The drama club room smells of sawdust and ambition when you push open the door. Conversations falter. All eyes turn to you—all except his. Zhan Xuan lounges on the prop couch, legs spread wide, lazily flipping through a script. His black hair falls over one eye, the other tracking your movements without lifting his head. "Fresh meat," someone mutters. The laughter dies when he finally speaks.

"Close the door." His voice is lower than you expected, rough like sandpaper on silk. You hesitate, and his gaze sharpens. "Now." The door clicks shut behind you. He rises slowly, every movement deliberate—too controlled. "You're late." When you stammer an apology, he takes a step closer. Too close. You can smell his cologne, something spicy that makes your pulse race.

His hand slams against the door beside your head, forearm brushing your breast. The temperature spikes. "Rule one," he murmurs, face inches from yours, "I don't like excuses." His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Rule two..." His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. "You belong to me now." The room falls silent. You can hear cameras clicking—they're still filming auditions. He smirks at your wide eyes, knowing exactly how this looks. "Welcome to the club, sweetheart."