POV: Shen Yuxin
The first thing I noticed when I stepped into Lu Chengye's residence was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind, but the deliberate kind. The sort that had been designed, measured, and maintained. Even the sound of my footsteps on the polished stone floor seemed muted, absorbed before it could echo.
The house was not warm. It was not cold either. It was precise.
Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing a cityscape that felt distant despite its proximity. Everything inside was neutral in color. Gray, black, muted gold. No personal photos. No clutter. No signs of a life lived casually.
I stood near the entrance with my suitcase beside me, suddenly aware that I had crossed a line that no contract clause could fully explain.
Living here was different from attending events or standing beside him in public.
This was private territory.
A woman in a tailored uniform approached me quietly. "Miss Shen, your room is ready."
Her tone was respectful, her expression composed. She did not look curious. She did not look judgmental. She looked trained.
"Thank you," I replied.
She gestured toward the hallway. I followed, my gaze taking in the space as we walked. The house was large, but not ostentatious. It felt controlled, as though excess had been deliberately removed.
"This is your floor," she said, stopping in front of a door. "Mr. Lu's study and bedroom are on the top floor."
Separate floors.
I noted that immediately.
She opened the door, revealing a spacious bedroom with an attached sitting area and bathroom. Everything was immaculate. The bed was neatly made. The curtains were already drawn halfway, letting in soft light.
"This is more than enough," I said.
She nodded. "Dinner will be served at eight. Mr. Lu will be present if his schedule allows."
If.
I thanked her again, and she left without another word.
When the door closed, the quiet returned.
I set my suitcase down and remained standing for a moment, letting the reality settle.
This is temporary.
Six months. Public appearances. Cohabitation for credibility.
Nothing more.
I unpacked slowly, placing my clothes neatly in the wardrobe provided. Someone had already stocked the bathroom with items suited to my preferences. The realization unsettled me more than it should have.
He pays attention, I reminded myself. That does not mean anything beyond efficiency.
At exactly eight, I made my way to the dining room. The table was long, set for two. Only two.
Lu Chengye was already seated.
He looked up when I entered. "Sit."
I did.
The meal was served without conversation. The staff moved quietly, efficiently, then disappeared as soon as the dishes were placed.
We ate in silence.
It was not awkward. It was simply… quiet.
I focused on the food, grateful for the distraction. It was excellent, though I had expected nothing less.
"You'll adjust to the schedule," Lu Chengye said eventually.
"I will," I replied.
"This arrangement requires consistency."
"I understand."
He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.
"I'll be working late most nights," he continued. "You're not required to wait up."
"I won't."
Another pause.
"If you need anything," he added, "inform the staff."
I met his gaze briefly. "I prefer to be self sufficient."
"I'm aware."
The way he said it suggested he had already formed an assessment of me.
Dinner ended without ceremony. I stood when he did.
"We'll attend a small gathering tomorrow evening," he said. "Nothing formal."
"I'll be ready."
He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary, then turned and left the room.
I exhaled slowly once I was alone again.
Living under the same roof meant constant awareness. Even in silence, his presence was felt. Not physically, but structurally. As if the house itself responded to him.
Later that night, I sat in the sitting area of my room, reading over the contract once more. The clauses were clear. Boundaries defined. Consequences outlined.
No emotional involvement.
No expectations beyond the agreed terms.
I traced my finger along the page, lingering on the dates.
There was an end.
That mattered.
The next morning, I woke early. Old habits. The house was still quiet as I moved through my morning routine. When I stepped into the kitchen to make tea, I found Lu Chengye already there, reviewing documents on his tablet.
He glanced up briefly. "You're up early."
"I usually am."
"Good."
That was all he said.
I prepared my tea and sat across from him at the kitchen island. The space between us felt deliberate. Measured.
"You'll accompany me to the office later," he said without looking up. "It will simplify explanations."
"Understood."
"You won't be required to participate."
"I didn't expect to."
A faint pause.
"That wasn't an insult," he said.
"I know."
His gaze lifted to mine. There was something assessing in it. Not curious. Calculating.
"You adapt quickly," he said.
"I don't have the luxury not to."
That earned me the smallest shift in expression. Not quite approval. Not quite amusement.
When we arrived at his company headquarters later that day, the reaction was immediate. Eyes followed us as we walked through the lobby. Whispers moved just out of hearing range.
Lu Chengye did not acknowledge any of it.
At the executive floor, an assistant greeted us and led us into his office.
"You can wait here," he said to me.
I nodded and took a seat near the window.
From my position, I observed the rhythm of his workday. Meetings began and ended with precision. People entered his office tense and left subdued. Decisions were made quickly. No one argued.
Power, again. Quiet. Absolute.
At one point, a woman entered the office unannounced, her expression sharp.
"This wasn't discussed," she said.
Lu Chengye did not raise his voice. "It's happening."
She hesitated, then nodded stiffly. "I'll adjust the schedule."
She left without another word.
I looked away, my thoughts turning inward.
Living under one roof meant witnessing this daily. Seeing the man behind the contract not in moments of spectacle, but in routine.
That was more dangerous than any grand gesture.
That evening, back at the house, I found myself sitting in the living room while he reviewed documents nearby. We did not speak.
The silence was different now. Familiar. Heavy, but not oppressive.
I glanced at him once, quickly.
He noticed.
"You have a question," he said.
"I was thinking," I replied carefully, "about how this arrangement will be perceived over time."
"It will be managed."
"And if people assume more than what exists?"
He looked at me then, his gaze steady. "That's irrelevant."
"It's relevant to me."
Silence stretched between us.
"You're not here to be misunderstood," he said at last. "You're here to serve a purpose. That's all."
I nodded.
That's all.
Later that night, alone in my room, I stared at the ceiling longer than necessary.
Shared space. Shared silence. Controlled proximity.
This was how attachment formed. Not through passion, but through repetition.
I closed my eyes and reminded myself again.
This arrangement will end.
It has to.
Because if I forgot that, living under one roof with Lu Chengye would quietly, inevitably, change more than just my address.