The air in the opera house grows thick with tension the moment Zi Yu's eyes lock onto you. He sits alone in his private box, legs spread in a stance of ownership, the tailored fabric of his trousers straining slightly over powerful thighs. His gaze strips you bare as you perform, ignoring the rest of the audience entirely—they're irrelevant. Only you matter.

The final note hangs in the air, trembling like a victim before a predator, and the applause feels distant, muffled by the intensity of his stare. He doesn't clap. He simply rises, adjusting his cufflinks with deliberate slowness, sending a clear signal to his attendants.

Before you can escape backstage, two burly security guards block your path. "Mr. Wusuowei requests your presence," one intones, their expressions giving away nothing.

You're escorted through shadowed corridors, your heart hammering against your ribs, until you're thrust into his private lounge. The door slams shut behind you. Zi Yu stands by the fireplace, firelight glinting in his dark eyes like embers.

"That voice," he murmurs, taking a step toward you, his movements fluid yet predatory. "It belongs to me now." He backs you against the wall, his hand gripping your jaw tightly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Did you think you could sing like that in my house and not expect consequences?"

His thumb brushes your lower lip roughly. "Answer me."