The only downside about living at the family house was that it was far from everywhere else—like a secluded estate that believed convenience was a moral weakness.
But then again, everyone who lived in this area had their own chauffeur; distance was merely a concept for the wealthy.
"Do you prefer to live here or somewhere closer to your company?" Yancheng asked, his eyes still fixed on his tablet.
"I don't mind either," An Ning replied easily.
"Are Dad and Mum planning another trip soon?"
He finally glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Not for a while, I think. They'll probably stay put for now."
"Oh."
An Ning blinked, a small pause filling the car. The thought was both heartwarming and—if she was being honest—a little daunting.
After all, parental affection in concentrated doses could be…intense.
"Anyway, we have some estates around your company," Yancheng continued.
"Or you can always get your assigned chauffeur to drive you back and forth."
"I have an assigned chauffeur?" An Ning asked.
"Of course," Yancheng said, glancing up briefly.
"Mum's been preparing things ever since the DNA results came back. You were whisked off to that show because she could properly spoil you, so she's been making up for it ever since."
"Ah."
An Ning leaned back, amused.
"That explains why my wardrobe looks like it's been curated by an overachieving fairy godmother."
"More like two," Yancheng said dryly.
"She and her stylist have been conspiring the past week."
An Ning laughed, mirth in her voice.
She supposed this was her soft launch into rich-daughter-life—complete with luxury cars, private drivers, and parents who now looked at her as though she might vanish if left unattended for too long.
She couldn't quite decide if she was touched or slightly overwhelmed.
"When are you gonna get married?" An Ning asked curiously.
"At least not for another few more years," Yancheng replied without looking up.
"Qingwan said she's still too young to get married."
"You don't sound too disappointed," An Ning observed, tilting her head.
"Should I be?"
"Well," she mused, "most people would at least pretend to care when their wedding is delayed."
"Well, we all know this is a marriage between two families," Yancheng said, his tone calm, almost matter-of-fact.
"Besides, I'm six years older than Qingwan. I probably can't give her the kind of romance she wants—but the rest, I'll try to accommodate."
"You make marriage sound like a quarterly report," she said dryly.
"Efficiency applies everywhere," he replied, unbothered.
"Remind me not to let you write your own wedding vows."
That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from him—the closest thing to amusement she'd seen all morning.
The rest of the drive passed in companionable silence. Outside, the city unfolded in glass and steel,
the skyline shimmering under the late-morning sun.
By the time they turned into the underground carpark of An Ning's entertainment company,
the familiar hum of activity was already in full swing—cars pulling in and out, assistants juggling coffee trays and scripts, security guards nodding briskly as they passed.
An Ning glanced out. Even from here, she could sense the faint buzz that always clung to the entertainment industry—an odd mix of glamour, exhaustion, and caffeine dependency.
"Let's go," Yancheng said as he got out from the car.
"You don't have to walk me in, you know."
An Ning followed, the sharp click of her heels echoing softly against the polished concrete.
"It's fine," he replied, straightening his jacket. "I want to speak with Shen Bojun anyway."
"Ah," An Ning said, tone faintly amused. "So this is a work visit disguised as brotherly concern."
Yancheng gave her a shrug and led the way toward the lobby.
The cool air of the reception hall greeted them as the glass doors slid open, carrying with it the faint scent of coffee and something faintly floral that hung in the air—a fragrance carefully balanced between professionalism and vanity.
Behind the counter, the receptionist immediately straightened. Her professional smile flickered briefly into surprise at the sight of the An family's heir.
"Good morning, Mr. An," she greeted quickly.
"I have an appointment with Shen Bojun," Yancheng said, voice even but polite.
"Of course, sir. He's expecting you." She picked up the phone, her movement brisk but slightly nervous—like someone aware that every gesture was being quietly assessed.
Beside him, An Ning adjusted her sunglasses—half amused, half resigned.
It seemed wherever her brother went, the air automatically shifted two degrees more formal
*****
A few minutes later, they were ushered into the elevator leading to the top floor. Beyond the glass doors awaited the private office suite.
Shen Bojun's office, much like the man himself, was meticulously composed—sleek furniture, framed posters of past productions, and a faint scent of black tea lingering beneath the air-conditioning.
He was standing by the window when they entered, phone in hand, voice low and measured.
At the sight of them, he ended the call with a polite, "We'll discuss this later," and turned, his usual calm professionalism settling easily into place.
But if one were to look closely, they could see a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"Parental duties?" Shen Bojun asked, his tone easy, knowing kind reserved for old friends rather than business partners.
Yancheng's lips curved faintly. "Something like that. I'd say brotherly duties—but it's starting to feel like a full-time job."
An Ning rolled her eyes, exasperation clear as she set her bag down on the sofa. "I didn't realise I required this much supervision."
"An Ning, princess of the A family," Yancheng said dryly. "I am handing her over to you now. If anything happens, my parents will make me regret it first."
Shen Bojun's smile deepened, "Right, I'd know that better than most."
An Ning settled quietly onto the sofa, watching the two men trade remarks with practiced ease.
It didn't take much to see they were old friends—their words carried the kind of rhythm only forged through years of mutual survival in boardrooms and family dinners alike.
Unfortunately, in the story she remembered, neither of them had ended well.
Shen Bojun, in particular—by the final chapters—had fallen into a coma and never woke up before the novel ended.
She scoffed. Of course it had to end that way. How else would Shen Xiyu have been the male lead?
With his calm temperament and quiet authority, Shen Bojun had always been the kind of man who looked like he belonged behind success—the sort who built empires but never needed to raise his voice to do it.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and immaculately put together. Every line of his suit was tailored to precision, the dark fabric hinting at quiet power rather than display.
The sunlight streaming through the blinds caught his profile—a sculpted jaw, a sharp nose, and lips that curved just enough to suggest amusement, but never indulgence.
His eyes, deep and steady, carried a weight that made people instinctively listen before he even spoke.
It wasn't just handsomeness—it was the kind of presence that made the air feel a little thinner around him.
If perfection had a human form,
it would probably look a great deal like Shen Bojun standing by that window.
He wasn't just handsome.
He was dangerously composed.
And yet, in the novel, all that restraint,
all that quiet power,
had been reduced to a plot device—
a coma for drama,
a tragedy for depth.
The sunlight shifted, catching the edge of Shen Bojun's sleeve. He looked perfectly alive, perfectly untouchable.
And for the first time, An Ning thought—
maybe this story didn't have to end the way it once had.