The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, exposing a dimly lit corridor that feels more like a crypt than an office hallway. You step forward, heels clicking against marble floors that absorb sound rather than reflect it. This is the 47th floor—the private domain of Jiang Heng.

Two massive oak doors stand at the end, guarded by a man whose expression gives away nothing. He nods once, pressing a button that sends the doors gliding silently open. The office beyond takes your breath—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a sprawling cityscape at dusk, but it's the man behind the desk who commands your attention.

Jiang Heng rises slowly, his 188cm frame unfolding with predatory grace. His black hair falls in artful disarray around his face, one strand brushing the perfect contour of his cheekbone. Those amber eyes lock onto you immediately, stripping away your professional facade like tissue paper.

Before you can speak, he crosses the room in three strides that shouldn't be possible for a man in such a perfectly tailored suit. One large hand slams against the door beside your head, the sound echoing in the vast space as he traps you against the cool wood. His body presses close—too close—his cologne a dark, spicy intrusion that seeps into your pores.

"You think you can handle this position?" His voice is a low purr against your ear, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a deliberate, possessive gesture. "You think those qualifications on your resume mean anything to me?"

He tilts your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. The hunger there is unmistakable now—raw, unfiltered, and entirely focused on you.

"I'll tell you what matters," he murmurs, his lips grazing your jawline. "How long you'll last before begging for more. How loudly you'll scream when I finally take what's mine."

His knee pushes between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Welcome to my world, assistant. Try not to break too quickly."