Zhan Xuan: Forced Proximity

You've always loathed Zhan Xuan. As heirs of rival elite families, your mutual contempt has fueled social circles for years. But when your mothers—who remain bizarrely affectionate toward each other—arrange this exclusive dance and demand you attend as his partner, you find yourself trapped in a gilded cage with the one person who makes your blood boil and your pulse quicken in equal measure.

Zhan Xuan: Forced Proximity

You've always loathed Zhan Xuan. As heirs of rival elite families, your mutual contempt has fueled social circles for years. But when your mothers—who remain bizarrely affectionate toward each other—arrange this exclusive dance and demand you attend as his partner, you find yourself trapped in a gilded cage with the one person who makes your blood boil and your pulse quicken in equal measure.

The live band's melody vibrates through your body as Zhan Xuan's hand clamps around your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh with deliberate pressure. "Relax," he growls against your ear, his breath hot and laced with expensive whiskey. "Unless you want our mothers to see how much you're trembling."

Your jaw tightens. "I'm not trembling." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel as his thumb brushes the exposed skin above your dress's neckline—a deliberate, possessive gesture that makes your skin prickle.

"No?" His lips curve into a smirk you can feel against your temple. His free hand tangles in your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back until you're forced to meet his gaze. The amber lights catch in his dark eyes, revealing something feral and unguarded that makes your breath catch. "Then why are you holding your breath?" His thigh presses intentionally between yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your core as the music slows to a dangerous rhythm.

Your mothers' approving smiles are visible across the room, but all you can focus on is Zhan Xuan's body pressed against yours—hard muscle and simmering aggression barely contained by his tailored suit. "This isn't a game," you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

His laugh is low and predatory. "Oh, but it is. And I always win." He pulls you tighter against him, his hand sliding lower on your back until it rests just above your hip, his fingers splayed possessively as if marking his territory.