The first thing she felt was weight.
Po, sprawled luxuriously across her stomach, purring like a small engine of judgment.
Itachi stirred.
Eyelids half-lifted. A quiet groan.
She reached for her phone with one hand, barely moving the rest of her body.
The screen blinked awake.
She stared.
Then sighed.
She was late.
Terribly late.
Classes had started… well, some time ago. Probably just in time for Kakashi Hatake to mark her absent in that neat, disapproving scrawl of his.
She lay there for another ten seconds.
Then got up—no rush, no alarm.
She moved through her routine like a queen reclaiming her throne.
A hot shower.
A spritz of Tom Ford in place of remorse.
In her closet—a pink Chanel skirt, delicate and structured. A white blouse, modest but silken. And beside them, the ever-reliable black Dior dress that said I'm powerful, and I don't care what time it is.
She held them up, turning to Po who was now lounging on her vanity chair like he owned the place.
"What says 'I'm sorry I'm late' without actually meaning it?"
Po's tail flicked lazily toward the Chanel.
Itachi nodded.
"Good. I like passive aggression."
And just like that, the decision was made.
She skipped breakfast.
Not because she wasn't hungry, but because the memory of ramen still lingered like a ghost on her tongue—warm, messy, honest. Food that tasted like the street instead of power.
Her phone buzzed nonstop.
The Akatsuki group chat was in flames.
Izumi: Did she die?
Konan: Or get kidnapped?
Deidara: Maybe the silver-haired nerd finally buried her body somewhere academic.
Hidan: I bet she eloped.
Kakuzu: If she doesn't show up in 5 minutes I'm claiming her seat and selling it.
Itachi only replied:
Itachi: Long night.
No further context. No elaboration.
Let them burn.
She walked through the university gates with her usual glide—heels silent, skirt sharp, eyes unreadable.
She was late.
But she couldn't be marked absent.
That was part of the deal.
Minato's condition: don't skip.
Fine.
She'd follow the letter of the law.
Not its spirit.
She reached the classroom door and paused for one heartbeat.
Then opened it.
The room went quiet instantly.
All eyes turned.
The Akatsuki were already mid-bet.
Deidara raised a slow, mocking brow. Hidan mouthed finally. Kakuzu sighed like he owed someone money.
And at the front of the room—
Kakashi looked up from the board.
Eyes flat.
Itachi stepped in without hesitation.
Her pink Chanel skirt caught the light. The white blouse crisp against her skin.
She turned to him, composed as ever.
"Good morning, Hatake-sensei."
A pause.
"I'm sorry I'm late."
Delivered with just enough grace to be legal.
And not one ounce more.
Kakashi looked at her.
His expression was unreadable, but his mouth curved just enough to let her know he wasn't impressed.
"You can go back to whatever important business you have," he said, tone smooth and flat.
"I've already marked you absent."
The silence was immediate.
Even the clock seemed to hesitate.
Itachi stood there, pink Chanel and perfectly collected.
"I'm here now," she said, voice like ice breaking.
Kakashi didn't flinch.
"That's nice."
He turned back to the board.
"Too bad numbers don't work retroactively."
Her heels echoed softly as she crossed the room.
Not rushed. Not flustered.
Calculated.
She didn't speak.
Just walked up to Kakashi's desk and sat—gracefully, precisely—right at the edge of it. Like it was hers.
The room went breathless.
Kakashi paused mid-sentence, one brow lifting ever so slightly.
She picked up the black marker.
Held it between her fingers like a dagger.
Her eyes met his.
Unblinking.
"I don't like disappointing people," she said softly, each word laced in silk and steel.
"Especially not the ones who matter."
It wasn't a threat.
It was a reminder.
One that echoed far beyond the walls of this classroom, into polished boardrooms and whispered phone calls where her last name weighed more than money.
Then, slowly, she raised the marker to the board beside him.
And wrote one word in perfect cursive:
Present.
Then turned the marker in her hand and offered it to Kakashi.
Like a challenge.
Or a choice.
Kakashi took the marker from her hand.
For a moment, he didn't move. Just stood there, expression unreadable—like a man deciding whether to detonate something or just file the memory for later.
Then, calmly:
"I'll report this to the director," he said. "Let him decide on a fitting punishment."
Itachi tilted her head, almost curious.
"You don't know how to solve problems on your own?" she asked sweetly.
Then, with the softest lilt—
"That's why you need your sensei to step in?"
She added the honorific like a dagger tucked in silk.
"Hatake-sensei."
The class froze.
Then—
Deidara let out a short, strangled snort.
She tried to suppress it, shoulders shaking, hand flying to her mouth.
But it was too late.
The Akatsuki broke.
Hidan laughed openly. Izumi smirked behind her notebook. Even Konan's lips twitched like they'd been paid to stay still.
Kakashi's jaw flexed once.
Itachi slid into her seat beside Deidara like she'd been on time all along.
Crossed her legs.
Smoothed her skirt.
Turned her head slightly.
"I'll make sure the university mark the rumors about you getting this job through connections are false," she said coolly, "if my name is marked as present today."
Kakashi didn't turn.
But the marker moved.
And the attendance board changed.
The marker capped with a click.
He set it down without fanfare, then turned back to the class.
Eyes swept the room once—briefly, like a sniper scanning targets.
Then landed back on her.
"Fine," Kakashi said. "You're present."
He paused.
Then, with infuriating calm:
"Emotionally fragile, professionally entitled, and academically bankrupt… but present."
The class choked.
Konan coughed into her sleeve. Hidan wheezed like he was witnessing divine karma. Deidara fully leaned onto the desk, red-faced and grinning like a sinner at confession.
Itachi didn't blink.
But her fingers twitched against the edge of her skirt.
Kakashi turned back to the board, letting the laughter die down.
He spoke without facing her.
"But since you've made such a statement this morning, I'd hate for you to walk away without learning something valuable."
His chalk tapped once, sharp and deliberate.
"Starting today, you'll report to my office after class."
Itachi's gaze sharpened.
"For what?" she asked, cool but wary.
Kakashi glanced over his shoulder.
"Reflection."
A pause.
"Thirty minutes. Every day. For the next five classes."
A soft rustle went through the class.
Kakashi stepped away from the board, voice still infuriatingly calm.
"You'll assist with lecture prep, file records, and maybe—just maybe—learn the difference between punctuality and performance."
He looked her dead in the eye.
"No excuses. No makeup time. Miss a session… and I'll mark today retroactively as a full-day absence."
And just like that—
He turned back to the lecture.
Moving on like it was nothing.
The moment Kakashi turned away, the Akatsuki twisted in their seats like wolves catching blood in the wind.
Izumi raised an eyebrow.
Konan gave her a sideways glance that said respect.
Sasori didn't even look, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth was telling.
Deidara leaned over, barely containing her grin.
"Thirty minutes with him every day?" she whispered. "You into suffering now, or is this a long-con seduction strategy?"
Itachi sighed.
Low and deliberate.
She leaned back in her seat like she'd just been sentenced to peel diamonds with tweezers.
"Well," she muttered, "thirty minutes isn't that bad."
She adjusted her skirt.
"At least I got marked present."
A pause.
Then, under her breath—
"Uncle Madara better reserve a private jet with pink leather seats for this one."
Deidara snorted.
Kakuzu scribbled a note in the margins of his textbook: Potential extortion value: Uchiha discomfort 1 million yen.
—-
POV: Shisui Uchiha
The marble floors whispered beneath his Louboutin soles as he stepped into the grand hall.
The Uchiha crest glinted gold on every wall—discreet but omnipresent. His family's shadow hung in every chandelier, every crystal decanter, every silent bow from the staff.
They knew who owned this place.
More importantly—
They knew who really ran it.
The hotel manager, Inabi, appeared from behind the concierge desk with the reverence of a monk approaching the altar.
"Shisui-sama," he murmured, bowing low. "She's here."
Shisui didn't smile.
He only nodded once.
Took the elevator.
Top floor.
Penthouse suite 7007. A number chosen on purpose—lucky, hidden, reversible. Just like the nature of the sin behind the door.
The lock clicked open.
And there she was.
Tsunade Senju.
Sprawled across the bed in red lace lingerie, gold hair tousled, curves like something designed to ruin treaties.
Her smile curled slow and wicked.
"Well," she purred. "You kept me waiting."
Shisui stepped inside, loosened his tie, and closed the door behind him.
"Diplomatic tensions," he said dryly. "You know how it is."
She laughed—low, sultry, dangerous.
"And yet you still came."
He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the velvet armchair.
"I always do."
She didn't wait.
The door clicked shut and Tsunade was already on him—bare legs wrapped around his waist, mouth at his neck, fingers unbuttoning his shirt with the kind of ease that only comes from doing it often, and doing it well.
Shisui didn't resist.
Didn't speak.
He just caught her with both hands, gripping her thighs like he was anchoring something dangerous.
Everyone in his family thought he was too busy to date.
Too focused.
Too perfect.
Uncle Madara's golden boy.
Built for diplomacy, legacy, and twenty-year plans.
Part of that was true.
He did love his job. He loved the clean lines of architecture, the thrill of acquisition, the way a perfectly executed negotiation felt like winning a war without blood.
But he also loved Tsunade's tits.
He shoved her back against the nearest wall, lips on her collarbone now, her moan low and satisfied.
Aunt Mikoto always said soft girls would suit him best.
That he needed someone gentle. Quiet. Elegant.
She was wrong.
Because Tsunade was none of those things.
And he loved it.
She bit his lower lip and tugged it hard enough to make him groan.
"Tell me," she whispered, voice husky, "what would Uncle Madara think if he saw you now?"
He grinned against her neck, dragged her bra strap down with his teeth.
"He'd think I'm expanding our influence," he murmured. "One rival clan at a time."
She laughed, breathless.
He carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing, laid her out like a map he was born to conquer.
Soft girls submitted too easily.
Tsunade fought him with her teeth and nails.
Her hands pushed him back just to pull him in harder. Her thighs squeezed like shackles, her nails left trails across his back.
He pressed into her slowly, savoring the way her body arched.
This wasn't softness.
This was power.
Two enemies in a luxury bed with blackout curtains and centuries of bad blood between them.
He moved inside her with control, each thrust deliberate, like strategy.
"Say it," she hissed, breath ragged. "Say who owns you."
He caught her chin with one hand, eyes dark.
"No one," he whispered.
Then he pushed deeper.
"Not even you."
She gasped, lips parting, fingers fisting in his hair.
They were tangled in silk sheets and sweat, breath mixing like heat against glass.
His pace had slowed—just enough to let her feel it. Controlled. Intentional. Cruel in the way only lovers can be.
Then he leaned down, lips brushing her ear.
"What about you?" he murmured. "Same excuse to your grandfather?"
Tsunade chuckled, low and unbothered.
"That wasn't an excuse," she said. "I did gamble in your hotel casino while waiting for you."
Shisui's smile sharpened.
Without warning, he flipped her—strong hands dragging her under him in one fluid, practiced motion. Her back arched instinctively, mouth parting with a moan she didn't try to hold back.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragged her head back just enough to bare her throat.
"Gambling in my casino," he muttered, voice husky against her neck. "Getting fucked in my penthouse."
He thrust harder now, rougher.
Each movement punctuated.
"I get the income…"
He pulled her hair again, forced her to look up at him.
"…and the girl."
A grin, feral and beautiful.
"How lucky."
Tsunade gasped, legs trembling around him.
But she didn't beg.
She only bit her lip.
And smirked back.
Because if he thought this was about winning—
He didn't know how far she'd let him fall first.
—-
POV: Itachi Uchiha
This must be what death feels like.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just slow.
Like watching Uncle Madara and Father play golf on a Sunday morning—silent swings, judgmental glances, and a four-hour commentary on turf quality.
That's what this lecture felt like.
She didn't even hate the material.
She just hated the stillness of it.
No pranks.
No excuse to slip away and drag the Akatsuki into a luxury mall misadventure.
Just numbers. Charts. And Hatake-sensei droning on about risk portfolios with the emotional range of a salt crystal.
Deidara was halfway to unconscious. Mascara-perfect eyes drooping as she propped her chin on one hand.
Hidan stared at the board like he was watching blood dry—twitchy, haunted, slightly aroused.
Kakuzu had stopped taking notes ten minutes ago and was clearly calculating the resale value of his own soul.
And Itachi?
She stared at the clock.
One minute left.
One.
Minato Namikaze must have blackmail on the entire Ministry of Education. That was the only explanation for why even she wasn't getting special treatment.
Her surname was Uchiha.
It meant power.
It meant freedom.
It meant skipping class with a note from her uncle that said "She's excused. Permanently."
But not here.
Not under that sun-blond director with the perfect teeth and the hidden steel behind his eyes.
She sighed.
Delicate.
Poised.
Suffering.
Hatake-sensei finally closed his tablet with that quiet finality that said no one was getting out early—not even the mafia princess.
"You're dismissed."
The moment Kakashi dismissed them, the Akatsuki stood like survivors pulled from a plane crash.
Desks scraped.
Chairs groaned.
Deidara slung her bag over her shoulder, blonde hair a little frizzed from exhaustion, and clicked her tongue in theatrical sympathy.
"I'm sorry you have to endure another thirty minutes," she whispered, like she was offering condolences at a funeral.
Itachi sighed.
Rolled her eyes.
Lifted her hand in a lazy wave as the others filtered out one by one.
Izumi gave her a two-finger salute.
Hidan grinned like he was off to commit crimes.
Kakuzu didn't look back—he was already calculating how much thirty minutes of her time should be worth.
Itachi stood alone now.
The room felt colder without them.
She turned her head slightly, watched the door swing shut behind Deidara, like freedom had a hinge and she was not invited through it.
"Goodbye," she muttered, to no one in particular. "Enjoy your lives, you lucky bastards."
She dropped her tote bag onto the desk.
Sat down with all the grace of a woman preparing for public execution.
Her mind drifted—naturally—to the night before.
To the dim glow of neon on rain-drenched pavement.
To the smell of ramen and ink.
To the shark.
She'd never admit it out loud, but...
It was worth it.
Every painful minute of this next half hour.
Every jab from Kakashi.
Every "reflection session" disguised as punishment.
Because at least last night—she saw something real.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
"Erase the board," Kakashi said flatly, not even looking up.
He was still seated at his desk, thumb casually scrolling across his phone screen. Probably texting Minato. Or the Ministry of Boredom.
Itachi stared at him for a full three seconds.
Then stood.
Picked up the eraser with the poise of a queen holding a dead rat.
Wiped down the board one clean stroke at a time—methodically, elegantly, like she was scrubbing a crime scene of dignity.
He didn't glance up once.
Finally, Kakashi stood, sliding his phone into his pocket.
"Follow me."
Of course.
Dean of Faculty.
She rolled her eyes internally and followed him down the corridor. Past silent halls, past glass doors etched with university logos and fake prestige.
And then—
They stopped.
A tall, wooden door.
Private plaque.
Hatake, K. Department of Economics – Faculty Dean
She should've known.
Of course he got a private cabinet.
Of course it overlooked the damn university garden.
She stepped inside and scanned the space without moving her head. Clean. Quiet. Too many books. Smelled like pine and subtle ego.
Then her gaze landed on a small silver frame on his desk.
A photo.
The golden-haired Director Namikaze, all smiles, standing with a young Kakashi in graduation attire—next to a woman with warm brown eyes and a heart-shaped face.
Rin.
Of course.
She smirked, turning slowly toward him.
"So," she said, tilting her head just slightly. "How long did it take you to ask for the cabinet with the garden view?"
He didn't answer.
She let the smile curl just a bit more.
"Or was it a Christmas gift from Daddy Namikaze?"
Kakashi didn't even flinch.
He walked past her, calm as a sermon, and placed a folder onto the desk with surgical precision.
Then, without looking at her:
"You must be confused, Miss Uchiha."
He flipped the folder open, pages rustling like quiet judgment.
"Nepotism doesn't get you very far here. You'd know that—if you weren't still losing to the clock every morning."
A pause.
Then he looked up at her, expression flat, voice smooth as ice.
"And I suggest you remember who you're talking to."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then:
"Hatake-sensei."
Kakashi slid open a drawer, pulled out a small, crisp stack of ivory stationery, and placed it on the desk between them like a peace offering made of nails.
"You'll be writing personalized welcome notes," he said. "For twenty incoming freshmen."
Itachi blinked.
"I'm not a receptionist."
"No," he agreed, voice utterly calm. "You're an Uchiha. Let's show them what refinement looks like."
He walked away and sat at his desk like the matter was closed.
No argument.
No negotiation.
Itachi stared at the paper like it had personally insulted her.
Then—slowly, wordlessly—she pulled out her pen.
If she was going to be punished, she'd make sure her torment was flawless.
Her handwriting was beautiful. Not cutesy, not childish—elegant. Sharp.
Like calligraphy dipped in confidence.
No swirls.
No hearts.
Just crisp lines and that signature Itachi slant that whispered: Yes, I'm better than you, and yes, this is a threat disguised as a warm welcome.
Each card was its own little masterpiece.
Dear Hiroto, welcome to the Department of Economics. May your time here be as efficient as your resume implies.
Dear Chiasa, I hope you enjoy your next four years. Statistically, you'll be in debt by the end of them.
Dear Riku, work hard. The world won't give you anything—unless you own the world. Then, maybe.
—-
POV: Kakashi Hatake
She didn't complain.
That alone was unsettling.
No scoffs, no rolled eyes, no veiled threats disguised as compliments.
Just... silence.
He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting near his tablet, the other near the coffee he hadn't touched in an hour.
She sat across from him at the long wooden table—pen in hand, posture perfect, and handwriting as lethal as her stare.
He watched her for a moment longer than necessary.
Each stroke of her pen was deliberate. Stylish. Controlled. Not a single line out of place.
He wondered—briefly—if she practiced that elegance, or if it came with the surname.
With power.
It should've annoyed him.
The arrogance.
The poise.
The way she turned punishment into performance like she was still in control.
But instead... it intrigued him.
Itachi Uchiha was not what he expected.
Not just a spoiled heiress with too many expensive shoes and not enough self-awareness.
There was something sharp underneath.
Something that didn't rattle easily.
He reached for one of the cards she'd finished.
Read it silently.
Dear Eiji, welcome to your new life. Statistics say most people here don't make it to graduation without a breakdown. Try to be the outlier.
A smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth.
He set the card down.
Said nothing.
And kept watching her—like a man watching a blade being polished and wondering how long before it turns.
—-
POV: Itachi Uchiha
She signed the last card with a flourish.
Set her pen down.
Straightened her spine like she hadn't just spent twenty-five minutes pretending not to stab every envelope with her soul.
She slid the stack across the desk.
Perfect.
Poised.
Done.
Kakashi looked up from his screen. Glanced at the cards. Then at her.
And said—
"Good. Now fetch me coffee."
Itachi blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Two spoons of sugar. Dark roast. Decaf." He didn't look up again. Just tapped something into his tablet like she was a voice-activated intern.
She stared.
This man.
This silver-haired sadist in business-casual black.
He knew. He had to know.
She had never fetched coffee in her life.
Not for anyone.
Not for her father. Not even for Uncle Madara—and he ran half the country in designer suits and death threats.
And now this man wanted her to waltz across campus to the café like a secretary in Chanel?
She stood.
Grabbed her tote.
And smiled.
Tight. Polite. Murderous.
"Of course, Hatake-sensei," she said sweetly. "I assume you want it hot. Unlike your sense of humor."
The cafeteria reeked of mediocrity.
Too bright. Too noisy. Too full of people who didn't bow when she passed.
She sighed and pulled out her phone.
Itachi: Imagine what he made me do…
Hidan: Stamp lecture notes with your blood?
Sasori: Remove your nail polish?
Itachi: Fetch coffee .
The chat exploded.
Deidara: Spit in it. Classic.
Itachi: Gross. I have a better idea…
Izumi: I'm sweating for him.
Konan: Alright, what's the plan?
She smirked, already at the counter.
Itachi: *Let's see how he sleeps tonight with regular coffee instead of decaf :) *
Konan responded with a single emoji:
She ordered smoothly. Dark roast. Two sugars. Just like he asked. But when the barista asked "Caffeine or decaf?"—Itachi didn't blink.
"Regular," she said, flashing a serene smile. "Make it strong."
By the time she returned to the office, the cup was hot, the lid perfectly sealed, and her face unreadable.
She set it down on his desk with the elegance of a bomb in a gift box.
"Your coffee," she said sweetly.
He looked up from his screen. Met her eyes. Held them just a second too long.
"…Thank you."
She smiled.
"Anytime, Hatake-sensei."
He took the cup without ceremony.
Lifted it.
Sipped.
Hot. Sharp. Bitter as her attitude.
Perfect.
"Dismissed," he said, voice low and final.
She gave a little bow—mockery disguised as manners—and turned without a word.
Her heels clicked against the polished floor.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
She didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
Her fingers were already on her phone before she even reached the hallway's end.
She leaned against the wall, exhaled slowly, and let the taste of victory sit on her tongue like the afterglow of a perfect insult.
Some girls flirted with professors.
She caffeinated them into insomnia.