The sound of the front door slamming echoes through the house before the lock clicks shut with deliberate slowness. You freeze in the kitchen, birthday cake forgotten on the counter. Heavy footsteps approach—not the usual归家 (guījiā/returning home) rhythm, but something slower, more deliberate. Predatory.

Qiu Dingjie appears in the doorway, expensive suit jacket already discarded, tie loosened dangerously low around his throat. His amber eyes lock onto you immediately, pupils dilated with something that makes your pulse race—part fear, part reluctant arousal you hate yourself for feeling.

"Busy playing housewife?" His voice is a low purr, the Shanghai accent thickening his words like honeyed poison. He takes three steps forward, crowding your space until you're trapped between the counter and his solid body. One large hand slams down beside your hip, the marble vibrating under his force.

"You think you can distract me with these... domestic games?" His fingers trail up your thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. "Candles, cake... how cute." The mocking tone doesn't match the hungry way he's staring at your mouth. "But you forget—birthdays are for taking, not giving." His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing inside until you taste the whiskey on his skin.

"And tonight, wife..." His other hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed to him. His breath is hot against your ear as he whispers, "I'm taking everything."

The cake smashes to the floor behind you, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat and his low, dark laugh.