Dark clouds loomed overhead, the sky not yet fully bright. When the leaves of the parasol trees began to yellow, Yan Yan stood before the wrought-iron gate of the red-brick villa. She wore a moon-white silk qipao that Mrs. Zhao had chosen especially for her, the collar fastened with South Sea pearls — sewn on that morning at five, while the tailor and two assistants held her still with three tranquilizers. Amid the cicadas' cries, she heard the faint snap of a thread splitting along the slit of her dress — it sounded just like a nerve deep within her being snapping apart.
At her feet, the suitcase contained all her "training results" from the past three months: twenty qipaos, six psychology books, and the original copy of the prenuptial agreement sealed in a kraft envelope. When Mrs. Zhao's Mercedes made a U-turn at the corner, its exhaust brushed against Yan Yan's calves, hot enough to sting.
It was as if the heavens understood her turmoil — a crack of thunder rumbled, heightening her unease. Then came the rain. Only when raindrops, sharp as silver needles, pierced her skin did Yan Yan realize she had made a mistake.
She had been standing at the gate for over an hour. Now the thin qipao clung to her body, and the prenuptial agreement in her leather purse was soaked at the edges. Raindrops dripped from her hair onto the registration form she held, blurring the name she had just written.
"Yan Yan?" A man inside the guardhouse frowned at her. "New at Mr. Zhao's place?"
Her voice came out hoarse, rougher than she expected. "Mm."
The guard gave her a knowing smile and handed her a black umbrella. It was heavy — the kind meant to withstand sudden summer downpours. She dragged her suitcase along the cobblestone path, the water seeping into her low leather heels. Each step made an awkward squeak.
The villa was larger than she had imagined. Ivy climbed its gray-white walls, and warm orange light spilled from the tall windows. After the doorbell chimed three times, it was answered by a man in a dark gray suit.
"You're one hour and twenty-three minutes late." He didn't look at her as he spoke, only at his watch. "Qi Sili detests people who can't be punctual."
Rainwater dripped from the hem of her dress onto the marble floor. She recognized his face at once — Zhao Mingyuan, the youngest mining tycoon ever featured in Financial World magazine. In photos, he always wore that sharp, professional smile typical of businessmen. Now, his mouth was drawn tight — like the edge of an unsheathed blade.
"I'm sorry," she began, but her words were drowned out by a roll of thunder.
At last, Zhao Mingyuan looked up. His eyes were so dark they seemed to absorb the light. "Take off your shoes," he ordered. "You're soaked. Don't dirty the floor."
As Yan Yan bent to untie her shoes, she heard the sound of a piano drifting from the living room — Debussy's Clair de Lune, played haltingly, as if the pianist's mind were elsewhere. The moment her bare feet touched the cold floor, the music stopped.
"So this is the medical student?"
The voice came from the top of the spiral staircase. Yan Yan looked up and saw a man leaning against the railing in a linen shirt. He was thinner than Zhao Mingyuan, his skin pale under the chandelier's light, his left hand still poised as though pressing piano keys. Qi Sili — she knew that name — the prodigy painter who once held an exhibition in Paris.
"Did you bring the prenuptial agreement?" Zhao Mingyuan asked.
Yan Yan took the envelope from her bag. The papers inside were slightly damp.
Qi Sili descended the stairs slowly, his fingertips cold as he accepted the file. "What's your major?"
"Clinical medicine, with a minor in genetics."
"Smart girl." His smile was faint, voice soft — like a feather brushing against her ear. "Let's hope your temperament is as flawless as your transcript."
Her ears flushed. She noticed an ink stain on his left ring finger — as if he'd just finished sketching and hadn't washed it off. Meanwhile, Zhao Mingyuan watched her with the cool scrutiny of someone appraising mineral ore.
In the dining room, the prenuptial agreement was already laid out. Beside the thick stack of papers sat two pens — one gold, one silver. Yan Yan sat on the leather chair, the damp fabric sticking to her back, every movement prickling with discomfort.
"You should already know the basic terms," Zhao Mingyuan said, sliding the contract toward her. "If you want a divorce later, you can have one. There'll be financial compensation."
Qi Sili added lightly, "We'll also cover all your study expenses abroad."
Yan Yan's gaze fell to the number: 2.2 million. Enough for her father's surgery, her brother's living expenses, and her own graduate studies in the U.S. She picked up the gold pen — but the nib leaked, a drop of red ink blooming over her name like blood.
"Use this one." Qi Sili pressed her hand gently and passed her the silver pen. His palm was cool, calloused from years of holding a brush.
Just as she signed her name, lightning tore across the sky. In the flicker of light, she caught a glimpse of Zhao Mingyuan's hand resting on Qi Sili's lower back — and the painter's body leaning ever so slightly into the touch. The gesture was subtle, intimate, and far too practiced to be new.
When the lights steadied, the two men had already separated. But Yan Yan was certain of what she saw — a faint red mark behind Qi Sili's ear, like one left by a forceful kiss.
"Your room is on the third floor," Zhao Mingyuan said, gathering the papers, his voice businesslike once more.
As Yan Yan followed the butler upstairs, she heard muffled voices below — a quiet argument.
"You're really going through with the family's arrangement?" Zhao Mingyuan's voice.
"What else can I do? My parents would be in trouble otherwise," Qi Sili replied — followed by a dull thud, like someone being shoved against a wall.
The rain outside intensified. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, Yan Yan saw the two men in the garden below, walking toward the garage under a shared black umbrella. As the umbrella dipped low, Zhao Mingyuan grabbed Qi Sili by the collar and kissed him — rough, punishing.
Yan Yan yanked the curtains shut. Trembling, she reached into her suitcase for a worn photograph of her mother — yellowed with age, taken when her mother was still alive. "I'm sorry, Mama," she whispered to the photo. "I can't do this alone anymore."
As thunder rolled once more across the sky, she finally understood what kind of game she had stepped into.