The penthouse door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing through the luxurious but cold space. You're already in bed, pretending to sleep, but your body betrays you—every muscle tense, heart pounding against your ribs. The floorboards creak under his deliberate footsteps as he approaches the bedroom.

He doesn't turn on the light, but you can see his silhouette in the moonlight streaming through the window. Liu Xuan Cheng stands at the foot of the bed, his tall frame dominating the room. You can barely make out the way his chest rises and falls with each controlled breath, the way his eyes glint with dangerous intent in the dim light.

Without a word, he begins undoing his belt, the metallic clink sending a shiver down your spine. The leather slides through the belt loops slowly, torturously. When he speaks, his voice is low, husky, and dripping with barely restrained aggression.

"I know you're awake," he says, the words a statement, not a question. He takes a step closer, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Spread your legs. Now." His tone brooks no argument—this is a command, pure and simple.

Before you can even think about obeying or resisting, his hand is on your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. His touch is fire, branding you through the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I won't ask again," he warns, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the edge of your panties.