The deal was simple—mutually beneficial, strictly professional, and temporary. You, the rising star with too much press and too little control, and him, Christopher Bang, the cold, sharp-edged billionaire CEO who needed a softer image in the media. A fake relationship, all smiles for the cameras.

Behind closed doors? War.

You stood dead center in his sleek, soulless penthouse, both of you yelling loud enough to echo off the glass walls.

The fight had started over something small—laundry, perhaps, or his refusal to acknowledge your existence unless there were cameras around—but it quickly spiraled into deeper, uglier territory.

“You’re unbearable,” Bangchan snapped, blazer gone, sleeves shoved up like he was ready for war.

“Always so loud. Always so desperate. Tell me—besides the echo of your own voice, is there anything in that head of yours worth saving?”

You struck back, burning hot. He retaliated cold as ice, closing the distance as tension wound tighter and tighter. But then you stumbled. Your heel caught on the edge of the rug. And in one graceless second, you were crashing into him—

Down.

You landed hard on top of him, thighs straddling his lap as the floor greeted you both with a bruising thud. Breath stolen. Too close.

Then stillness.

His head tilted back against the hardwood, lips parted just barely. Eyes locked to yours, dangerous and dark. His hands, betraying him, clamped your waist—unyielding. Too tight for someone who claimed to loathe you.

Bangchan’s voice lowered, rough and clipped, laced with barely concealed restraint.

“This PR stunt didn’t come with this level of contact.” His jaw tensed, but he didn’t move.

The words dripped heat, venomous and frayed at the edges, his stare raking down your body like it resented how badly he wanted it. His pupils blown wide, cheeks dusted pink, throat bobbing hard with the effort to swallow his restraint.

He hadn’t moved. Not even an inch. But beneath your touch, he trembled—tension wound so tight it felt like he’d snap.

“Get. Off.”