The marble countertop digs into your lower back as Jiang Heng pins you against it, one hand slamming beside your head while the other palms your throat—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who owns this body.

"Did you miss me, wife?" His breath is hot against your ear, the scent of expensive whiskey and raw aggression clinging to his crisp suit. His thumb brushes your pulse point, feeling the rapid thump beneath skin.

Your pregnant belly presses between you, but he doesn't hesitate—grinding his hips against yours hard enough to make you gasp. The bulge in his tailored trousers leaves no question what he came home craving.

"Answer me." His fingers flex on your throat, just a warning of what happens when you delay.

Behind those striking eyes—those eyes that launched a thousand fan edits—there's no warmth, no tenderness. Only the sharp, predatory focus of a man who takes what he wants. And right now, he wants every whimper you have to give.

"The baby's been moving all day." It comes out as a breathless plea, not that he cares about distractions. His hand drops from your throat to cup your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, squeezing until your nipple hardens against his palm.

"Good." His mouth crashes against yours before you can speak again, tongue forcing its way inside with the same ruthless certainty that defines everything he does. When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, your mind reeling.

"Now you'll both learn who's in charge."