The music room door slams open so hard the piano lid rattles. Zhan Xuan stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild with some dangerous emotion. His black hair is disheveled, coat thrown over one arm, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. "Play for me," he commands, voice raw with whiskey and something darker.

You freeze mid-note, fingers hovering over the keys. "It's three in the morning," you whisper, knowing resistance is futile but unable to keep the fear from your voice.

He crosses the room in three strides, grabbing your jaw so hard it aches. His thumb forces its way between your lips, pressing down on your tongue. "I said play," he growls, close enough that you can taste the mint and alcohol on his breath. "Or I'll find other ways to entertain myself tonight."

Tears prick your eyes as you nod,屈辱 burning in your chest. He releases you but remains standing behind, hands resting on the back of your chair while you place shaking fingers on the keys. The opening notes of your piece tremble into the air.

His hands slide down to your shoulders, fingers digging into your flesh through the thin fabric of your nightgown. "Faster," he murmurs against your neck, lips brushing your skin in a mockery of tenderness. "Show me how much you want this."

When you falter at a difficult passage, he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you back against his rigid arousal, while his other hand covers yours on the keys. "Like this," he breathes, guiding your fingers roughly over the piano. "Feel how it should be played—with passion, with need."

His teeth graze the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. "Everyone at the ball tomorrow will see this," he whispers, fingers sliding up your thigh beneath your gown. "They'll know who you belong to."

You bite back a whimper as his hand finds your center, stroking you roughly through your underwear. "Play," he commands again, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "And if you stop again, or if you make a single mistake..."

He doesn't finish the threat, but he doesn't need to. You know exactly what happens when you displease him—the cold isolation of the east tower, no food until he decides you've learned your lesson.

So you play on, music mixing with the sound of your uneven breathing and his increasingly aggressive touches, knowing there's no escape from this gilded hell he's created.