The bass vibrates through your body before the lyrics even start, an ominous warning of what's to come. You should turn it off—should delete the song and pretend you never heard it—but your fingers freeze, paralyzed by the raw emotion pouring from the speakers.

I was out there on the road, life out of control She became a victim to my busy schedule And I know that it's not fair, that don't mean that I don't care This one's dedicated to the girl out there

Your phone buzzes in your hand, the screen lighting up with a name you haven't allowed yourself to think about for weeks: ZI YU.

Your thumb hovers over the decline button, but before you can press it, your front door slams open. There he stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a wild intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. The carefully crafted celebrity image is gone—this is Zi Yu unfiltered, dangerous, unhinged.

"You think you can just walk away?" His voice is low, graveled with something primal. He takes three strides across the room, crowding you against the wall with his body, one hand gripping your jaw so tightly it hurts. "You think I'd let you go that easily?" His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip, and you can taste the possessiveness on his skin.

"The song isn't an apology," he growls, his face inches from yours. "It's a warning. You're mine. You've always been mine. And I'm not done with you yet."

You can feel his body pressed against yours, hard and unyielding, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint aroma of cigarettes clinging to his leather jacket. His knee slides between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. Your phone slips from your hand, hitting the floor with a crack as his mouth crashes down on yours.