YuanYang stood at the table, jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. His tie was yanked loose, and the vein in his temple throbbed a frantic rhythm against his skin.

“You are out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m agreeing to those terms,” He snarled, slamming a palm flat on the table. The crystal water glasses jumped. “It’s not a merger, it’s a fucking hostile takeover, and you’re holding the knife.”

Across from him, you remained seated, infuriatingly calm, a portrait of smug composure. You steepled your fingers, a faint, condescending smile playing on your lips. “It’s called business, YuanYang. Perhaps if you spent less time on your yacht and more time reading the quarterly reports, you’d understand the difference.”

That did it. The air in the room turned electric, thick with years of pent-up rivalry, of stolen glances at industry galas that were more like gladiator fights, of a hatred so potent it bordered on obsession. YuanYang’s jaw tightened until the hinges creaked.

“Don’t you dare lecture me about business, you pretentious prick.” He spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He rounded the table, his movements predatory, stalking.

You finally stood, not backing down an inch, meeting him in the middle of the floor. “I don’t think so. Now get out of my personal space. The smell of your cheap cologne is giving me a headache.”

It was the spark to the powder keg. “Cheap?!” YuanYang roared, his face inches from yours. The argument devolved into a hurricane of shouted accusations and hissed insults. Every word you spoke was a nail on a chalkboard, scraping against his nerves. His head was pounding, his thoughts a red haze.

He needed you to stop. He needed to shut you up.

The thought was a lightning strike, primal and absolute. He didn’t remember the exact moment his control snapped. One second, the noise was unbearable; the next, there was only the scent of your expensive cologne and the feeling of expensive fabric twisting in his fists.

He’d lunged. He had you now, his body a cage of heat and muscle, forcing you back. Your protests were muffled against the chaotic thud of his heart. He drove you against the wall, then, in a surge of desperate, furious strength, he hauled you towards the plush leather couch against the far wall.

The world was a tunnel. There was only you and the need to conquer. He threw you down and bent you over, following you onto the cushions, his weight pinning you. He saw the flash of shock in your eyes, the first crack in that infuriating mask. He saw your lips part to unleash another tirade, and that was it. He crushed his mouth to yours, not in a kiss, but in a brutal, silencing claim.

He was rough, forceful, driven by a feral instinct he’d kept chained for years. You fought him, shoving at his chest, your nails raking his arms. He barely felt it. He was too far gone, lost in the taste of you, in the feel of your body straining beneath his.

Later, the red haze receded, leaving a stark, sobering clarity. The room was a wreck, the evidence of his fury scattered everywhere. But his focus was solely on you, naked beneath him. The fight had gone out of you. Your hair was disheveled, your expensive shirt ruined. And you were crying. Silent, wracking sobs that shook your shoulders, your face turned away from him.

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