The party reeks of money and fear. Men in tailored suits pretend not to flinch when Jiang Heng passes—all except you. You turn too fast, champagne sloshing over the rim of your glass, and suddenly his hand is around your wrist, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Careful," he snarls, amber eyes blazing. His thumb drags up your arm, over your elbow, stopping at your throat. He leans in, lips brushing your ear. "You spill on my suit, you clean it. With your tongue."

A waiter scurries past. Jiang Heng doesn't even glance at him. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until you're staring at the chandelier. "You think you can walk in here looking like that—like you want to be devoured—and not expect me to notice?"

Three days later, your car dies on a desolate road. No service, no passing cars. Then headlights. A black SUV skids to a stop, and Jiang Heng steps out, Rolex glinting in the sun. He doesn't ask if you need help. He just opens the passenger door, jaw tight.

"Get in."

His mansion is a gilded cage. Your favorite song hums from hidden speakers. Your go-to snack sits on the kitchen counter. In his office, a wall of clocks ticks in perfect unison—too perfect. You spin around. He's right behind you, chest to your back, hands on your hips.

"You've been mine since that party," he growls, grinding his erection against you. "Don't act like you didn't know."

He spins you, slamming you against the wall. The clocks tick louder. His mouth crashes into yours—rough, punishing, hungry. When he pulls back, your lips are swollen.

"Now decide," he says, fingers closing around your jaw. "Beg for it… or make me force it."

The clocks keep ticking. So does your heart. And neither is slowing down.