If you had told me 24 hours ago that I'd be considering a fake marriage with a stranger in a rooftop bar, I would've laughed, or cried. Probably both. Instead, I sat across from him at a glossy marble table in a private office that screamed money and intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the heart of Shanghai, but the view wasn't what made me nervous.
It was Wu Zihan.
Again.
This time, in daylight.
If he looked powerful at night, now he looked untouchable. Black three-piece suit, silver watch, expression carved from stone. And me? I was wearing borrowed clothes and shoes that didn't quite fit one of the sleeves still had a faint coffee stain.
"I assumed you wouldn't come," he said calmly, breaking the silence.
I didn't know whether to be insulted or proud.
"Well, I did," I muttered, sitting straighter. "Don't act like it wasn't your idea."
He opened a folder and pushed it toward me. "This is the contract. Read it carefully."
My heart beat a little too fast as I looked at the neatly typed pages. It was real. The whole thing. A six-month marriage agreement, covering everything from public appearances to living arrangements and—yes—rules on physical intimacy.
Clause 9.2: No romantic entanglements unless mutually agreed.
Clause 11.4: Public displays of affection when necessary.
"I'm not selling myself," I said quietly.
His gaze met mine. "I'm not buying you."
"Then what am I?"
He didn't hesitate. "A partner. One who benefits from this as much as I do."
"And when it ends?"
"We walk away. Cleanly."
I flipped another page, still feeling like this had to be a dream or a very expensive prank.
"There's a clause for termination," he added. "Early exit if either party violates the contract."
"And if I run away with your fortune?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"You won't."
"You're very confident for someone asking a stranger to be his wife."
He leaned forward slightly. "You're desperate. I'm calculating. That makes us equally dangerous."
I hated how logical that sounded.
He slid a pen toward me. "If you agree, sign. My lawyer will file the documents and we'll marry by the end of the week."
"The end of the—"
"Time is critical. My parents will be in Shanghai by Friday. I need them to believe this is real."
I stared at the contract again. My chest tightened.
What was I doing?
Jian was out of my life, and thank God for that. But I had no job, no savings, and my aunt—my only living relative was already struggling to pay her own bills. This man was offering me safety, even if it came wrapped in cold logic and legal terms.
I could leave after six months.
I could survive anything for six months.
"I have conditions," I said finally.
One of his brows lifted, almost imperceptibly. "Go on."
"I get to have a job. I'm not going to be your house pet."
"Fine."
"I want my own bedroom."
He nodded.
"And if this gets out—if anyone finds out this marriage is fake, I walk away with a clean record and no media scandal."
"I'll make sure of it."
I hesitated. "And… no sex."
His lips twitched, like I'd said something vaguely amusing.
"Understood," he said.
I signed.
Just like that, I stopped being Li Xue, the girl who got cheated on, and started being Li Xue, the fake wife of Shanghai's coldest CEO.
The marriage license was expedited. Money, I realized, didn't just talk it opened government offices faster than sirens.
By Friday, I stood in front of a mirror wearing a designer dress I couldn't pronounce, holding a bouquet I didn't choose, waiting for a ceremony that wasn't real.
Zihan barely looked at me when he arrived. He was too busy on the phone, murmuring something about a board meeting and a scandal involving a leaked contract. I didn't understand half of it.
"You're late," I whispered when he finally stood beside me.
"You look fine," he said.
That wasn't an answer, but it made my heart skip anyway.
The official was quick and robotic. We signed, took two photos, and shook hands like we'd just closed a business deal.
Which we had.
Afterward, we got into his black car—chauffeur included and drove to a towering penthouse in the financial district.
"This is home now," he said as the elevator doors opened.
Marble floors, glass walls with a kitchen bigger than my old apartment. I tried not to gawk.
"You'll stay in the guest room. Don't go into my study without permission. We'll attend events together twice a month. My assistant will prepare a schedule for you. Questions?"
I had about a hundred.
But I only asked one. "Do I get a key?"
He paused. Then pulled a sleek card from a drawer and handed it to me.
I felt like I'd just signed my soul to the devil and he gave me a welcome gift.
The first night in the penthouse was… strange.
The guest room was luxurious, with silk sheets and a view of the skyline. I stood in front of the window for a long time, watching the lights blink like they were spelling out secrets.
I didn't feel like a wife.
I didn't feel like myself.
I was just a placeholder in someone else's life.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Unknown Number:
"From now on, anything you need—clothing, transportation, accounts—my assistant, Mei Lin, will arrange. Don't hesitate."
I stared at the message.
No "goodnight." No "welcome home."
Just logistics.
I put the phone down and got into bed, eyes wide open, heart unsure.
The next morning started with a knock at the door.
I opened it to find a young woman in a crisp uniform and flawless bun.
"Madam Wu," she greeted with a bow. "I'm Mei Lin. Mr. Wu has instructed me to take you shopping today. You'll need outfits for the shareholder gala this weekend."
"I can dress myself," I said.
"Of course. But the stylist will accompany us to ensure public image consistency."
Right. Image.
I forced a smile. "Lead the way."
The next five hours were a blur of designer showrooms, fittings, and awkward small talk with a stylist who kept referring to me as "delicate but moldable."
By the time I returned, my feet ached, and my patience was running low.
Zihan was home, reviewing documents with a glass of scotch.
"Enjoy your day?" he asked without looking up.
"It was… a lot."
He nodded, still not meeting my eyes.
I waited for him to say something else. Anything.
Instead, he added, "The gala is Saturday we'll arrive together. Be ready by seven."
I didn't answer because I suddenly understood what I'd signed up for.
Not just a fake marriage, not just a lie but the coldest kind of loneliness—one that looked beautiful on the outside and felt like nothing on the inside.
And the worst part?
Somewhere in my chest, I hoped he would eventually look at me… and actually see me.