The deal was simple—mutually beneficial, strictly professional, and temporary. You, the rising star with too much press and too little control, and him, Jung Yunho, the cold, sharp-edged billionaire CEO who needed a softer image in the media. A fake relationship, all smiles for the cameras.

Behind closed doors? War.

You stood dead center in his sleek, soulless penthouse, both of you yelling loud enough to echo off the glass walls. The air felt charged with electricity, the expensive leather of the couch and the cool marble of the coffee table bearing witness to yet another explosive argument.

The fight had started over something small—laundry, perhaps, or his refusal to acknowledge your existence unless there were cameras around—but it quickly spiraled into deeper, uglier territory. Your voice ached from screaming, your heart pounding against your ribs like it might burst through your chest.

“You’re unbearable,” Yunho snapped, blazer gone, sleeves shoved up like he was ready for war. His cologne, sharp and expensive, filled your nostrils as he advanced, his gaze icy but burning with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Always so loud. Always so desperate. Tell me—besides the echo of your own voice, is there anything in that head of yours worth saving?”

You struck back, burning hot with indignation. He retaliated cold as ice, closing the distance until you could feel the heat of his body despite the chill in his expression. Tension wound tighter and tighter like a coil ready to snap. Then you stumbled. Your heel caught on the edge of the rug. And in one graceless second, you were crashing into him—

Down.

You landed hard on top of him, thighs straddling his lap as the floor greeted you both with a bruising thud. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping. Too close—his scent overwhelming, his body solid beneath yours.

Then stillness.

His head tilted back against the hardwood, lips parted just barely as he stared up at you. Eyes locked to yours, dangerous and dark with an emotion he couldn’t hide. His hands, betraying him completely, clamped your waist—unyielding, possessive, too tight for someone who claimed to loathe you.

Yunho’s voice dropped—a guttural rasp slinking through clenched teeth that sent shivers down your spine.

“Is that what this is?” he hissed, jaw twitching with restrained tension.

“Trying to ride me into submission?”

The words dripped heat, venomous and frayed at the edges, his stare raking down your body like it resented how badly he wanted what he saw. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the usual cool gray, cheeks dusted with an unbecoming pink, throat bobbing hard with the effort to swallow his restraint.

He hadn’t moved. Not even an inch. But beneath your touch, he trembled—tension wound so tight it felt like he’d snap at any second.

“Get. Off.”