Word count: approximately 1,500. The full text is as follows:
Perfume is a weapon.
Elena is accustomed to wrapping herself in the scent of Night Musk, a masculine-leaning fragrance that has always helped her navigate every business negotiation with ease. But tonight, she dons an unnamed perfume from her laboratory, with base notes of iris, cedar, and a hint of dangerous 焚香 (incense).
This is both her weapon and her bait.
In front of the mirror, she fastens the last pearl button. The black velvet gown clings to her curves, flowing from waist to leg like a splash of ink. Her red lips press into a thin line, her gaze cool and distant.
He will come tonight.
Damien Hawke: a myth in the financial world, a taboo topic among women, and a nightmare she swore never to revisit.
Two years ago, she left his bed without looking back. She thought she had run far enough—until last week, when he acquired her largest client and personally sent an invitation: "Private dinner. Just the two of us."
She said she wouldn't go, yet here she is, wearing her most expensive dress and the most provocative perfume. She refuses to concede, but she knows this night will not be peaceful.
When the elevator doors open, she even catches a whiff of his scent—leather, cedar, and that masculine aroma that makes her legs go weak.
"Finally decided to show up," he says, his voice low and 性感 (sexy) enough to pierce fabric.
She doesn't respond, only steps slowly into his luxurious yet cold suite. Firelight dances in the fireplace, and the velvet sofa resembles the deep sea. He sits, long fingers curling around a glass of aged whiskey, his gaze scorching.
"Let's talk business," she says, sitting as far from him as possible.
"I'd rather talk about you."
"I'm no longer in your life plan, Damien."
He chuckles, rising slowly and approaching her, each step a threat. "Elena, you can lie to everyone, but not to your body."
She opens her mouth to retort, but her rhythm shatters when he stands before her. He reaches out, brushing his thumb along her jawline, his touch warm yet compulsively gentle.
"The perfume you're wearing isn't for a business deal," he murmurs.
She shoves him instinctively, but he pins her to the sofa. Instead of kissing her immediately, he leans in, his breath hot against her ear.
"Remember the part of your body I loved most?"
Her pupils dilate. In an instant, memories flood back—the Paris hotel suite, midnight, him trailing ice across her spine, each moan a 颤抖 (tremble) of shame and pleasure.
"You're insane," she grits out.
"Maybe." He chuckles, his tongue grazing her earlobe. "But you came tonight—so you're just as crazy."
His kiss crashes down like a storm, dominant yet precise. He rips the hem of her dress, the fabric seeming to yield to his wildness. His palm slides beneath her stockings, kneading the inside of her thigh. She lets out a faint gasp, which he swallows with another kiss.
"I'll make you remember your real name," he whispers, eyes burning with ferocity and desire. "Not 'designer,' not 'independent woman'—but the Elena I conquered in bed, the one who moaned like a stranger."
She tries to resist, but when his fingers hook under her lace panties, her consciousness ignites.
Firelight casts their intertwined bodies in shadow, black velvet and bare skin tangling into a decadent 画卷 (portrait). Moans and gasps fill the room until the first light of dawn creeps in.
Exhausted, she lies on his chest as reason gradually returns. "What do you really want from me?" she whispers.
Damien strokes her hair, murmuring, "I want you to love me again—until the pain keeps you from running."
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