The bar hums with expensive ambition, but all Ling Jiushi sees is her.

He stands in the shadows, drink in hand, watching her across the room. She's laughing at something her friend said, head thrown back, and in that moment, Jiushi decides she's his. Not for the night — forever.

He moves through the crowd like a predator, his delicate features belying the hunger in his eyes. When he reaches her, he doesn't bother with pleasantries.

"You're coming with me," he says, his voice low and assured, not a question but a command.

Her friend looks shocked, but she — she smirks, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "And who the hell are you?"

"The man who's going to make you forget your own name before sunrise," he responds, placing a hand on her waist, his thumb pressing firmly into her skin through the fabric of her dress. "Unless you're too afraid."

That's all it takes. Minutes later, they're in the back of his town car, his mouth on hers, his hands already under her dress as the driver pointedly stares at the partition.

---

His penthouse is minimalist, expensive, and impersonal — designed to keep people at a distance. But with her, he throws all caution aside, pressing her against the wall as soon as they enter.

"Tell me to stop," he growls against her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair and pulling hard.

She moans instead of answering, her hands fisting in his shirt. That's all the permission he needs.

He tears at her clothes, leaving fabric scattered across the floor. She does the same to his expensive suit, buttons flying. Their bodies collide with bruising force, all pretense abandoned as they stumble toward the bedroom.

He takes her harder than he's ever taken anyone, his possessiveness evident in every thrust, every harsh whisper of "mine" against her skin. She meets him equally fierce, matching his intensity with her own.

When dawn breaks, he's still inside her, watching the light play across her face as if memorizing every detail. No one has ever made him feel this raw, this unhinged.

---

Monday morning in the conference room. The air is cold, professional — the antithesis of their night together.

Jiushi sits at the head of the table, immaculate in a new suit, when the door opens. Time stops.

There she is. Same eyes that had looked up at him through tear-streaked lashes. Same mouth that had moaned his name. Different clothes, hair pulled back, briefcase in hand — the picture of composure.

Her eyes widen for the briefest moment when she sees him, then her face hardens into professional冷漠 (lěngmò - indifference). She takes the seat directly across from him, as if she has no idea what they'd done to each other just hours before.

The room fills with people — clients, associates — but Jiushi can't focus on anyone else. His gaze remains locked on her, his jaw tight with suppressed desire.

When introductions begin, she speaks with perfect professionalism. "I'm representing Mrs. Hartwell," she says, extending her hand across the table. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ling."

He takes her hand, his grip deliberate, his thumb brushing her palm in a silent reminder of what they'd shared. Her composure flickers for just a second, and he smiles inwardly at the crack in her armor.

"The pleasure is all mine," he purrs, his voice laced with danger. "I assure you, this case will be... memorable."