamada Fujii."

Leon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, all traces of joking gone. He was fully present, listening.

"He... he apologized," I began, the memory of it still feeling surreal. "For everything. For being part of the machine that treated me like a bargaining chip. And then he made an offer." I looked at Leon, wanting him to see the sheer scale of it. "He agreed to relinquish his entire stake in Rimestone Co. to me. His thirty percent."

Leon’s eyebrows shot up. "Thirty percent? Paige, that’s..."

"That’s not all," I continued, my voice dropping, becoming more intense. "When I was disinherited, my original shares—twenty percent of the company—were placed in a dormant trust. By accepting Yamada’s thirty percent and initiating the takeover, it automatically triggered a clause that reactivated my twenty. So, just like that, I walked out of that meeting with fifty percent of my family’s company in my pocket."

I could see him doing the math in his head, his eyes widening. But I wasn’t finished.

"And Reomen," I said, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across my face. "While we were away, while the stock was panicking and falling, he had his team quietly acquire another fifteen percent on the open market."

I let the numbers hang in the air between us. "Thirty, plus twenty, plus fifteen." I paused for effect, watching his face. "That’s sixty-five percent, Leon. A supermajority. When I walk into that boardroom today, I won’t be asking for my birthright. I’ll be taking it. The company my father built to control me... will belong to me."

Leon stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. He was silent for a long moment, just processing the sheer, audacious power of it. Then, he let out a low, slow whistle, shaking his head in pure disbelief.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he finally said, a grin slowly breaking across his face. "So you’re not just taking a seat at the table, then. You’re buying the whole damn restaurant, setting the menu on fire, and installing a taco truck out front."

A burst of laughter escaped me, sharp and bright. It was the perfect, most Leon way to put it. The enormity of it, the years of struggle, all boiled down to that one, beautifully crude analogy.

"Something like that," I said, the weight of it all—the fear, the strategy, the victory—finally feeling real. "Yeah. Something exactly like that."