The Maybach glided up the winding mountain road, its tires humming over smooth asphalt until it reached a gate flanked by marble pillars. The iron bars slid open silently, revealing a sprawling villa that loomed like a modern castle against the rain-washed night sky—floor-to-ceiling windows glowed with warm light, manicured gardens stretched toward the horizon, and a team of uniformed staff waited by the entrance.
Su Wanwan clutched the edge of her seat, her knuckles white. She'd only ever seen places like this in movies; the opulence made her feel smaller, more out of place than the soaking clothes clinging to her skin. When the car stopped, Lu Shiyan stepped out first, his black suit still crisp (the umbrella his assistant held had shielded him perfectly), and offered her a hand.
She hesitated, then took it. His palm was large and cool, his grip firm but not ungentle—so different from the icy authority in his voice earlier.
"Welcome home, Mr. Lu," the head housekeeper, a woman in a tailored black dress, bowed deeply. Her eyes flicked to Su Wanwan, curious but carefully neutral. "Shall I have the guest room prepared?"
"Guest room?" Lu Shiyan's tone sharpened. He released Su Wanwan's hand and unbuttoned his suit jacket. "She's Mrs. Lu. Prepare the master suite's adjacent bedroom."
The housekeeper's eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly, but she nodded. "Right away, sir."
Su Wanwan's cheeks burned. Mrs. Lu. The word felt foreign, heavy—like a label she hadn't earned. She followed Lu Shiyan into the foyer, where a crystal chandelier the size of a small tree dripped light onto marble floors so polished she could see her own reflection. A staff member rushed over with a fluffy towel, which Su Wanwan wrapped around herself gratefully.
"Your luggage will be delivered tomorrow," Lu Shiyan said, pausing by a grand staircase. His assistant, Lin Zhou, handed him a folder. "But first—sign this."
Su Wanwan took the papers. It was an addendum to their marriage contract: she would act as his secretary at Lu Group, attend all family events as his wife, and never disclose the contractual nature of their relationship to anyone. The penalties for breaking these terms were steep—she'd forfeit all compensation and be liable for "damages to Mr. Lu's reputation."
"I… I don't know how to be a secretary," she stammered. "I studied design, not office work."
"You don't need to 'know how,'" Lu Shiyan said, his gaze sweeping over her. "You just need to be seen with me. The rest will be handled." He turned to climb the stairs, then over his shoulder: "Lin Zhou will show you to your room. Be ready at 7 a.m. tomorrow. We're going to the civil affairs bureau."
The "adjacent bedroom" was a suite in its own right—king-sized bed, walk-in closet, a balcony overlooking the mountains— but Su Wanwan felt like a trespasser. She showered quickly (the water pressure was so strong it made her jump) and changed into the soft silk nightgown the housekeeper had laid out, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the marriage contract on the nightstand.
This was real. She was married to a man she'd met three hours ago, living in a mansion that cost more than her entire neighborhood, and about to pretend to be his wife for three months.
A soft knock made her jump.
"Come in?"
Lu Shiyan stepped through the door. He'd changed into a white bathrobe, the collar loose enough to reveal a sliver of his collarbone. His damp hair fell over his forehead, softening the sharp lines of his face—just a little. He held a first-aid kit in one hand.
"Your hand," he said, nodding to her palm. The cut had stopped bleeding, but the edges were red and raw.
"Oh—I forgot," she mumbled, holding it out.
He sat beside her on the bed, his knee brushing hers. The scent of his sandalwood shampoo wrapped around her, warm and masculine. He cleaned the wound with antiseptic (she flinched, and he paused, his fingers still holding her wrist), then applied a bandage with careful, precise movements.
"You're clumsy," he said, but there was no bite in his voice—only a quiet observation.
"I'm not usually," she protested. "It's just… today's been weird."
He didn't reply. When he finished, he closed the first-aid kit and stood. "Don't be late tomorrow. And… lock your door if you want."
The implication hung in the air: he wouldn't force himself on her. Relief flooded Su Wanwan, so strong she almost sighed.
"Thank you," she said. "For… the bandage. And everything."
Lu Shiyan paused in the doorway. For a second, his dark eyes softened—so briefly she thought she imagined it. Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Su Wanwan fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Somewhere in the mansion, a clock chimed midnight.
She thought of her mother in the hospital, of the rent notice on her apartment door, of the ruined design sketches she'd left on the street. Then she thought of Lu Shiyan's cool hand on hers, of the way he'd defended her to the housekeeper.
Three months, she told herself. Just three months.
But as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn't shake the feeling that these three months would change everything.