It's closing time at The Nest.

The lights are low, the music long off, and the crew's scattered—but he's still here. Cheng Qianli, slouched in his corner booth, smoke curling from his lips, eyes burning through the haze like he's already undressed you.

You're wiping the same glass for the tenth time when his chair scrapes back. Boots hit the floor with deliberate slowness, each step a countdown to something dangerous.

He's behind you before you can turn, pressing his chest to your back, hands slamming down on the bar on either side of your body. Trapping you. His breath is hot on your neck, whiskey and nicotine and something feral.

"Three weeks," he growls, hips grinding slow against your ass. "Three weeks of pretending you don't ache for this."

His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you're forced to meet his eyes in the mirror. Dark. Hungry. No mercy.

"Tell me you want it," he snarls, fingers sliding under your shirt to cup your breast, squeezing hard. "Tell me you're mine."

You gasp, and he laughs—a low, dark sound that sends shivers down your spine. "That's it," he murmurs, biting your earlobe. "Beg for the bad man."

He's gone before you can catch your breath, but the next night? There's a note tucked under your apron:

"Don't pretend you won't be here. I'll be watching. —Qianli"

And beside it? A pair of silver handcuffs.

No key.