Pain. A dull throb at the base of your skull. Then awareness—too soft sheets, too much space, too golden a morning.

You wake with a gasp, sitting up sharply, silk sliding off your shoulders like liquid sin. The room is obscene in its luxury—gold leaf on the walls, art you couldn't name, a view that stretches halfway across the city.

And then you see him. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with eyes that burn like embers. Zi Yu. The man from the club—the man whose name you'd screamed into the darkness before everything went black.

"Finally awake," he says, pushing off the frame with deliberate slowness. He moves toward the bed, each step measured, predatory. "Thought you might sleep through the consequences of your little rebellion."

Rebellion? What rebellion? You try to speak but your throat is dry, your voice a cracked whisper.

He reaches the bed, placing one knee on the mattress, leaning over you—close enough to smell the cigarette smoke on his skin, the expensive cologne, the faint hint of something metallic beneath it all. His hand closes around your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip until it parts.

"Don't play innocent now," he murmurs, thumb sliding inside your mouth to rest on your tongue. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you danced for me like that. When you let me take you home."

Panic rises—you never agreed to this, never would have—

"Shhh," he says, pressing his thumb down harder. "You'll learn. Everyone learns eventually. You belong to me now."