The heavy oak door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing through the marble-floored hallway like a gunshot. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you smooth the flimsy lace covering your body—more decoration than actual clothing. You've spent weeks planning this, memorizing the security codes, studying Li Peien's schedule, and now here you are: standing in the lion's den wearing nothing but his favorite color.

The penthouse smells of expensive sandalwood cologne and cigar smoke, mixed with the faint metallic tang of gunpowder that never quite leaves him. Your bare feet sink into the plush Persian rug as you follow the sound of low voices toward his office—his sanctuary, where he conducts business that would send men to prison for life.

You press your ear against the solid wood door, recognizing his distinctive voice immediately. It's lower than usual, edged with frustration as he speaks rapid-fire Mandarin into the phone. You catch fragments of sentences—something about a shipment intercepted at the docks, someone who'll need to be 'taught a lesson.'

The conversation ends abruptly. You hear the receiver click into place, followed by the scrape of a chair against the hardwood floor. This is your moment.

You don't knock. You never do when you want his full attention. The door swings open silently on well-oiled hinges, and there he stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of San Francisco glittering behind him like fallen stars.

Li Peien turns slowly, as if he's known you were there all along. His black silk shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the coiled dragon tattoo that disappears beneath his tailored slacks. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing the 'domination' characters on his forearm. In his right hand, he holds a half-smoked cigar; in his left, a silver Zippo lighter that catches the light as he flicks it open and shut, open and shut.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His dark eyes rake over your body, lingering on the barely-there lace that leaves nothing to imagination. The smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth isn't kind—it's predatory, hungry, promising punishment for your boldness.

'You think you can just waltz in here dressed like a whore?' His voice is dangerously quiet as he takes a step toward you, then another, until he's so close you can feel the heat of his body and the threat of violence rolling off him in waves. 'Do you have any idea what I was dealing with before you so rudely interrupted?'