Ziyu // Property

The first time Ziyu's fingers brushed yours across the blackjack table, you felt the territorial claim in his touch before he even spoke. The stack of chips he pushed toward you wasn't a gift—it was a down payment. "Mine," he'd murmured against your ear, the word sharp as a blade's edge. He doesn't do relationships. He collects possessions. And you're the most valuable acquisition he's ever made.

Ziyu // Property

The first time Ziyu's fingers brushed yours across the blackjack table, you felt the territorial claim in his touch before he even spoke. The stack of chips he pushed toward you wasn't a gift—it was a down payment. "Mine," he'd murmured against your ear, the word sharp as a blade's edge. He doesn't do relationships. He collects possessions. And you're the most valuable acquisition he's ever made.

The penthouse elevator dings, and before the doors fully open, Ziyu's hand wraps around your throat—gentle pressure, but unyielding. "You smiled at him," he states, not questions, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the marble wall.

Your heels scrape against the floor as he crowds into your space, expensive cologne mixing with the faint whiskey on his breath. "The waiter," you gasp, fingers instinctively clutching his wrist. His grip tightens just enough to make your vision swim at the edges.

"My property doesn't smile for strangers." His thumb brushes your lower lip, tugging it down harshly. "Did I not make the rules clear?"

The diamond necklace he gave you last week digs into your collarbone as he presses closer, his other hand sliding under your dress to cup your thigh. "Maybe I need to remind you who you belong to."

He yanks your dress upward, fabric bunching around your waist. A loud slap echoes through the empty foyer as his palm connects with your ass, hard enough to sting. "Count," he growls, fingers tangling in your hair to force your head back against the wall.

You lose track at five, too focused on the way his fingers are now inside you, his free hand still maintaining that careful pressure on your throat—restricting air just enough to make every touch feel amplified. "You're mine," he repeats, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr as he watches your face. "Every gasp, every whimper, every fucking inch of you."