POV: Shen Yuxin
The contract arrived just after midnight.
Not by email. Not through a courier service that required a signature. It appeared on my tablet with a quiet notification, as if it had always been there and was only waiting for me to notice.
I stared at the screen for several seconds before opening it.
The interface was minimalist. Clean lines. No unnecessary formatting. The document was short, far shorter than I had expected, but every word felt deliberate. There were no exaggerated promises, no flattering language. Just terms, timelines, and clauses written with clinical precision.
Temporary companion.
Public appearances only.
Discretion mandatory.
No emotional involvement.
Fixed duration.
Clear exit.
I closed the document without scrolling further.
Sleep was impossible after that.
By morning, the city outside my window looked unchanged. Cars moved. People hurried along the sidewalks below. Life continued, indifferent to the fact that mine now hovered on the edge of something irrevocable.
I showered, dressed, and went to the address attached to the contract's final page.
Lu Chengye's private office was located in a building that did not announce itself. No oversized logo. No dramatic entrance. Just a quiet tower of glass and steel nestled among others like it, confident enough not to compete.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately.
The lobby was expansive, but not loud. Polished stone floors absorbed sound. Staff moved efficiently, their expressions neutral but alert. No one lingered. No one wasted motion.
I gave my name at the reception desk. The woman there did not ask for identification. She simply nodded and gestured toward the elevator.
As the doors closed behind me, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls. Calm face. Straight posture. Controlled breathing.
You are here to sign a contract, I reminded myself. Nothing more.
The elevator opened directly into his floor.
There was no waiting area, no receptionist. Just a corridor leading to a glass door that slid open as I approached.
Lu Chengye was already inside.
He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out over the city. Morning light framed his silhouette, sharp and composed. The room itself was understated. Dark wood. Neutral tones. No personal items visible. It felt less like an office and more like a command center.
"You read it," he said without turning.
"Yes," I replied.
He faced me then, his gaze settling on me with the same measured assessment as before. There was no surprise in his expression, no curiosity. Only expectation.
"Sit," he said.
I did.
A second tablet lay on the table between us, the contract open. He did not push it toward me. He did not explain it. He waited.
"I have questions," I said.
"As you should."
I scrolled through the document this time, slower. Clause by clause. Each line was clear, almost brutally so.
"There is no clause regarding exclusivity," I noted.
"There doesn't need to be," he replied. "Your personal life is your own, as long as it does not interfere."
"And if it does?"
"Then the arrangement ends."
No raised voice. No threat. Just fact.
I nodded once, committing that to memory.
"The duration is six months," I said. "Why that length?"
"Because it is sufficient," he replied.
I did not ask sufficient for what. The answer would not benefit me.
"There are penalties for breach on my side," I continued. "But none listed for yours."
"There are," he said calmly. "They simply don't need to be written."
That made my fingers pause on the screen.
"I don't enjoy ambiguity," I said.
"Neither do I," he replied. "Which is why my reputation serves as the clause you're looking for."
It was not arrogance. It was a certainty.
I studied him quietly. He did not shift under my gaze. He did not fill the silence. He allowed it to exist, confident it would work in his favor.
"This arrangement," I said carefully, "will place me under scrutiny."
"Yes."
"Judgment."
"Yes."
"And speculation."
"Yes."
He did not soften the truth.
"You will be protected from consequences that matter," he added. "Reputation is not one of them."
That was the first warning disguised as honesty.
I took a breath, grounding myself again. "Public appearances only," I said. "Define public."
"Events where my presence is expected," he replied. "Dinners, functions, meetings that benefit from visual stability."
Stability.
"You don't want a companion," I said slowly. "You want an image."
"That is accurate."
At least he did not pretend otherwise.
I signed nothing yet.
"Why are you telling me all this instead of delegating it to a lawyer?" I asked.
"Because lawyers complicate things," he replied. "And because I prefer my terms understood directly."
The room felt heavier after that.
Outside the glass walls, movement slowed. A few executives passed by, glancing in our direction before quickly looking away. Even without raised voices or gestures, his authority was visible. No one interrupted. No one questioned.
I understood then that this building moved according to his rhythm.
"And if I change my mind?" I asked.
He met my eyes evenly. "You won't."
The certainty in his voice should have unsettled me more than it did.
Instead, it made something click.
"You're not offering this because you think I'm replaceable," I said quietly. "You're offering it because you know I won't overstep."
Something flickered in his gaze. Not surprise. Recognition.
"You understand boundaries," he said. "That is your value here."
Not beauty. Not charm.
Control.
I looked down at the contract again. At the clean exit clause. At the absence of emotional language. At the clear timeline.
This was not a trap disguised as romance.
It was a calculated arrangement between two people who understood limits.
That should have reassured me.
And yet, a faint unease settled beneath my calm.
Because if everything was this controlled, this deliberate, then any deviation would be intentional.
I signed.
The tablet confirmed it instantly. No fanfare. No handshake.
"Your schedule will be sent to you," Lu Chengye said. "Your living arrangements will be adjusted today."
"Adjusted how?" I asked.
"You will move," he replied. "Proximity reduces complications."
There it was.
The first line crossed.
"I wasn't aware relocation was part of the agreement," I said.
"It is not optional," he replied, then added, "but it is temporary."
Temporary.
The word echoed louder than it should have.
I stood, smoothing my jacket, reminding myself again why I was here.
"This ends in six months," I said.
"Yes."
"No extensions," I added.
He did not answer immediately.
Then, "We'll see."
That was the second warning.
I turned toward the door, my pulse steady but alert. As it slid open, his voice followed me.
"Miss Shen."
I stopped, but did not turn.
"Do not confuse clarity with simplicity," he said. "This arrangement is controlled. That does not mean it is harmless."
I walked out without responding.
The corridor felt longer this time. The silence heavier.
Because as the elevator doors closed and carried me back down into the ordinary noise of the city, one thought refused to leave my mind.
I had signed a contract with a man who never wasted words.
Which meant every warning he gave mattered.