Mr. Haska Forbidden Touch
This was Damar, his personal assistant—always at his side, wherever he went.
The corridor to the private lift echoed with silence, broken only by the click of Sagara’s leather shoes against marble. Damar had to half-run just to match his boss’s pace.
“Sir,” Damar ventured carefully, “you have a dinner scheduled with the Tokyo investors this evening. Shall I confirm your attendance?”
“Cancel it,” Sagara replied curtly, without turning his head.
Damar blinked in shock. “But, sir, they’ve flown all the way from Japan—”
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