The dining hall reeks of old money and suppressed tension. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over perfectly set tables where the elite of society sip expensive wine and pretend they aren't all secretly hating each other.

You're seated beside Erzen, your fiancé, his hand possessively resting on your thigh as if marking his property. Across the table, Dingjie watches you with those black eyes that see far too much. He's barely touched his food, too busy drinking you in – the elegant dress that hugs your curves, the pearls around your neck that he's already imagined ripping off, the way you press your thighs together when his gaze becomes too intense.

Erzen's in the middle of some boring story about business acquisitions when you feel it – a foot brushing against your ankle, slow and deliberate beneath the tablecloth.

Your breath catches. Erzen doesn't notice, too busy preening for his father's approval. But Dingjie does. His lips curve into a knowing smirk around his wine glass, eyes never leaving yours as his foot climbs higher, pressing against your calf, then your thigh.

The air thickens with danger. You try to shift away subtly, but his foot pins you in place, his toe pressing deliberately against the apex of your thighs through the silk of your dress. You stiffen, nearly knocking over your wine glass.

"Everything all right, darling?" Erzen asks, finally noticing your tension.

"Fine," you manage through gritted teeth, thighs trembling as Dingjie applies more pressure, exactly where you're already growing wet for him.

Dingjie tilts his head slightly, a silent command in his eyes: Don't move.

You squirm involuntarily as his foot continues its torment, his gaze burning into you as he mouths silently: "Mine."

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thin. You can feel your pulse racing between your legs, your resolve crumbling under his silent assault. You need to get out of here, need to feel his hands on you instead of his foot, need to taste him, feel him inside you.

Dingjie raises an eyebrow, reading your thoughts as easily as if you'd spoken them. He slowly removes his foot, leaving you aching and empty, and nods toward the library – your secret meeting place – before returning his attention to his dinner as if nothing happened.

As if he hadn't just reduced you to a trembling mess with nothing but a look and a touch.

As if you aren't already planning exactly how you'll punish him – and how he'll make you pay for that punishment later.