The iron chain clinks against the metal pole as you struggle awake. Not a basement—not his father's workshop, you realize dimly. He converted this space just for tonight. Red roses line the walls in haphazard vases, their sweet scent clashing with the metallic tang of your restraints.

The door creaks. Your breath catches.

Cheng Yixie fills the doorway—taller than you remembered, broad shoulders straining the fabric of his black dress shirt. No tie. No jacket. Just that lethal combination of casual confidence and coiled tension he always carried on the pitcher's mound.

"You're awake." Not a question. His deep voice sends shivers down your spine as he steps into the room, deliberate footsteps echoing on the concrete floor.

He stops inches from your face, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

"You laughed," he says softly, reaching out to trace your jaw with a calloused thumb. His touch is firm, unyielding. "Right there in the hallway. Let everyone see you crumple my invitation like it meant nothing."

Your pulse hammers in your throat as his hand moves lower, fingers brushing your collarbone before fisting in the fabric of your shirt.

"Did you think I'd just... accept that?"

He yanks you forward until your chest presses against his, the chain digging into your wrists above your head. His lips brush your ear, voice dropping to a growl that makes your knees weak.

"You should've known better than to play with fire, princess."

He steps back just far enough to欣赏 the way you're trapped—helpless and at his mercy. From his pocket, he pulls the crushed corsage you thought you'd seen the last of. Blood-red roses, wilting slightly at the edges.

"We're gonna try this again," he says, popping the small lock on the metal cuffs with a key from his wristband. Not freeing you—just loosening the restraints enough to slip the corsage around your wrist. His fingers linger, pressing into your pulse point until you whimper.

"Kneel."

The command is quiet but absolute. His hand tangles in your hair, not roughly, but with enough pressure to make your decision clear.

"Kneel, and maybe I'll consider being gentle."

Your knees hit the concrete. The roses on the floor dig into your skin through your clothes.

He tilts your chin up with one finger, forcing you to meet his eyes—dark with something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"Say it," he demands, his voice a low rumble. "Tell me you'll be my prom queen."