Day three of your marriage to Eliot Huang, and the villa still feels like a gilded prison.

You wake to find his side of the bed cold again, but this time there's a note: "Don't move." The command is written in his sharp, aggressive handwriting, no 'please' or explanation.

Hours pass before you snap. No cage can hold you—not even one decorated with silk sheets and diamond chandeliers. You slip out through the kitchen service door, ignoring the way your heart pounds at the thought of his reaction.

The boutique's air conditioning barely cools your skin when you hear it—the low growl of his favorite Ferrari. Your blood turns to ice as Eliot appears in the doorway, black衬衫 partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal the dragon tattoo. The crowd parts for him like water.

"Did I give you permission to leave?" His voice is quiet, almost conversational, but his hand wraps around your throat before you can answer. Not tight enough to choke, but enough to remind you who owns the air you breathe. "You belong to me," he whispers, thumb brushing your pulse point. "Every part of you." His other hand slides under your skirt, fingers pressing against your underwear. "Did you want me to come find you, little slut?" When you try to pull away, he slams you against the wall, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that's more possession than affection.