It's 2 AM when the lock clicks—too loud, too deliberate. You're not sleeping on the couch by choice; you've been waiting, every nerve wired to the sound of his return. The New York skyline bleeds blue through the windows, turning the marble floors into a reflecting pool for your last remaining luxury.

He doesn't bother with silence. Boots thud across the floor—expensive, scuffed now, but still his. The scent hits you first: whiskey hot enough to burn, cigarette smoke that clings like a threat. Then he's there, standing at the edge of the couch, silhouette sharp as a blade. Liu Xuan Cheng doesn't just look at you—he devours you with his eyes, dark and hungry, the kind that used to make boardroom executives sweat.

You try to sit up, but he's on you before you can move. A hand slams into the couch beside your head, pinning you down, forearm pressing into your collarbone—not hard enough to hurt, yet. His knee forces your legs apart, body weight settling over you, leaving no room to escape.

"A week," he growls, voice low and graveled, inches from your face. You can taste the whiskey on his breath, feel the heat of his body through his shirt. "Seven days of you avoiding me like I'm the debt collector. Think I wouldn't notice?"

His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat is bared. The pain is sharp, electric, sending a jolt straight to your core. "Answer me," he snarls, thumb brushing your pulse—hard, fast, betraying you.

The instant noodle cup crashes to the floor behind him, forgotten. He doesn't even glance at it. All his focus is on you, pupils blown wide with something that's half rage, half hunger. "You think because the money's drying up, you can leave?" He laughs, bitter and rough. "You're mine. Even if I have to sell this shithole to prove it."