(Content Warning: contains themes of drugging and non-consensual contact. Handled with restraint.)
Beijing, winter night
The cheap heater coughed in the corner, barely breathing warmth into the small apartment. Zhao Mei's hands were raw from scrubbing dishes in cold water, her back aching from carrying laundry up six flights of stairs.
"Why are you so slow?" Madam Zhao's voice sliced through the hallway. "If you worked half as fast as you eat, maybe we'd have dinner on time!"
Zhao Mei bit her tongue. She had learned long ago that speaking back only meant skipped meals. She ducked her head and carried the tray into the living room where her stepmother and two siblings lounged in front of the television. The smell of roasted duck made her stomach twist.
She placed the tray down, her eyes catching the empty chair at the table her father's. He was out again. Or maybe in his study, pretending she didn't exist.
She was halfway to the kitchen when her phone buzzed.
Chen Rong:
Come to the International Grand Hotel tonight. Big business party. It'll be good for you.
She frowned. They hadn't spoken in months not since the night he'd shoved her against a wall, drunk and impatient, when she told him she wasn't ready to sleep with him. Five years of dating, and she'd thought he'd understood her boundaries. She'd been wrong.
Now he wanted her at a party?
"Who's that?" Madam Zhao asked sharply.
"No one," Zhao Mei murmured, slipping the phone into her pocket.
Hours later, she stood outside the glittering hotel, shivering in a short white dress she'd borrowed from Xiao lan at the café. She had no idea why she'd agreed to come. Maybe curiosity. Maybe defiance. Or maybe because Chen Rong had promised just talk, nothing more.
The lobby glittered with gold trim and crystal chandeliers. Waiters in black vests glided past with champagne trays. Somewhere upstairs, live music drifted from a ballroom.
She didn't notice the sharp, calculating eyes watching her from the mezzanine.
Elsewhere in the same hotel Zhang Wei
The penthouse elevator doors slid open and Zhang Wei stepped out, tall in a tailored charcoal suit, the very image of untouchable power. He was here against his will his mother's will, to be exact.
"Just for an hour," she had told him, her manicured fingers curling possessively over his arm. "Fang Hua will be there. I've arranged a suite. You'll... relax."
He'd snarled at the implication. He didn't do "arrangements."
He didn't notice the faint bitterness in the champagne she'd handed him before the party.
Back in the ballroom Zhao Mei
Chen Rong smiled too wide when he saw her. "You came."
He pressed a drink into her hand before she could answer. It smelled faintly of citrus and something heavier. She sipped cautiously, but the heat bloomed in her chest almost instantly.
The world blurred at the edges. His voice became a low hum. "Let's get some air," he said, guiding her toward the elevators.
She tried to protest, but her tongue felt heavy. Somewhere far away, she heard him murmuring to a hotel staff member a boy with wide eyes and a nervous nod. "Room 1703," Chen Rong instructed.
But Xu Fei, the bellboy, glanced at his notepad and misread the scrawl. 1708.
The elevator doors opened onto silence. Xu Fei half-carried Zhao Mei down the hall, swiped the keycard, and left her in the dimly lit suite. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her head spinning.
Moments later, the door opened again.
Zhang Wei stepped in, loosening his tie, irritation in every line of his body. "Fang Hua, I told you" He stopped dead.
A girl lay on his bed, her hair tumbling over one bare shoulder, a dazed, lost look in her eyes. Not Fang Hua.
The air shifted. The faint sweetness of champagne still clung to breath, the aphrodisiac burning low in his veins. He should have walked away. Should have called the front desk.
Instead, the door clicked shut behind him.
His feet moved on their own. Closer. One step. Two.
The girl tried to sit up and couldn't. Her hand reached out, trembling, like she was asking for help.
Or maybe just trying to understand where she was.
Zhang Wei's control, the thing he'd built his entire life around, cracked.
The heat wasn't just warmth anymore. It was fire. Need. Something chemical burning through his veins, demanding, insistent.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
The girl's eyes focused on him for half a second. Scared. Confused.
"Help," she whispered. So quiet he almost missed it.
He reached out. Brushed hair from her face. Her skin was too hot.
She leaned into the touch like she was drowning and he was the only thing solid.
His hand moved to her shoulder. The strap of her dress slipped.
She made a sound. Not quite a protest. Not quite permission.
Just a sound.
His other hand found her waist. The fabric was thin. He could feel her heartbeat racing under his palm.
The room tilted. Or maybe he did.
He leaned closer. Close enough to smell her perfume.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Her eyes closed.
He should stop. Knew he should stop.
But the drug in his system had other ideas. And his body was listening to chemistry, not logic.
His mouth found hers.
She didn't kiss back. Didn't push him away either. Just lay there, limp.
He pulled back. Tried to think. Couldn't.
The heat was unbearable now. His hands moved without permission. The dress came off too easily. Her skin was pale.
She turned her head to the side. A tear slid down her cheek.
He saw it.
Knew what it meant.
Didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
The drug wouldn't let him.
His body covered hers. She was small underneath him. Fragile.
He felt her tense. Felt her try to push weakly at his chest.
Heard her whisper, "No."
So quiet. So broken.
It should have stopped him.
It didn't.
What happened next was a blur of heat and skin and sounds he'd hate himself for later.
Her gasps. His breathing. The bed creaking.
When it was over, when the fire finally burned out, Zhang Wei rolled away.
His chest heaved. Sweat cooled on his skin. His head felt like it was splitting open.
Beside him, the girl lay perfectly still.
He looked at her. Really looked.
Marks on her neck. Her dress torn and discarded on the floor. Her eyes closed, tear tracks drying on her cheeks.
Horror crashed into him.
What the fuck did I just do?
He sat up too fast. The room spun.
He reached for his phone. Hands shaking.
But before he could call anyone, exhaustion slammed into him like a truck.
The drug still in his system pulled him under.
He collapsed back onto the bed.
And then darkness.