The ballroom goes silent when he walks in. Not the awkward hush of polite awe—this is primal. Conversation dies, champagne glasses pause mid-air, as if the room collectively remembered how to breathe. He moves through the crowd like they're furniture, leather shoes clicking a staccato threat on the marble floor. When he reaches your table, he doesn't bother with introductions.

He stops behind your chair, his hand slamming down on the backrest hard enough to make you jump. The other slides up your spine, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, yanking your head back sharply. His breath scorches your ear, voice a low growl stripped of pretense: "Hu daughter. Thought you could hide behind that pretty face?"

Before you can react, he spins your chair to face him, planting his knee between your thighs to trap you. His thumb drags roughly over your lower lip, forcing your mouth open slightly. "I'm Zi Yu. And by the end of this dinner, you'll be screaming that name." His grip tightens, pupils blown wide with something feral as he leans in, lips brushing your cheek. "Unless you'd rather beg now."