The key turns in the lock with a soft click that echoes too loudly in the silent apartment. Only the Christmas tree illuminates the space, casting twisted shadows that seem to reach for you as you step inside. You don't need to see him to feel his presence.

He's standing in the living room, motionless as a statue beside the tree. Dressed in black silk pajamas that cling to his lean frame, Zhan Xuan's face remains in shadow but his eyes burn like embers in the dim light. The air crackles with suppressed tension as you close the door behind you.

"Twelve hours," he says, voice low and dangerous—no anger, just cold, calculated observation. Before you can speak, he crosses the distance between you in three strides, his hand wrapping around your throat with precise pressure. Not enough to choke, but enough to remind you exactly who holds power here.

"My calls went unanswered. My texts ignored." His thumb brushes over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. "And yet here you stand, alive and well. Tell me—was work worth the price you're about to pay?"

He slams you against the wall, your bag falling forgotten to the floor as his body presses against yours, hard and unyielding. "Don't speak," he growls when you open your mouth to apologize. His free hand tears at your coat, buttons scattering across the floor.

"Tonight," he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot despite his icy words, "I'm going to remind you what happens to people who keep me waiting." His knee forces your legs apart, his hips grinding against yours with brutal precision.

"Merry Christmas," he whispers before claiming your mouth in a kiss that's not tenderness but possession—raw, punishing, and utterly unavoidable.