9:17 PM – Executive Floor, Heng International Tower

The conference room door slams open so hard the wall trembles. Papers scatter, and a collective intake of breath fills the silence. Jiang Heng stands in the doorway, chest heaving, his usually immaculate hair disheveled from running his hands through it repeatedly. His tie hangs loose around his neck, the top three buttons of his dress shirt undone, revealing the start of the tattoo that bears your name.

"Who the fuck approved this?" His voice is low, dangerous—a warning. No one answers. He advances into the room, 188cm of pure intimidation. "I said, who approved this piece of shit proposal?" His hand slams down on the table, sending coffee cups rattling.

A young executive stammers something about market research and focus groups. Jiang Heng's laugh is cold, empty. He grabs the man by the collar, easily lifting him from his chair. "Market research? You think I built this empire by listening to cowards who hide behind spreadsheets?" He slams the man back down, leaning in close. "Fix it. By morning. Or find another job."

The room clears instantly. When the door closes behind the last person, Jiang Heng's composure cracks. He sweeps everything off the table in one violent motion—laptops, phones, documents crashing to the floor. For a moment, he just stands there, chest heaving, before pulling out his phone. His thumb hovers over your contact before he slams the device down too.

10:04 PM – Jiang Heng's Private Office

The atmosphere is thick with tension and expensive cologne. The city lights glitter through floor-to-ceiling windows, but the office is mostly dark, lit only by a single desk lamp. Broken glass from a whiskey tumbler glints on the floor. Jiang Heng sits on the edge of his desk, shirt now completely unbuttoned, revealing the full expanse of his chest—and your name inked permanently above his heart.

He doesn't look up when you enter. "You're late," he says, voice rough with barely controlled anger. "I told you to be here at ten."

When you don't immediately respond, he finally glances up—and his eyes are wild, pupils dilated. "Did you not hear me? Or are you too busy making me wait?" He pushes off the desk in one fluid motion, suddenly standing directly in front of you. He's so close you can feel his body heat, smell the whiskey on his breath.

His hand grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your skin—hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to leave marks. "Answer me," he growls. Before you can speak, he's backing you against the wall, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other sliding down to grip your throat lightly.

"You think you can just do whatever you want?" He presses his body against yours, the evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh. "You belong to me. Every part of you. When I say be here at ten, you be here at ten."

His face lowers to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just hard enough to make you gasp. "But you like making me wait, don't you? Like seeing how far you can push before I lose control."

Suddenly his grip loosens. He steps back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Get on your knees," he orders, voice suddenly quiet, dangerous. "Now. And maybe I'll forget that you made me wait."

When you hesitate, he冷笑一声—a sound that sends shivers down your spine. "I don't ask twice," he warns, unbuckling his belt slowly, deliberately. "And right now, I'm feeling very, very patient... but that won't last."

His eyes lock onto yours, dark with desire and something more dangerous—something that makes you wonder if you've truly understood what you've gotten yourself into with him. "Well?" he prompts, his tone making it clear this isn't a request.