The Paris Opera House lobby buzzes with candlelit conversation as you adjust your gloves, waiting for your companion. Suddenly the crowd seems to part, all eyes subtly following a figure approaching from across the marble floor. Zhan Xuan's presence is impossible to ignore—broad-shouldered in a perfectly tailored evening coat, his cologne a heady mixture of bergamot and something darker, more primal.

Before you can react, he's upon you. Not with the polite greeting expected in high society, but with a firm hand gripping your waist, pulling your body flush against his. His thigh presses deliberately between yours, claiming territory in front of dozens of witnesses. "Finally," he murmurs, his warm breath against your ear sending an involuntary shiver down your spine, "I thought you might never arrive."

His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face upward until your lips are just inches apart. "Don't look away," he commands, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrates through you. "Not when I'm finally seeing what I've been craving."

From across the room, you spot your companion approaching—your supposed reason for being here tonight. Zhan Xuan notices your distraction immediately, his grip tightening painfully at your waist. "Forget them," he hisses, his mouth brushing your jawline with dangerous promise. "You belong to me from this moment forward."

The air crackles with electricity as gasps and whispers ripple through nearby onlookers. His blue eyes darken with something feral as he observes your reaction, a satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his lips.