POV: Shen Yuxin
The elevator ride to the top floor was silent.
Not the awkward kind. The deliberate kind.
Soft instrumental music played overhead, barely audible. The mirrored walls reflected the city lights rising steadily as we ascended. I stood slightly behind Lu Chengye, my hands folded calmly in front of me, my posture practiced and composed.
This building belonged to him.
I learned that quickly. Not because anyone announced it, but because everything inside it moved with quiet precision. The security staff nodded without hesitation. The receptionist had not asked for my name. Even the elevator responded instantly when his fingerprint touched the panel.
Efficiency, authority, control.
I breathed slowly and kept my expression neutral.
This was part of his world now. And by extension, temporarily, part of mine.
When the doors opened, we stepped into a private floor illuminated by soft recessed lighting. The space was vast but restrained. Dark wood floors. Clean lines. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. There were no unnecessary decorations. No personal clutter.
The environment reflected him perfectly.
"Sit," Lu Chengye said, gesturing toward the seating area near the windows.
I did.
The couch was leather, cool beneath my palms. I crossed my legs carefully, keeping my movements measured. Across from me, he remained standing for a moment, his attention on the city below. From this height, everything looked distant. Manageable.
Insignificant.
He turned finally and took a seat opposite me, placing a slim folder on the glass table between us.
"The boundaries," he said.
I straightened slightly. "I was wondering when we would discuss them."
"We already have," he replied. "This is clarification."
I nodded and opened the folder.
Inside was a concise list. Cleanly printed. No embellishments. No legal jargon. Just statements. Expectations.
Public appearances as required
No unauthorized media interaction
No disclosure of personal details
No emotional dependency
No private assumptions
I read each line carefully, resisting the urge to react outwardly.
"No emotional dependency," I repeated quietly.
"That includes expectations," he said. "Or interpretations."
"I understand."
He watched me closely as I continued reading.
Separate living arrangements
Scheduled appearances only
No interference in business matters
Termination at the end of the agreed period
Six months.
The timeline stared back at me like a countdown.
"I notice there's nothing here about exclusivity," I said after a moment.
"There doesn't need to be."
I looked up. "Because?"
"Because this arrangement is functional, not personal."
The words landed cleanly. No hesitation. No softness.
I closed the folder and rested my hands on top of it.
"I appreciate the clarity," I said. "It makes expectations easier to manage."
"Good."
Silence stretched between us again. Not uncomfortable. But heavy.
I studied him discreetly. Even seated, Lu Chengye commanded space. His suit was immaculate, his expression calm, his gaze steady without being invasive. He did not fidget. He did not glance away.
He did not need to.
"I have conditions as well," I said.
That caught his attention.
"I'm listening."
"I will not be humiliated publicly," I said evenly. "I will not lie on your behalf. And I will not be treated as disposable."
A pause.
The city lights flickered behind him, reflected faintly in his eyes.
"Those conditions are reasonable," he said. "And already assumed."
"Assumed isn't the same as agreed."
A faint smile touched his lips. Not warm. Not amused.
"Then consider them agreed."
I released a breath I had not realized I was holding.
This was not negotiation.
It was alignment.
I stood and moved toward the window, needing the space. The glass was cool beneath my fingertips. The city looked smaller from here, reduced to patterns of light and motion.
"You're very calm," he said behind me.
"I've learned that calm is safer than panic."
"In this world," he said, "panic is expensive."
I turned to face him. "That's why rules matter."
"They do."
"And boundaries."
"Yes."
"Then we're clear," I said.
He stood as well, closing the distance between us with unhurried steps. He stopped a respectful distance away. Close enough that I was aware of his presence. Not close enough to mistake it for intimacy.
"You are adapting quickly," he said.
"I don't have the luxury of not adapting."
"Most people resist first."
"I don't see the point."
His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary. Not appraising. Evaluating.
"You're different from what they expected," he said.
"Who are they?"
"The people who advised against this arrangement."
I raised an eyebrow. "And what did they expect?"
"Someone easier to manage."
The statement was neither compliment nor warning.
"I don't intend to be difficult," I said. "Just clear."
"That's sufficient."
We moved back toward the seating area. He retrieved the folder and slipped it back into the table drawer, sealing the conversation as efficiently as it had begun.
"Tomorrow evening," he said, "there's a private dinner."
"With whom?"
"Investors. Long term."
"And my role?"
"Observe. Listen. Speak only if spoken to."
I nodded. "Understood."
"You'll do well," he added.
The confidence in his tone was unsettling.
As I prepared to leave, I became acutely aware of how often we occupied the same spaces lately. Cars. Elevators. Quiet rooms. Shared silence.
There was no intimacy in it.
But there was proximity.
And proximity changed things in ways rules could not always account for.
At the door, I paused.
"Lu Chengye," I said.
"Yes?"
"What happens if one of these boundaries is crossed?"
His expression did not change.
"Then the arrangement ends."
Immediately.
No discussion. No leniency.
I nodded once. "Good."
As the elevator doors closed behind me, the silence returned, enclosing me like a second skin. My reflection stared back from the mirrored walls. Calm. Controlled.
But beneath it, my thoughts churned.
This is temporary, I reminded myself.
Six months. Defined roles. Clear boundaries.
I would not misunderstand his actions. I would not read meaning where there was none. I would not forget that this world did not belong to me.
And yet, as the elevator descended, one thought refused to quiet.
Rules were meant to protect something.
And I was beginning to suspect they existed not to keep us apart.
But to prevent something inevitable from happening.