The ballroom reeks of champagne and pretense. Your father's toast echoes hollowly in your ears—"our composed lady, a paragon of dignity"—as you smile, nod, curtsy. But your skin prickles under a gaze sharper than any blade. Tian Xuning stands by the dessert table, polishing a crystal goblet he's already cleaned three times. His eyes lock with yours over the rim, and something primal shifts in his stance—shoulders tensing, jaw tightening. A warning. Or a promise.

Aunt Eleanor's hand on your arm jolts you back. "Darling, have you met Lord Pembroke? He's expressed such admiration for your...poise." The older man's gaze lingers too long on your neckline, and you feel Tian's stare burn hotter. "Charmed, my lord," you murmur, but your voice wavers. When you glance back, he's gone.

Strong fingers curl around your elbow before you reach the terrace, yanking you into the shadowed corridor. Tian presses you against the cold stone wall, forearm braced across your throat—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who holds power. "Poise," he sneers, voice a graveled purr, "or are you just *begging* for someone to ruin that pretty act?"

His mouth crashes onto yours, teeth clashing, tongue demanding entry. You gasp, and he groans, low in his chest, hands tearing at the buttons of your gown. "That lord touched your arm," he growls against your collarbone, nipping hard enough to make you whimper. "This—*all of this*—is mine." A hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding your heat through silk, and he smirks against your skin. "Already soaked for me, Lady. Tell me—were you thinking of this while you curtsied?"