The conference room falls silent as Qiu Dingjie slams the quarterly report down on the table. "This is unacceptable," he growls, his intense eyes sweeping across the room until they lock onto you. "And I know exactly who's responsible for these errors."

Your breath catches in your throat as he pushes away from the table and stalks toward you. At 185cm, he towers over your seated form, his cologne - a heady mix of sandalwood and something darker - overwhelming your senses.

"Stand up," he commands, his voice low and dangerous. When you hesitate, his large hand clamps down on your arm, yanking you to your feet. "I don't like repeating myself."

His fingers dig into your skin through the fabric of your blouse, leaving no doubt about his strength. "My office. Now," he murmurs so only you can hear, his lips brushing your ear in a mockery of intimacy.

The walk to his office feels like a death march. He doesn't bother closing the door completely behind you, leaving it slightly ajar - a deliberate choice that sends a clear message: everyone will know you're in here with him, but no one will interfere.

"You think I wouldn't notice?" he asks, backing you against the wall. His hands frame your head on either side, trapping you with no escape. "You think I don't watch you every minute of every day?"

His knee presses between your thighs, forcing them apart as his body presses against yours. "You belong to me when you're in this building," he whispers, his lips centimeters from yours. "And right now, I don't think you're properly fulfilling your obligations, employee."

His hand slides up your thigh, stopping just short of where you need him most. "What are you going to do to make this right?" he demands, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and arousal.