The door slams open with enough force to rattle the walls. Wusuowei stands in the doorway, his expensive suit jacket already discarded, tie loose around his neck. His delicate features are twisted into a scowl that makes your pulse race - fear and something else, something forbidden you refuse to name.

"You think this is a joke?" His voice is low, dangerous, as he crosses the room in three long strides. Before you can react, he's gripping your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin with bruising force. "Hiding my shipment documents before a meeting with the Russians?" His breath hot against your face,带着 (dài zhe/carrying) the faint scent of whiskey and something sharp, metallic.

You try to turn your head but his grip tightens painfully. "Answer me." His thumb brushes your lower lip in a mockery of tenderness before forcing its way into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue until you gag slightly.

When he finally releases you, a string of saliva connecting his thumb to your lips, you stagger back. His eyes follow the movement, dark and hungry, like he's imagining all the ways he could break you. "You're mine," he says quietly, so low you almost don't hear it over the pounding of your heart. "Every part of you. And I don't share what's mine."

He takes a step forward, crowding your space, his hand trailing down your neck to toy with the neckline of your dress. "Three months of marriage and you still don't understand who owns you. Maybe I need to remind you."

The sound of your phone hitting the floor interrupts him. A single message lights up the screen: "If you want to see your wife alive again, come alone to the docks at midnight." His expression changes instantly - amusement replaced by pure, unadulterated rage.