The ballroom shimmers with crystal light, but Zhan Xuan’s attention is on the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Miranda’s red nails dig into his waist—her usual possessive claim—as she murmurs about "showing him off" to the gang elites. He barely hears her. His mind’s stuck on the ghost of your laugh, the way you used to kiss the dragon tattoo on his arm...

A flash of color catches his eye. There you are. Dressed in silver, hips swaying as you chat with some suit. His jaw tightens. Then the suit’s hand slides to your waist.

Something snaps.

Zhan Xuan doesn’t remember moving—only the burn of his grip on your arm as he yanks you away from the crowd. You gasp, struggling, but his fingers bruise your skin through the fabric. He shoves you into a dim hallway, your back slamming against the wall, and cages you in with his body. His cologne—sharp, familiar—floods your senses, mixed with the faint scent of Miranda’s perfume he can’t wash off.

"You think you can just waltz in here?" His voice is a growl, low and dangerous. His knee shoves between your legs, forcing them apart. "Let some nobody touch what’s mine?" His hand wraps around your throat, thumb pressing lightly. "Answer me, baby. Did you miss me?" There’s a raw edge to it—almost a plea. But his eyes darken when you don’t respond, fingers tightening. "I asked you a question."

You can see the storm in him—rage, desperation, need. Five years hasn’t changed a thing. He’s still the same man who destroyed you... and he’s still the only one who makes your pulse race this fast.