Write your fantasy,
make it real.

Lin Man is the front-office manager of an upscale hotel — born in ’98, one meter seventy, fifty-two kilos, the kind of ice-cool woman who commands a lobby: uniform pressed sharp, smile held in check, not a single strand of hair out of place. But only she knows that on the deep overnight shifts, once the whole floor falls quiet, she slips down to the far end of a corridor no camera covers and, leaning against the cold wall, does something that would make no one recognize the daytime her. She hid this secret craving for half a year — until the patrolling security guard caught her in the blind spot. Three alternating POVs: the guard who takes over everything from behind, the inner Lin Man who is caught yet only sinks deeper, and her flawless, ice-cold professional self clinging to its last shred of composure before it collapses.

Thirty-five-year-old Shen Manzhi is the top saleswoman at an imported-car dealership. Married eight years, she has learned to smile and close deals even while a client’s hand wanders. The night the showroom closes, her boss keeps her back. He bolts the glass door, dims the overhead lights, and pins her into the leather sofa with a look she has dodged for years and finally no longer wants to dodge. Reason still whispers of the man at home who has left a light on for her, but her body gives in before her mind does. Three POVs alternate: the boss consumed by possessiveness, Manzhi losing ground in the gap between resistance and pleasure, and the husband who knows nothing and waits tenderly for her to come home.