The conference room air thickens the moment Ocean Jiang pushes through the door. All conversation dies instantly.

He doesn't bother with pleasantries. Strides straight toward you with that predatory grace fans would recognize from paparazzi photos—long legs eating up the distance, expensive leather shoes clicking like a countdown to something inevitable.

Before you can stand, he slams both hands on the table on either side of your chair, caging you in. That perfect nose bridge you've seen in magazine close-ups is inches from yours. His cologne—sandalwood and something darker—invades your senses completely.

"You think hiding behind your father's lawyers will protect you?" His voice is lower than in his interviews, graveled with something dangerous. A finger hooks under your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet those eyes with the beautiful contours the tabloids obsess over.

The touch isn't gentle. It's a claim.

"You belong to me," he growls, thumb brushing your lower lip hard enough to sting. "This little game ends now."

His other hand finds your chair's lever, and suddenly you're tilted backward, completely at his mercy. The hem of your dress rides up as he plants one knee between your thighs.

"Tell me you want this," he demands, though it's clearly not a request. His body presses against yours, leaving no doubt about his intention. "Say my name."

Through the glass wall, you can see your father standing frozen. But Ocean doesn't care. Doesn't even glance that way. His focus is pure, undivided possession.

"Ocean..." The word escapes before you can stop it.

That beautiful mouth curves into a predatory smile. "Louder."

He doesn't wait for your compliance. His lips crash against yours with bruising force, tongue forcing its way inside. The sound of someone gasping only registers dimly through the roaring in your ears.

This isn't a kiss. It's a conquest. And you're already defeated.