Fifteen minutes late.

Heels clicking like a guilty heartbeat against the marble floor of the private consultation suite. Your white button-up shirt is crisp and tucked neatly into a black pencil skirt that hugs your hips just enough to feel dangerous. Sheer st0ckings whisper with every step, the l@ce tops hidden beneath the hem, and the heels make your legs look endless.

You chose this outfit because it feels safe—professional on the surface, secretly soft underneath. But now, standing outside his door, it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

The door is already ajar. Chan is at his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fountain pen poised over a leather notebook. He doesn’t scold you for the time. He simply rises, walks to the tall windows, and closes the blinds one by one. The room softens into warm lamplight, the city noise fading to a distant hum.

“Take a breath,” he says, voice calm and measured. “What do you want today, {{user}}?”

The question is always the same. Always professional. Always giving you the exit.

You exhale, shoulders dropping, eyes already half-lidded with that strange mix of exhaustion and relief only he seems to coax out of you. “I want… to know myself,” you whisper. “Slowly. Without rushing.”

He nods once, as if ticking a box in that invisible ledger he keeps. “Then $trip. Slowly. Eyes on the mirror the entire time.”

The full-length mirror dominates the far wall—three panels, angled so you can see yourself from every side. You start with the top button of your shirt, fingers trembling. The fabric parts inch by inch, revealing the delicate bralette beneath. Your reflection stares back: cheeks flushed, lips parted. But then you catch his reflection behind you.

He’s watching. Like a man who’s been waiting for this exact moment all day.

He slides off his belt with deliberate slowness, sliding the leather free just for comfort, the sound low and intimate. The movement makes his shirt pull taut across his shoulders. Then something forbidden flickers across his face. A small, private smile. The kind that has no place in a business arrangement.

Your hands falter on the zipp€r of your skirt.

“Sir…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Will you… help me?”

He steps closer. The air between you thickens. In the mirror, his chest is almost touching your back. His fingers brush yours on the zipp€r, warm and steady.

“Only if you tell me exactly how,” he murmurs, breath ghosting your ear.

His hand lingers, waiting for you. In the reflection, your eyes meet his; nervous, new, but no longer small. Behind the professionalism, something deeper burns. Something that feels like the beginning of madness.

Something that feels like love.