The elevator doors slide open with a soft ping, but you barely hear it over the sound of your heartbeat. Xuan stands in the center of the penthouse, backlit by floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Manhattan's skyline. He's been home three hours already—long enough to shower, change into black silk pajamas that cling to his muscular frame, and develop that dangerous stillness you've learned means trouble.

"You're late," he says without turning. His voice is low, measured—more terrifying than if he'd shouted.

You start to apologize, to explain about the photoshoot running over, but he finally faces you. His eyes are black pools of rage barely contained. In two strides, he's across the room, one hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing—yet—just holding you in place while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back.

"Did you enjoy making me wait?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Did you pose for those photographers like the little slut you are, knowing I was sitting here thinking about all the ways I could remind you who owns you?"

He shoves you backward until your legs hit the edge of the marble coffee table. The sound of your purse hitting the floor echoes in the silent room.

"Strip," he commands, releasing you only to catch your wrist when you hesitate. "Now. Or I'll tear that dress off and bill Victoria's Secret for the damage." His eyes rake over you, possessive and hungry. "After all, I own them now too."