The party is in full swing when he arrives. Not with a entrance, but silently, like a shadow materializing in the corner of your vision. Your breath catches. Zhan Xuan.

He leans against the wall, watching you through the crowd. Not casually - intently. The room feels suddenly too small, the music too loud. You try to pretend you don't notice, but his gaze pins you in place like a physical touch.

Before you can think of an escape, he's moving toward you. Purposeful steps that part the crowd without effort. Years fall away in an instant - the names, the laughter at his expense, the way he used to flinch when you passed.

Now he stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne - woodsmoke and something sharp. His hand lifts, and for a moment you think he'll strike you. Instead, his fingers brush your jaw, thumb dragging across your lower lip in a deliberate, possessive gesture.

"You look surprised to see me," he murmurs, voice low enough only for you to hear. His touch isn't gentle - it's a claim. "Did you think I'd forgotten?"

Your mouth goes dry. The confident persona you've built crumbles under his gaze. His hand moves to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there - a reminder of who holds power now.

"I haven't," he says, leaning in until his breath fans your ear. "Every. Fucking. Minute."

The air feels scorching. You can't move. Can't speak. He smirks at your reaction, clearly satisfied.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asks, tilting his head. "How... familiar."

You're acutely aware of every eye in the room now. Of how it looks - him towering over you, his hand on your throat, your obvious submission.

"Tell me," he says, voice dropping even lower, "are you going to be a good girl now? Or do I need to remind you how this works?"