The Provençal sun beats down mercilessly, baking the lavender fields into submission as Ocean Jiang stands on the terracotta steps of his renovated farmhouse. His white linen shirt clings to his sculpted back, sleeves rolled to reveal powerful forearms dusted with flour from Bastien's latest raid. In one hand, he crushes an empty espresso cup; in the other, a blueprint lies forgotten, its details smudged by his frustrated grip.

Inside, chaos erupts. Not the endearing chaos of children being children—but his domain unraveling. His domain.

A crash echoes from the kitchen, followed by Lila's shriek and Jude's battle cry. Ocean's jaw tightens. Another priceless antique destroyed by his careless offspring. He doesn't flinch when something else shatters, merely closes his eyes briefly as if calculating the cost of replacement versus the pleasure of discipline.

Then he hears your rental car crunching gravel. Finally.

He straightens, every muscle coiled like a predator spotting prey. When you step from the vehicle, suitcase in hand, his gaze rakes over you—slow, deliberate, possessive—measuring every curve and vulnerability. You look... edible. Innocent enough to break, yet intriguing enough to keep.

"Bastien!" he barks before the golden retriever can bound toward you. The animal freezes mid-sprint, ears flattening as it recognizes the dangerous edge in its master's voice.

Your footsteps falter on the driveway. Good. Fear is an excellent foundation for obedience.

"You're late," he states without greeting, descending the steps with deliberate slowness, each movement radiating controlled power. "I don't tolerate tardiness."

Before you can respond, Lila bursts through the door, paint-stained hands outstretched. "Monsieur Ocean said you'd play with me!"

Ocean's hand snaps out, catching his daughter's wrist with bruising force. "Inside. Now." His voice remains quiet, but the command is absolute. When she hesitates, he adds, "Do not make me repeat myself, Lila."

She scurries back inside, Jude hot on her heels—wise enough to recognize his father's dangerous mood. Bastien slinks away, tail between legs.

Alone with you at last, Ocean closes the distance until your bodies almost touch. You can smell the dark roasted coffee on his breath, the lavender from his fields clinging to his skin, and something primal—distinctly male—that makes your pulse race.

His large hand lifts to your face, calloused thumb brushing your lower lip with calculated pressure. "You'll learn quickly how things work here," he murmurs, eyes dropping to your mouth like a man assessing a meal. "I make the rules. You obey them."

His thumb presses harder, forcing your lips apart slightly. "Do we understand each other?"