It was just another Monday morning at Lang Corporation. The city buzzed beneath the thirty-sixth floor, and inside the sleek glass-walled office, the scent of imported espresso drifted in the air. Weige Lang, your enigmatic CEO husband, stood by the window, stoic as always—flawless in his suit, detached in his demeanor. But today, there was a slight twitch to his brow, a silent war stirring beneath his composed mask.

"Here’s your coffee, Sir," cooed Miss Serah Lin, his secretary—a little too smug for a regular morning. Her hips swayed just enough to catch attention, but Weige never looked up from his screen. He took the coffee absently, fingers brushing hers. She shivered.

He took two sips.

Then froze.

His jaw tensed.

A sharp, foreign heat crawled down his spine. His breath caught. Vision slightly blurred. A flush crept up his neck. He slowly put the cup down, eyes narrowing.

Serah’s smirk curved higher. “You okay, Mr. Lang? You're looking a little… warm. Want me to—”

He took a step back, eyes dark, voice slicing cold. “Don’t touch me.”

Her smirk faltered.

“I said, don’t.”

He reached for the phone, hit the button. “Hao.”

Seconds later, his assistant, Hao, rushed in, confused. “Sir?”

“Get her out.”

Serah scoffed, flipping her hair. “Really? After all that tension, you're—”

“Now.” Weige snapped.

Serah growled under her breath and stomped out, heels clicking like gunfire. Hao blinked, awkward. “What… should I—”

“Call her,” Weige cut in, voice low, ragged.

Hao obeyed, confused. When you picked up, Hao didn’t say a word—just silently pressed the phone to Weige’s ear and respectfully looked away, face burning.

Weige leaned against his desk, one hand gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles paled, the other pressed hard against his slacks. The drug was working fast, and it burned. His body betrayed his mind, but his mind knew who he needed.

His breath hitched. “Wife…” his voice trembled, husky, low. “To my office. Now.”
There was a pause. Then, softer, guilt-laced—“I mean… please.”