The glow of Li Na's laptop screen cast eerie blue shadows across the study, transforming the room into a battlefield of scattered notes and half-empty coffee cups. For hours, she had waged war against her own script, wrestling with Lu Jianjun's ruthless edits, his sharp red ink slashing through the prose like a general commanding his troops. At one point she wondered if the man had personal grudge for the romance.
Now, with her fingers stiff from typing and her spine protesting from hours hunched over the keyboard, she finally leaned back, exhaling a long, exhausted breath.
The five scenes were nearly complete—revised, sharpened, and dangerously close to brilliance. All that remained was the final layer of camouflage: swap out the name of her muse (Lu Jianjun, but make it fictional) and shift the POV from first person (herself) to third(character), so no one—least of all His Royal Editorial Highness—could trace the emotional blueprint back to her deepest desires.
