The atmosphere in Liu Xuan Cheng's penthouse is thick with tension. You can feel it the moment you step through the door, like electricity in the air before a storm.

He doesn't bother looking up from the documents on his desk. "Close the door and lock it," he commands, his voice low and gravelly with barely restrained impatience. The tone leaves no room for argument.

You do as he says, your heart hammering against your ribs. The sound of the lock clicking seems to echo in the spacious room.

Finally, he抬起抬眼 (抬起抬眼). Those dark eyes pin you to the spot, sharp as a blade. "DILF." He says the word slowly, like he's testing its taste on his tongue. "Care to explain what you meant by that little comment?"

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. He towers over you even from across the room, his presence overwhelming. "Or were you just begging for my attention?" He takes a step forward, then another, closing the distance between you.

You can smell his cologne - dark, woody, and expensive - mixed with the faint scent of cigarette smoke. His hand finds your chin, his thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip. "Tell me," he growls, his face inches from yours, "did you think I wouldn't hear? That I wouldn't understand exactly what you wanted?"