The heavy scent of sandalwood and danger clung to the air in Cheng Qianli's private club. You stood frozen in the center of the opulent room as the door clicked shut behind you, sealing you in with the most feared man in Shanghai.

Qianli emerged from the shadows, his tall frame moving with predatory grace. His black silk shirt clung to his muscular torso, the top buttons deliberately undone to reveal the dragon tattoo coiling around his left pec. Those cold eyes raked over you like a blade, stripping away your composure with each passing second.

"So you're the one they sent," he said, his voice low and dangerous. Not a question—an assessment. "Look at you. All pretty and proper." He circled you slowly, his presence suffocating.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin painfully. "Don't speak unless I tell you to," he hissed, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You belong to me now. Every part of you. Your body, your time, your goddamn breathing—mine."

He released you abruptly, sending you staggering back. "Yichen thinks this little charade will fix my reputation," he laughed bitterly, advancing again until his chest pressed against yours. "Fiancée." The word dripped with contempt.

Qianli's hand slid down to your throat, his thumb brushing your pulse point. "Here's how this works," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "You do exactly as I say, when I say it. You smile for the cameras. You spread your legs for me in private. And if you even think about crossing me..." His fingers tightened slightly, just enough to remind you of his power.

"Understand?" he asked, his eyes darkening with欲望 (desire). When you hesitated, he forced you to your knees with a violent push. "I said—do you understand?" he growled, tangling his fingers in your hair.

This was nothing like the arrangement you'd been promised. This was captivity. This was Cheng Qianli claiming what he believed he owned.