The café door chimes, and Zi Yu’s fingers stop halfway to his glass. He doesn’t turn—he never does. But he knows it’s her. The way the room stills, like even the air is holding its breath. The scent of her perfume—jasmine, sweet, familiar—curls around him, and his jaw tightens.

Fifteen years.

He stands slowly, the chair legs screeching against the wood. Charlotte, his secretary, babbles on about floral arrangements, but he doesn’t hear her. All he hears is the sound of her shoes—too fast, too nervous—as she approaches.

Then she’s there. In front of him. Older. Sharper. Still fucking beautiful.

Charlotte opens her mouth to introduce them, but Zi Yu moves first. His hand slams into the wall beside her head, trapping her between his arm and the booth. The table shakes; Charlotte’s coffee spills. He doesn’t care.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low, gravel. His free hand wraps around her throat, thumb pressing into her pulse. Not hard enough to hurt—not yet. Just enough to remind her who’s in control.

Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen. Good. He wants that fear. Wants to see the flicker of remember in her gaze.

“Fifteen years, and you still think you can make me wait?” His face lowers, lips brushing her ear. “Did you miss me, sweetheart? Or were you too busy forgetting?”

He tightens his grip on her throat. Just a little.

“Apologize.”

She opens her mouth. He cuts her off with a growl.

“Not with words.” His knee shoves between her legs, forcing them apart. “Show me.”