41. Cherry Blossoms

⚠️Mature Content⚠️ "I will never forgive you for this." "You think I care about your forgiveness?"

Previously on ToE (episode relevant):

• All the way back in (ToE 13), during a dinner with the CEO of Yamamoto Industries, we see Jude take Bells’ hand, display her engagement ring, and publicly claim her as his fiancée. It’s a bold, possessive play that reframes the narrative - Jude aligning himself with her “legacy” and moral pedigree to win over Yamamoto’s approval. Yamamoto agrees to recommend their partnership to the board, framing it as a matter of legacy and values.

• As a direct result → we later learn that Jude and Bells will be sharing the marital suite in Tokyo, booked for them by the Yamamoto Industries (the host.) (ToE 35)

• Bells gets violently sick on their London-Tokyo flight, and Jude gives up his first-class seat so she can recover ( ToE 39 )

• Theo asks Bells to extract Larssen’s internal financial data. ( ToE 24 ) which she executes flawlessly - 15 gigabytes in under 36 minutes! ( ToE 29 ) THOUGH REMEMBER: Bells is not aware Jude knows it was Theo who requested this “heist”

• Bells and Theo have the Larssens’ financials examined in (ToE 33 ) and find next to nothing

• In the immediately preceding episode (ToE 40) Jude reveals that he is in fact involved in unsavoury business activities - sophisticated competitive intelligence work that gets billed off the books

• Two memorable sexual encounters precede the happenings of this episode: the Canary Wharf dub-con (ToE 17) and earlier on - a pretty pleasant cab ride (ToE 5) : both referenced in this episode.

• A day prior Theo embarrassed Jude at the Heathrow airport - visibly annoyed at the closeness between him and Bells ( ToE 37)

---

---

[Narrated: 3^rd limited, adjacent to Bells’ and Jude’s perspectives as stated]

[Bells]

“Jude” she asked. “What did you do?”

Because he did something. Or was planning to. Something to Watson’s. To Theo.

She could tell by that smile. Self-satisfied. Cat with cream. Eyes running calculations, gaze darting sideways, lost in thought. Blood drained from her face like water from a tub.

She knew that expression. The same one he wore closing clients on ROI projections that wouldn’t hold up under basic scrutiny. The same one when he sold “bleeding edge” tech that worked just well enough to avoid lawsuits.

Whatever Theo had said at the airport, he didn’t deserve to have his life systematically dismantled, no matter how suffocating their relationship had become, no matter that she’d been mentally drafting breakup speeches for weeks now. You didn’t stop caring for someone just because you’d realised you might be the wrong fit.

The elevator chimed. Forty-first floor.

The doors slid open onto a hushed corridor, charcoal walls and recessed lighting that made everything feel intimate and close. He stepped out first, moved swiftly, she followed, almost out of breath.

“What did you do?” she repeated.

She needed to know. Not just because of Theo, but also because it would tell her who he really was. What he was capable of.

Was he worth burning down her safe, comfortable life for? If she was going to leave Theo she needed to know she wasn’t trading security for something far darker.

Though sometimes she worried, darker was exactly what she craved. That she was one of those women who confused danger with excitement, red flags with fireworks.

He kept walking, scanning door numbers with mechanical efficiency.

“I asked you a question.”

“I heard you.”

“So answer me.”

Silence, just the muffled sounds of their hurried steps on the carpeted flooring. The air between them felt charged, the kind of tension that preceded either sex or violence. Maybe both.

“You’re going after Theo somehow, aren’t you?”

She was keeping pace with him now, her voice low but insistent.

He stopped at 401, pulled out the key fob.

“Leave it alone.”

“Whatever it is, stop it”

“I said,” he turned to face her, “leave it.”

Their eyes locked. She watched his face tighten, something dark pooled in his eyes she’d not seen before. It raised the hairs on her neck, made her skin prickle with warning. She looked away first, pulse jumping in her throat.

“Is it because of what he said to you at the airport?” she said quietly.

Because that’s what this was really about, wasn’t it – she thought. Ego. Pride. Theo had embarrassed him publicly, and Jude couldn’t let that stand. Men like him never could.

That made him pause.

“You think this is about Teddy’s pathetic attempt at alpha posturing?”

“Isn’t it?”

---

[Jude]

He looked away, let out a small laugh, exhaling through his nose. The sound of someone amused by how little she understood.

This wasn’t about ego.

Not even just about revenge for the data heist.

This was about survival. About protecting everything he’d built.

He tapped the fob to the reader. The lock clicked open. He pushed the door wide and…

The scent hit him first - sweet and overwhelming, cherry blossoms filling the air until it was almost cloying.

She stepped inside first, he followed, both looked around.

The blossoms, the petals sprinkled generously like confetti at a kid’s princess-themed party, probably woven into the fucking towels.

“They have certainly committed to the theme” she’d said.

Then she noted that obscene bed dominating the room like it had its own gravitational pull. Her eyes darted toward him - he was already watching her. The air between them thick enough to choke on.

“I will take the sofa,” he said. She looked to her right. A small love seat was indeed present in the apartment suite, positioned in front of a coffee table and a massive plasma screen.

“Please, what are you, six-three? Six-four? That thing looks too short even for me, you’d be folded there like an origami.”

---

[Bells]

His brows shot up. She continued.

“We are adults, each takes their half of the bed, we put a pillow down the middle if you’re bothered.”

What did he expect, that she’d swoon with gratitude? She already felt indebted after the motion sickness incident on the plane. She wasn’t adding sleeping arrangements to that ledger.

This was it. Ten days in this room. In this bed separated by a pillow down the middle. Ten days to figure out if he was worth blowing up her life for.

“Sure,” he said, sounding anything but.

Then he moved with purpose. Coat off, laptop out, positioned himself at the desk with the efficiency of someone settling in for a siege. Within seconds he was absorbed in what looked like a complex report, pages of dense text and figures.

“You’re going to work now?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice. “It’s Sunday, Jude.”

“You heard Hinata. Thirteen points of failure. The report only just arrived - end of play Friday. And we’re meeting them tomorrow morning.” His eyes didn’t leave the screen. “That fucker set us up to fail.”

“Well, maybe you should have bit your tongue on the call with him,” she said, then regretted it almost immediately. She didn’t mean to be unkind. Not after what happened on the plane. How tender he’s been with her.

He didn’t respond. Just kept consuming whatever words and figures promised to save or destroy their deal, his face taking on that focused intensity she recognised from late nights at the office. The look of a man at war with numbers.

“You need rest, you know. You don’t look so well.”

That made him pause. He turned toward her then, and she caught the exhaustion in his eyes before he masked it with irritation.

“I was planning to catch up on sleep while on board, actually”

The jab landed exactly where he’d aimed it. She felt embarrassment flush hot through her chest, creeping up her neck.

“I told you, you didn’t have to try and rescue me like some prince charming. I would have been absolutely fine.” Her voice raised.

He returned to the screen, dismissing her. She exhaled, trying to calm the frustration building in her chest like carbonation in a shaken bottle.

“Look, what you did was… very sweet. Kind of reminded me of how things used to be between us. How we used to talk… on the phone calls.”

His body stiffened for a millisecond, she caught it. Got you!

Then he continued typing.

“You told me once you enjoyed them, remember? Because I do. Your voice on the other end of the line, warm and rough with sleep, telling me you liked hearing from me no matter how late at night. No matter how trivial the subject?”

The memory unfurled between them, tangible as smoke. She’d felt something shift in her chest those nights - something dangerous and hopeful she’d tried so hard to bury under common sense and self-preservation.

---

[Jude]

He made certain not to look at her. Just swallowed hard, his throat working, Adam’s apple moving like a system processing input it didn’t have proper handlers for.

Fuck.

It hadn’t even been five minutes in this flower-bombed nightmare, and she was already deploying heavy artillery. Running exploits he had no defences against. She’d always been persistent, incessant, some of the many reasons she was so good at her job. Some of the reasons he…

Don’t finish that thought.

… was drawn to her. He’s just never anticipated these traits being deployed against him.

“I remember you said you especially enjoyed when I volunteered what I was wearing? How… your hands felt on my body when we circled Hyde Park?” she continued after a beat.

His mind went there immediately, conjuring scenes in high definition that made him shift in his seat. Great. This was exactly what he needed right now.

Don’t engage. Don’t encourage this.

You know what this is – her trying to butter you up before the real bombs drop.

“Are you planning to ignore me for ten days?” she asked.

“I’m planning to get some work done.”

Good one – he congratulated himself. Factual. Swift. Clipped.

Error: request denied.

She exhaled, then continued, unperturbed.

“I started to record you voicemails when I couldn’t reach you. I thought you would like them… Little did I know you would store them for blackmail at a later date.”

He kept typing with more vigour. Incomprehensible nonsense at this point, but he needed something to do with his hands.

Don’t look at her.

“But it’s fine. We both did questionable things. Though mostly you.”

There it was. The real questions incoming.

“You do a lot of questionable things Jude.”

She paused. He could feel her gaze on him, could sense her choosing words with the care of someone defusing a bomb.

What did she know already? What has she seen? How fucked was he, exactly?

“I know there’s good in you. I see it. I saw it on the plane. And… I saw it in Larssens’ finance logs.”

Voila!

“You’re not a fraud. You are flawed but… I think I can work with that.”

Of course he wasn’t some common tax fraud. Christ, so pedestrian. He was almost offended. That was probably Teddy’s null hypothesis - the man had the imagination of a compliance officer.

I’m a way more sophisticated white-collar criminal, thanks.

“You think you can work with what exactly?” he asked, still not making eye contact, hoping she’d spill just how much her and Teddy knew.

“The way you are. Selling pipedreams to clients, massaging data… ”

He exhaled. Part relief, part something heavy sitting in his chest like ballast. Because wouldn’t it be wonderful if she knew it all - the real depths of it -and still thought she could “work with that”?

I do things far worse than just ‘massaging data’ he thought. But he would quit. Just as soon as they closed Yamamoto. He’d go clean. Completely.

This was the exit strategy, the final exploit before he patched all his vulnerabilities and became someone who deserved her. Someone she could choose without destroying herself in the process.

Someone who didn’t need to dodge questions about his income streams or bribe private investigators. Who could beat Teddy with his hands clean.

This was it. The last job.

But first he had to actually CLOSE Yamamoto. Which meant solving thirteen points of failure by tomorrow morning. Which meant putting in at least twelve more hours to ensure they were prepared, with numerical simulation outcomes ready and detailed replies backed by research and academic papers if needed.

And sat there, going on and on and on, driving him to the edge of madness with her mouth and her memories and her fucking persistence.

---

[Bells]

“Jude?”

She watched him closely.

“You done?” he said, eyes still fixed on his screen. More typing.

Her jaw tightened, she suddenly felt the urge to throw something at him – her bag, maybe.

“No, I’m not ‘done’ actually. If you think you can just stonewall your way out of this conversation, you are very sadly mistaken.”

She awaited a reaction. None came.

“FINE. I’m going to go meet the team for lunch now as we agreed right after landing. I think you should attend that too, since well – it’s your team and you must be starving”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black AmEx, still not looking at her. Slid it across the desk toward her with two fingers. The gesture casual, dismissive. The way you might tip a particularly disappointing waitress.

“Company card, pay for the team lunch please.”

The card sat there between them, gleaming dully under the hotel lighting.

Here’s money, go away, handle the thing I can’t be bothered with right now, is how that read to her. At least he was consistent in his dickishness. You had to admire the commitment.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to calm the anger threatening to detonate. She crossed to the desk, picked up the card. Her other hand clenched into a fist at her side.

“Right.” Her voice had gone flat, affectless.

Then, as if possessed by some petty demon she didn’t know lived inside her, she reached for the vase on the desk and flung its contents - cherry blossom branches and a spray of water - directly at him.

The gravity of what she’d done sank in immediately.

Fuck. Too far.

Water and petals and branches scattered across his desk. His hair, his shirt - wet now. The paperwork on the table. Water droplets on the laptop.

He went completely still. Then brushed the branches and petals off slowly, deliberately. Like a predator stretching before it pounced.

Then he looked at her finally, stood, she stepped backward quickly, dropping the vase as she paced. It hit the carpet with a dull thud. He followed fast. She slipped on the vase and flew backward until her back hit the door with an impact that knocked the air from her lungs.

He came up very close. Heat and fury radiating off him in waves, making the air between them thick and hard to breathe. She could smell him now – cedar, a faint whiff of tobacco and something darker underneath, something masculine and dangerous that made her stomach clench and heat pool between her thighs despite her racing heart, despite the voice in her head screaming that she should run, that she’d crossed a line.

He leaned over to her eye level, his palms on the door frame on each side of her head, caging her in. His face was inches away - so close she could count the tiny water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, see the vein pulsing at his temple. His gaze pierced right through to her core, his breath on her face - hot, ragged. If she moved fractionally, their lips would touch.

“What the fuck was that.”

Voice quiet, controlled.

“You know what happens when you push me too far with your fucking temper.”

A flash of memory surfaced, vivid and visceral. Her body bent over the mahogany desk, face pressed to the cold wood, the smell of furniture polish sharp in her nose. His hands on her hips, grip bruising, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. The sound of his belt…

She should have turned and left then. Should have tried at least. Instead, she heard herself say defiantly:

“Really? And do you remember what happened after?”

The belt. His throat under leather, wrapped tight enough to make him gasp. Her hands shaking with adrenaline and rage and something else entirely - power and fear and arousal all twisted together like electrical wires, sparking.

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue until they were almost black.

“What I allowed to happen.”

His voice dropped even lower, and she felt it like a physical touch sliding down her spine, making her clench involuntarily.

“I won’t allow it again.”

It landed between them, heavy with implication. The belt around his throat, his body seemingly surrendered beneath hers - he’d been in control. Had permitted it.

She’d thought she’d won that round.

She hadn’t won anything.

Her hand came up before she could think - fist striking at the hard plane of his chest with force. She felt the solid muscle under his wet shirt, the heat of him burning through the damp fabric, his heart hammering as fast as hers. The impact jarred up her arm.

The strike conveying everything she couldn’t put into words. Frustration. Anger. Want. The fury of wanting someone you knew was bad for you.

“FUCK YOU!” she said.

He caught her wrist.

“Yeah?”

His other hand ran to her hair, fisting hard enough to make her scalp scream.

He tilted her head back, and his mouth crashed against hers.

Taking.

The kiss detonated through her like a nuclear strike, all hell and fury. Her every nerve ending lighting up at once. He tasted like bad decisions and sin and it made her knees weak. His tongue pushed into her mouth - demanding, claiming, like he’d been starving for her.

Heat flooded her, head to toe. She felt it in her lips, swollen and sensitive under his assault. Felt it in her breasts, heavy and aching, nipples hardening almost painfully against her bra. Felt it pooling between her legs again, slick, her body preparing itself for him.

She kissed him back- matching the intensity, even as his grip tightened on her wrist until she felt the bones shift. She moved her hand. He tightened more. The pressure built to the edge of pain, then past it, a sharp ache that made her whimper. That somehow elevated everything, lighting up her nervous system like a pinball machine, bringing her to the edge already from just the kiss and the pain and the wanting.

His hand slid down her body and then up under her dress. Every place he touched - he burned. She could feel the solid wall of muscle against her, the hard line of his thighs pinning her to the door, his erection pressing against her hip - impossible to ignore.

Then his fingers caught fabric - tights and underwear together.

Yank. Hard.

It tore with a sound, the give of it, the sudden exposure, sending a shock through her system. Cool air hit her bare skin for a moment before his hand was there.

Between her legs. Hot against her most sensitive flesh.

His fingers slid through her wetness - an easy glide because she was soaked, because her body had betrayed every principle she thought she had. The first touch made her gasp into his mouth. The evidence was there, coating his fingers, telling him everything he needed to know.

“All of this from yapping at me?”

His voice low against her ear, hot breath spreading to her neck, sending current down her spine.

She was breathing heavily now, her wrist still trapped in his punishing grip, pinned to the door, going numb from the pressure.

“Answer me”

He pulled back just enough to face her, black eyes piercing into her, dark with hunger and threat.

"Does winding me up get you this… fucking… wet?”

Cruel and deliberate. His thumb circling her clit with finely calibrated pressure that made her hips jerk forward involuntarily. Waves of pleasure spreading through her. She was desperate. Pathetic. A woman who’d confused threat with excitement so many times she could no longer tell them apart.

“Yeah, you’re … ”

She hadn’t managed to finish that thought when he lifted her pinned wrist off the door and rotated her in one swift motion, then pushed down with his body weight so her breasts pressed against the door. He released her wrist finally, blood flowing back in with a tingling sensation.

The arousal dried up instantly. Like someone had flipped a switch.

Her stomach dropped. The position - face pressed to wood, his body caging her from behind, unable to see him…

This wasn’t passion. This was punishment. This was fucking Canary Wharf again.

She heard him unbuckle his belt with one hand, the metallic sound making her heart lurch. The other hand pressing her head down to the door now, holding her in place like she was something to be managed, controlled, used.

“I will NEVER forgive you for this,” she said, voice raising. “NEVER.”

He froze. Then his mouth was at her ear again.

“What?”

“You heard me. I don’t want an encore of Canary Wharf. You do this and that’s it. We’re done.”

She felt a tremor run through him - restraint fighting want. The tension in his body like a bridge about to snap.

“I MEAN IT.”

Then he spoke again, his breath hot on her neck, making her shiver despite everything.

“You think I care about your forgiveness?”

His whole body was taut against her back, vibrating with barely controlled desire.

“I don’t think it, I KNOW IT.”

Her voice steadier now despite her racing heart.

“That’s why you ‘allowed’ what you did, isn’t it?”

The question landed. She felt it hit – his body stiffening momentarily. He was stunned into silence, breathing heavily. The thick press of him - hard and insistent agaist her lower back, making the stopping that much more significant.

She wanted him to say “sorry”, “I got carried away”, swing her round and kiss her again. Ask her how she wanted it, hoist her up and carry her to the bed. Make love to her like she mattered.

He didn’t.

She felt his weight come off her, sudden. She should have been relieved, but the loss of contact made her fell hollow, bereft.

She turned around, watched him take another step back like she was on fire. Muscle in his jaw tightening, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His whole body was rigid with the effort of stopping.

Her breath caught, legs felt weak. She was grateful for the door at her back or she might have collapsed.

“Go to lunch.”

His voice was strained. Rough. She could hear what it cost him to say it, could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the white-knuckled fists.

“Jude…”

She took a step toward him, hand reaching out.

“GO. Before I change my mind.”

He looked at her like he meant it. Like he was holding on by a thread. The dark desire still pooled in his eyes, pupils blown.

She stood there, attempting to regain composure. Hands running through her mussed hair. Pulling her skirt back down over her torn tights - evidence of what almost happened, what she’d almost let happen.

“NOW.”

She turned and left then, the door shutting behind her with a thud that sounded final but wasn’t.

---

[Jude]

The moment the door shut, he exhaled, breath heavy with need. Dragged his hands over his face, every muscle still tight with the effort of holding himself together.

Breathe.

The silence felt deafening after the intensity, her gasps, the wet sounds of his fingers on her. He could still smell her in the air, could still feel the phantom sensation of her body beneath him, her arousal on his fingers.

Breathe.

His hand was shaking now. He looked down at it, watched the tremor. His cock was still hard, pressing painfully against his trousers.

He thought about jerking off for a moment. Maybe into that fucking vase.

Didn’t.

The release wouldn’t help. Wouldn’t solve anything. Wouldn’t change what had just happened. He returned to his desk.

A single cherry blossom petal was left on his laptop. He picked it up, examined it for a moment. Pale pink, delicate, still damp from the water she’d thrown at him. Then he crushed it between his fingers and let it fall.

She’d actually assaulted him.

Physically.

With decorative flora.

That evil woman.

Any other boss would have fired her on the spot. Any other man would have been offended, called her crazy, demanded an apology.

But not him. Nah.

It had just made him hard.

He bit his lip, trying to focus. Had to compartmentalise. Had to…

“I will NEVER forgive you for this.”

The words echoed in his head like tinnitus. He closed his eyes, jaw clenching.

She’d draw a line. A hard boundary. And he’d... stopped?

Why had he stopped?

He could have had her. She was wet, ready, wanting it. He’d felt how aroused she was, felt her body responding. He did check! She’d kissed him back with the same desperation he felt. She would’ve let him. Been fine with it. Eventually. Probably.

But…

It was a risk.

“I will NEVER forgive you.”

He opened his eyes, stared at the crushed petal on his desk.

Canary Wharf.

He remembered that day. Remembered bending her over his desk, fucking her with the cold efficiency of a machine executing a command.

She was not happy about that.

“That’s why you ‘allowed’ what you did, isn’t it?”

Yeah.

He’d let her wrap that belt around his throat for retribution. Because the alternative - her never touching him again - had been worse than the humiliation. Worse than the loss of control.

And she knew it. She’d figured it out. Had used it to leash him.

Her threat had worked. Because he was afraid of losing something he couldn’t afford to lose.

Her.

“You do this and that’s it. We’re done.”

He winced at the echo. Throat suddenly tight.

He’d stopped because whatever they had - this toxic, complicated, probably-doomed thing - mattered more than taking what he wanted.

Which meant…

He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to focus on the Yamamoto report.

Trying not to think about how he’d exercised restraint not out of strategy or calculation, but because the thought of her never forgiving him was the worst thing in the world.

This was bad. This was dangerous. He was compromised in ways that could sink him.

His phone buzzed. A text from Jack:

“We’re at the restaurant. Bells just arrived. You cuming?”

Typo. The universe had a sense of humor.

“Not today, apparently.” He typed. Then deleted it.

He looked at the report on his screen, the wet Yamamoto paperwork. His exit strategy, his attempt at “going clean.”

He had to solve these thirteen points of failure. Had to close this deal. Had to prove he could go legitimate.

For her.

“Not hungry. Working. Have fun.” He replied.

The screen blurred again. He blinked, refocused, tried to parse the technical language about IoT sensors sensitivity and reliability of their maintenance data for Bayesian priors.

This was impossible.

She’d be back here soon enough. Running her mouth. Pushing. Testing. Asking him uncomfortable questions and he won’t even be able to fuck them out of her.

He’d have to keep stopping himself. Keep proving he cared when caring was the last thing he should be doing. When caring made him vulnerable in ways that could destroy everything he’d built.

Thirteen points of failure.

Make that fourteen.

Then it hit him.

Two birds, one stone.

He texted Jack.

“Get yourself and your three bods to my suite after lunch. We have work to do.”

There. Both problems solved though delegation and audience.

He will survive today.

Then nine more days. Nine more days in this floral hellscape with a woman who'd figured out exactly which buttons to push and seemed determined to push them all simultaneously.

---

HIATUS NOTICE:

This is a little note to let you know that the post above will be the last one for the next six months. It’s not because I’ve lost passion for the project or fallen into writer’s block - quite the opposite. I have too much passion for writing, to the point that it’s begun to interfere with the many other commitments life insists on handing me.

So I need to disappear for a bit. But expect me back - loudly, unapologetically - around early June next year.

In the meantime, I encourage you to use this break to catch up on the story if you haven’t already. And thank you, truly, for your continued support. You have no idea how much it’s meant. After spending nearly a decade in the throes of depression, this project - and perhaps even more so : this community - has felt like an awakening.

Thank you for being here. I might still be lurking and reading your posts so keep creating 💜

A massive thank you to all of you once more. Especially these lovely people:

Urvasi Devi Dasi , Sydney Taylor, A.D. Skyan , Mike Knittel , Bruno Rothgiesser ,The Mindwriter's Dharma , Carlos M. , Dark Romance Club , Wendy Russell , Moll Moonlight , imarkanx || istvan markan 🍁 💜 💜 💜