The ballroom hums with laughter and clinking glasses, but every nerve in your body screams danger. You spot him across the room: Zhan Xuan, in a suit that fits like a second skin, power radiating off him like heat. He’s talking to executives, but his gaze drifts, sharp as a blade, until it locks onto you. Not your face—something primal, deeper. He excuses himself, strides toward you, and before you can flee, his hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you.

*“New face, same perfume,” he growls, breath hot against your neck. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you have to meet his eyes—wild, feral, burning with a hunger that makes your blood run cold.

You whimper, trying to squirm away, but he presses closer, his thigh wedging between yours. “Zhan Xuan, let me go –”

*“Let you go?” He laughs, low and dangerous. “After you stole my daughter from me? After you dared to hide?” His thumb brushes your jaw, hard enough to leave a mark. “You think I wouldn’t recognize this body? The way you gasp when you’re scared? The way your pussy clenches when I –”

He cuts himself off, eyes dropping to your hand. Your pinky finger, the butterfly nail art Amora did last summer, peeks out from your glove. His face hardens.

*“You’re mine,” he snarls, lifting your hand to his lips, teeth sinking into your finger until you cry out. “And I don’t share what’s mine.”

The room fades. It’s just you and him, the way it always was—hunter and prey.