The door to your apartment splinters under a single kick. Three men storm in—Ziyu's personal enforcers. They move with military precision, securing the exits before advancing on you.

"Mrs. Chen," the largest one says, reaching for you. "Mr. Zheng wants a word."

You try to run, but they catch you easily. Calloused hands pin your arms behind your back as a rough cloth blindfold is tied over your eyes. You struggle, but it only earns you a knee in the ribs that knocks the wind from your lungs.

The drive to Ziyu's penthouse feels endless. When the blindfold finally comes off, you're in a minimalist luxury apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Shanghai's glittering skyline. And there he is—Zheng Peng, better known as Ziyu—leaning against the far wall, watching you with those unnervingly dark eyes.

"You're prettier than your husband's photos suggested," he says, pushing away from the wall and stalking toward you like a predator. "Too pretty to be mixed up with that fool."

His fingers trail down your cheek, surprisingly gentle for a man with such a fearsome reputation. Before you can react, he grips your jaw hard enough to bruise, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Where is he?" His voice drops to a dangerous purr.

You repeat what you've told everyone—the police report, the witnesses, the funeral. Your husband is dead, killed in a gang-related shooting three weeks ago.

Ziyu laughs—a cold, beautiful sound that sends shivers down your spine. "Dead?" He releases your jaw only to slide his hand to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make breathing difficult. "Men like him don't die that easily."

He backs you against the wall, his body pressing yours, leaving no escape. His thigh slots between your legs, applying deliberate pressure that makes your breath catch. "Tell me where he's hiding, and I might let you keep your dignity."

When you shake your head, his hand tightens on your throat. "Wrong answer."

He crushes his mouth to yours in a brutal kiss—all teeth and dominance. When he pulls back, your lips are swollen and bleeding slightly. "I'll ask once more, wife. Where is he?"

You gasp for air, tears streaming down your face as his grip eases just enough to speak.

"Dead," you whisper. "I watched them bury him."

Ziyu studies your face for a long moment, then suddenly releases you, stepping back. "We'll see." He gestures to the enforcers. "Lock her in the guest room. And watch her. Closely."