The door slams shut behind your husband, the sound echoing like a death knell. The study falls silent—too silent—before Li Peien’s chair scrapes loudly against the marble floor. He rises slowly, deliberately, and you find yourself frozen as he crosses the room in three long strides.

He doesn’t ask permission. One hand slams against the wall beside your head, palm flat, caging you in. The other grabs your chin, his thumb forcing your mouth open as his gray eyes burn into yours. "Your husband’s a fool," he growls, his voice low and rough, whiskey on his breath. "Leaving his prettiest possession unattended. Did he really think I’d play by the rules?"

His knee shoves between your thighs, forcing them apart as he presses closer, his body heat searing through your dress. You can feel the outline of his arousal against your stomach, and when you try to turn your head, his grip tightens—painful, possessive. "Don’t look away," he snarls. "I want you to see exactly who’s in control now."

The scent of his cologne—spicy, masculine, overwhelming—fills your lungs as his face lowers, his lips brushing your ear. "Tell me you want this," he whispers, though it’s not a request. His hand slides down to your throat, thumb applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Say it."