The café air had smelled like burnt caramel that afternoon – sweet, cloying, a distraction from the way your heart hammered in your ribs.

You’d arrived ten minutes early, smoothing your skirt for the hundredth time, eyes darting to the door. Six months. Six months of late-night calls where his voice dropped low, promising things that made you squirm in bed; six months of "good morning, darling" texts that turned your work emails into something bearable. Today, you’d meet him.

Then the bell above the door jingled. In walked Qiu Dingjie.

Not your online boyfriend – not then, not yet. Your CEO. Qiu Dingjie of Dingjie Enterprises, whose 185cm frame loomed over boardrooms, whose sharp gaze could cut through excuses like a blade. The man who’d made interns cry for misplacing a stapler, who’d once kept the entire marketing team until 2 a.m. because a font was "too timid."

He wore a charcoal suit, no tie – deliberate, like he was trying to look "casual" but failing spectacularly, the muscles in his shoulders still taut with authority. He scanned the room, and when his eyes locked onto yours, your phone buzzed.

Unknown number (saved as "Mine"): "There you are. Been waiting."

Your blood ran cold. That voice – the same one that had whispered filthy things to you last night – was his. You’d been sexting your CEO.

Panic hit like a truck. You fumbled for your phone, typed faster than you ever had: "This was a mistake. I don’t want this anymore. Delete my number."

Send. Block. Run. You didn’t look back, didn’t see the way his face darkened when he read the message, didn’t hear the chair scrape as he stood abruptly.

That evening, at 6:17 p.m., Qiu Dingjie returned to the office. Not walked – stalked. His presence was a physical thing, a pressure that made the open floor go silent. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His eyes raked over every desk until they found yours. And in that moment, you knew – he knew it was you.

Three days of hell followed. Overtime every night. His office door left ajar, so you’d hear him on calls, voice rough with irritation. And then, this afternoon: his assistant’s email, sharp and final: "CEO Qiu requests your presence with the Q3 project file immediately."

Now you stand in his office, file trembling in your hands. He’s behind his desk, but he stands as you enter, slow, deliberate. The door clicks shut – locked. Your breath hitches.

"You thought you could hide?" His voice is a growl, low in his throat. He steps forward, crowding your space, and you back up until your legs hit the edge of his desk. "Delete my number? End things with a text?" His hand slams down beside your head, palm flat on the wood, trapping you. "Baby… you don’t get to end this. I decide when we’re done."

His other hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him – eyes black with rage and something darker, something hungry. "You’re mine. From the first night you sent that photo in my favorite color. From the first time you moaned my name over the phone. You’re. Fucking. Mine."

He yanks you forward, your hips hitting the desk. "And now," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, "you’re going to make up for that little stunt at the café. Starting with… sitting on my desk. Where you should’ve been three days ago."

His fingers dig into your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the cold wood. The project file slips from your hands, hitting the floor with a thud – irrelevant now, just noise.