Lu Jianjun draped his coat over the nearest chair with the kind of reserved calm that made people nervous in boardrooms—and some woman furious in bedrooms. Then he straightened, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve like it was a negotiation, not a confrontation and sat down on couch. His gaze flickered to her feet before her glare forced him to look in the eyes.
"The story is mine," he said smoothly, voice low and razor-sharp. "You might've carried it. You might've dressed it up in clever lines and emotional fluff. But I built the platform it's standing on. I greenlit the funding. I own the rights. You think passion protects you from consequences?"
