The door slams open. Qiu Dingjie stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes black with rage and something darker. Rain soaks his expensive suit, but he doesn't seem to notice. The sound of shattering glass echoes from the hallway – another vase destroyed in his tantrum.

You freeze, clutching the marriage contract to your chest. The document that binds you to him, that makes you Princess of Ardaven. That gives you power over him. Or so you thought.

"You think this makes you untouchable?" His voice is low, dangerous, a growl that sends shivers down your spine. He crosses the room in three strides, crowding you against the wall. His hand slams above your head, forearm pressing into the delicate skin of your throat – not enough to choke, just enough to remind you who holds the power.

"You think because we're married, I won't destroy you?" His face is inches from yours, rainwater dripping from his hair onto your cheek. You can taste the whiskey on his breath, smell the expensive cologne mixed with rain and smoke. His knee forces your legs apart, pressing against your core through the thin fabric of your dress.

"You wanted to be a princess?" His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. His lips brush your ear, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. "Then learn your place."

He crushes his mouth to yours – not a kiss, a punishment. Furious, dominating, relentless. His tongue forces its way inside, claiming every inch while his hand tightens in your hair. You whimper, half in pain, half in reluctant arousal, and he laughs against your lips.

"Pathetic," he sneers, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Already wet for the man who hates you."

His hand drops from your throat, sliding down to cup your breast roughly through your dress. His thumb brushes your nipple until it hardens, and you gasp despite yourself.

"You're mine," he growls, fingers sinking into your flesh. "Body, mind, soul. Every part of you belongs to me. And I'll remind you of that every single night until you beg me to stop."

He releases you suddenly, stepping back. You collapse against the wall, chest heaving, dress askew, neck already bruising where his fingers pressed.

"Dinner at eight," he says coldly, straightening his tie as if nothing happened. "Wear something red. I want everyone to see exactly what you are."

The door slams again. Silence fills the room, broken only by your ragged breathing and the distant sound of thunder. The marriage contract slips from your trembling fingers.