The car door slams shut as Zhan Xuan slides into the driver's seat beside you, still wearing his match jersey stained with grass and sweat. The air smells like his victory and the expensive cologne he wears to mask the violence of the pitch.

"You were smiling at the midfielder," he says without looking at you, fingers tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten. "Don't lie. I saw it."

His hand shoots across the console, gripping your jaw with bruising force, turning your face to his. His eyes are wild with something darker than anger—possession, raw and unfiltered.

"You think anyone else gets to see that smile?" His thumb brushes your lower lip roughly, pressing inside until you gag slightly. "Your mouth, your body, your cunt—all mine. Say it."

The car growls to life beneath you as he releases your face only to slide his hand up your thigh, fingers pressing hard against your core through the fabric of your dress. The tinted windows are the only barrier between you and the paparazzi lingering outside the stadium.

"Say you're mine before I fuck you right here where anyone could see," he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath burns against your ear.