POV: Shen Yuxin
The apartment was silent in a way that did not belong to me.
It was too clean, too orderly, too intentional. Even the air felt different, carrying a faint scent of fresh wood and something crisp I could not identify. When the door closed behind me, the sound echoed softly, reminding me that this space was temporary. Assigned. Carefully chosen.
Lu Chengye's world did not leave room for coincidence.
I stood just inside the living room, my heels sinking slightly into the plush carpet, and took in my surroundings. Floor to ceiling windows framed the city skyline, the view uninterrupted and commanding. The furniture was elegant but impersonal, as if selected to impress rather than comfort. No photos. No clutter. No signs of life beyond what was required.
This was not a home.
It was a strategic position.
My suitcase sat neatly by the door, delivered ahead of me. Someone had unpacked it. My clothes hung in the wardrobe in perfect order, colors arranged with meticulous care. Even my books were stacked on the shelf beside the sofa, aligned as if they had always belonged there.
The realization tightened something in my chest.
I crossed the room slowly and set my bag down on the glass coffee table. The tablet lay on top of it, screen dark but waiting. I knew what was inside.
The contract.
Again.
I had signed it once already. That should have been enough. But unease settled deeper with every step I took inside this place, and I needed clarity the way some people needed reassurance.
I sat, straight-backed, and activated the screen.
The document opened immediately, as if anticipating my touch.
I read from the beginning.
Not skimming. Not assuming.
Every clause. Every word.
Temporary companion for public engagements.
Duration six months.
Compensation outlined with precise figures.
Living arrangements subject to adjustment.
Absolute discretion required.
No emotional involvement.
I paused there.
No emotional involvement.
The words were simple, almost dismissive. As if emotions were something easily managed, easily excluded.
I scrolled further.
Exit conditions.
Breach consequences.
Termination protocols.
Everything was clean. Logical. Predictable.
And yet, the more I read, the more I understood what the contract was really designed to do.
It was not there to bind me to him.
It was there to protect both of us from something else.
I exhaled slowly, leaning back against the sofa. Outside, the city lights flickered on as dusk settled, the glow reflecting faintly against the glass. From this height, people were reduced to movement and color, their individual lives invisible.
This was how Lu Chengye lived, I realized.
Above the details. Removed from the noise.
A soft chime sounded from the tablet.
A message.
Lu Chengye: You have arrived.
I stared at the words for a moment before replying.
Me: Yes.
The response came almost instantly.
Lu Chengye: Dinner in one hour. Formal. The car will take you.
No greeting. No inquiry.
Just instruction.
I set the tablet down and stood, smoothing my sleeves as if preparing for a role. That was, after all, exactly what I was doing.
An hour later, I stepped out of the building into the waiting car. The driver greeted me politely and opened the door. The interior was quiet, insulated from the city sounds, the windows tinted just enough to blur the outside world.
As we moved through traffic, I reminded myself again of the rules.
Public appearances only.
No emotional involvement.
Temporary.
The restaurant was private. Exclusive. The kind of place that did not advertise and did not need to. As soon as we arrived, staff guided me inside without question.
Lu Chengye was already there.
He stood near the window of a secluded dining area, his posture relaxed, his expression composed. The city lights framed him again, just as they had in his office, as if this was how he was always meant to be seen.
When he turned, his gaze swept over me briefly. Not lingering. Not appraising.
Acknowledging.
"You're punctual," he said.
"I was instructed to be," I replied.
A corner of his mouth shifted, not quite a smile.
We sat across from each other. The table was set elegantly, candles casting soft light that reflected off polished silverware. The atmosphere was hushed, the surrounding diners separated enough to ensure privacy without isolation.
He spoke to the server briefly. The menu disappeared.
"You've reviewed the contract again," he said.
It was not a question.
"Yes."
"And?"
"And it's thorough," I said. "Clear."
"That was the intention."
I hesitated, then added, "It's also carefully restrictive."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "Explain."
"The rules exist to prevent complications," I said. "Which suggests complications are expected."
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, he lifted his glass and took a measured sip of water.
"Complications are always possible," he said finally. "Preparation minimizes damage."
Damage.
The word settled heavily between us.
I watched him quietly, noting the way his presence seemed to shape the room. The server returned briefly, placing the first course on the table. The exchange was efficient. Respectful. Almost deferential.
When the server left, the silence returned.
"This arrangement," I said carefully, "is designed to look stable."
"Yes."
"But it isn't," I continued. "It's controlled."
His gaze met mine fully now.
"Stability is perception," he said. "Control is reality."
There it was again. That clarity that bordered on warning.
I nodded once, absorbing it.
Throughout the meal, conversation remained minimal. He asked no personal questions. Offered no details about himself. When he spoke, it was precise, directed, efficient. He was not trying to charm me.
That, somehow, unsettled me more than if he had.
I noticed how people reacted when they passed our table. Glances lingered. Whispers softened. A subtle shift in posture, in tone. Even without overt displays of authority, his influence was unmistakable.
I was seated beside that influence now.
And by extension, affected by it.
At one point, a man approached, clearly intending to speak with Lu Chengye. He slowed when he saw me, hesitated, then adjusted his expression into something polite.
"Mr. Lu," he said.
Lu Chengye acknowledged him with a nod. No introductions were offered. No explanations.
"I'll be with you shortly," he said.
The man nodded again and retreated without argument.
The exchange lasted seconds. The implication lasted longer.
I realized then that this was part of the arrangement too.
Standing beside him meant being seen.
And being seen meant being interpreted.
Back in the car later, I replayed the evening in my mind. Nothing dramatic had happened. No raised voices. No unexpected touches.
And yet, a faint tension lingered beneath my calm.
The contract's rules were clear.
But the environment they placed me in was not.
When we arrived back at the apartment, I stepped out first. Lu Chengye remained in the car for a moment longer, speaking quietly to someone on his phone. When he joined me at the entrance, his attention returned to me seamlessly, as if nothing else existed.
"This is where you'll stay for now," he said. "Adjustments may be necessary."
"Of course," I replied.
We stood there for a brief moment, the city humming around us, distant and indifferent.
"You should rest," he added. "Tomorrow will be busy."
"Is it always like this?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He paused.
"Like what?" he asked.
I searched for the right words. "Controlled."
His gaze held mine, steady and unreadable.
"Yes," he said. "That's the point."
He turned and walked away, his steps unhurried, his presence lingering even after he was gone.
Inside, the apartment felt even quieter than before.
I returned to the sofa and reopened the contract one last time, my eyes drawn again to the same line.
No emotional involvement.
For the first time, I understood its true purpose.
The rule wasn't there because emotions were unlikely.
It was there because they were dangerous.
And as I looked out at the city lights, reflecting in the glass like distant stars, a single thought surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome.
Rules only exist when something needs to be restrained.