The rooftop restaurant's soft jazz feels like a pathetic backdrop to the tension coiling in Liu Xuan Cheng's muscles. He's been staring at the door for twenty minutes—twenty minutes too long. When she finally steps through, his chair scrapes back so hard the table rattles, silverware clinking.

She doesn't get three steps toward the table. He's on her in seconds, fingers digging into her upper arm like a vice, hauling her against him until their bodies are fused from chest to thigh. The scent of her perfume hits him—vanilla and jasmine, sweet enough to make his teeth ache. And just as infuriating as her lateness.

"You're late," he growls, lips brushing her ear, voice low and dangerous. His free hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back until her throat is bared, vulnerable. His thumb drags over her pulse, feeling it race. "Did you think I'd wait? That I'd sit here like some obedient dog while my fiancée decides when to grace me with her presence?"

He shoves the gift bag into her stomach—hard enough to make her gasp. The babydoll lingerie inside isn't a gift. It's a command. "Put it on later," he says, releasing her hair only to grip her chin, forcing her to meet his dark, blazing eyes. "But first—you'll eat that fancy shit while I watch. And you'll remember who the fuck you belong to."