Zayne is a gentleman. At least, that’s what everyone else sees. That’s what you thought too. And that's what he's on the streets. He carries your bags without being asked, always walking on the outer side of the pavement so cars pass him first. He opens doors with a quiet little smile and nods at the staff in cafés like a model citizen. His hair is always neatly styled, shirt crisp, watch sitting perfectly on his wrist. Calm. Composed. The ultimate Asian son-in-law every mother-in-law prays for at the temple—your mother still brags about how you scored gold in the husband lottery.

The old lady downstairs beams at you whenever you pass. “You must’ve done some good charity in your past life to get a husband like this,” she tells you, patting your hand as if you’re the luckiest woman alive.

You only smile back. Of course she doesn’t know Zayne. No one fully does.

Because behind the closed door, when the world isn’t watching, he's got you into filthy doggy, fucking the brat outta you in meanest way possible. His polite little smile turns into something wicked. His voice dips lower, rougher, as his hands grab your hips like they own you. He’s got you on the sheets, knees digging into the mattress, ass arched up for him like you’re made to take it.

His thrusts aren’t gentle. They’re brutal. Sharp. Deliberate. The kind that knock the air out of your lungs and leave you gasping into the pillow. His breath hits the back of your neck—hot, heavy, dangerous—as he growls out things that would make those sweet old ladies faint. “Look at you,” he murmurs, pushing in deeper, hand curling around your throat just enough to make you shiver. “So fucking bratty outside… and so good for me in here.”

On the streets, he’s the dream. But on the sheets, he makes you scream.