They arrived at the boutique after closing hours, the staff already lined up in quiet rows the way soldiers might wait for inspection. Shen Rui had bought the privacy with one phone call; walls of tinted glass now hid them from the evening foot traffic outside.
Lin Xie stepped in first, silent, eyes skimming the space like scanners mapping terrain. Racks of gowns shimmered beneath recessed lighting, each fabric arranged by hue and pedigree. She'd walked through malls before—strictly for surveillance, never for pleasure—but this was different. There was no target here, no extraction point, only silk and chiffon and a growing pile of questions she filed away for later.
A nervous sales manager hurried forward with a practiced smile. "Sir, all the new season pieces have been prepared. Shall we begin with—"
Lin Xie side-stepped him without a glance. The movement was too quick, too fluid, and the man almost stumbled trying to keep his polite distance. Shen Rui lifted a hand—stay back—and the staff retreated as though trained.
She drifted to a mannequin in a crimson gown, pinched the beadwork between finger and thumb, then released it, face unreadable. A second later she tried to walk around the display, misjudged her distance, and clipped a mirrored pedestal with her hip. The pedestal rocked; a glass clutch teetered, caught the light, and would have shattered if Shen Rui hadn't reached out and steadied it in one smooth motion.
"Clumsy," he muttered.
"Obstacle density is excessive," she replied, barely noticing the near disaster. "Spatial ratios here are inefficient."
"That's the point. Luxury wastes space."
"Not very clever," she said, moving on.
He nodded to an assistant, who brought over a rack of gowns he'd vetted in advance: sleek cuts, minimal embellishment—nothing fussy she might trip over. Lin Xie examined each in silence, expression blank. After the fourth dress she looked up at him.
"These don't have pockets."
"You won't need pockets."
"That sounds like a design flaw."
He stifled a sigh. "Try one."
She did—vanishing into the fitting room with two dresses over one arm and emerging ninety seconds later in a midnight-blue sheath. The gown clung to her frame, high at the neck, sweeping low at the back. She stared at her reflection without vanity, tilting her head left, then right, as if testing the aerodynamics.
Shen Rui watched the attendants' eyes widen and felt something pinch behind his ribs—irritation, maybe. "Turn," he said.
She pivoted. The hem caught beneath her heel; she stumbled, regained balance, and frowned at the fabric as though it had offended basic physics.
"Too long," she judged. "Also impractical for evasive maneuvers."
"It's a banquet, not an escape route."
"Missions change."
He rubbed his temple. Headache incoming.
A stylist whispered about alterations; Lin Xie ignored her, lifting the skirt to inspect the lining. "Can heels be weaponized?" she asked Shen Rui, deadpan.
"Preferably not."
She considered that, then pointed to a slimmer black gown with subtle slit and built-in side seams. "That one. Less drag."
It fit perfectly on the first try and, crucially, left her feet visible enough that she could choose low stilettos with a hidden rubber sole—grip over glamour. She accepted the shoes, walked three steps, nodded once. Transaction complete.
While the seamstress marked minor adjustments, Lin Xie stood on the small dais, eyes tracing the ceiling track lights. The assistants tried polite chatter; she offered only curt monosyllables. Cold, efficient, uninterested.
Shen Rui signed off on everything. As the staff boxed accessories, Lin Xie returned to his side, expression still neutral.
"Benefits confirmed?" he asked.
"Housing, security, resources, proximity." She ticked them off without inflection. "All satisfactory."
"Good."
She glanced at the mannequin she'd nearly toppled. "Your environment is fragile," she noted. "I'll adapt."
"For the banquet, try to appear… comfortable."
She seemed to process the word, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not a smile—just acknowledgement.
They left the boutique with garment bags in tow, the staff exhaling only after the elevator doors closed. Inside the lift, Lin Xie watched her hazy reflection in the mirrored wall.
"Is pretending affection difficult?" she asked suddenly.
"For most people, no," he answered.
She considered that. "I'll need to observe more data."
He looked down at her. "You'll manage."
The elevator chimed. She stepped out first, nearly colliding with a decorative vase—but he caught her elbow and redirected her before impact, releasing her once the danger was past.
"Obstacle density," she reminded him, utterly calm.
"Clumsiness," he corrected.
Neither argued further.
Back at Shen Rui's penthouse, the silence returned like it had been waiting for them.
The elevator doors opened directly into the living room, and Lin Xie stepped out first, dragging one of the garment bags behind her as if she were returning from a scavenger hunt rather than a designer boutique.
Shen Rui followed, loosening his tie. He walked past her without a word, heading toward his study. She trailed after him, stopping only when she reached the threshold and saw the sleek folder already waiting on the glass desk.
Black, matte. Minimalist. Of course.
He gestured to the guest room down the hall. "Your room. Fourth door. Keycard access is synced to your fingerprint."
"I don't leave fingerprints," she said absently, picking up the folder.
"I adjusted for that," he replied without looking at her.
She raised a brow. "Clever."
"Read it."
She dropped onto the armchair across from his desk, crossed her legs, and flipped the folder open with one finger. Her eyes moved faster than most people could track—absorbing, processing. No outward reaction.
"Clause twelve is vague," she said. "You say 'public affection as necessary,' but that depends entirely on whose standard."
"I'm not revising it."
She tapped the paragraph. "Then you'll have to define it. Otherwise I might hug you mid-banquet just to test policy boundaries."
He looked up, unimpressed. "You won't."
She tilted her head slightly. "You don't know that."
He stared. She stared back.
He reached across the table, pulled out a pen, and underlined the clause without a word.
She grinned faintly—more out of principle than amusement—then returned to the contract.
No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just silent, methodical reading. As if she'd signed a dozen like it before. As if pretending to be someone's girlfriend was no different than tracking a target or navigating encrypted systems.
Finally, she looked up.
"No surveillance inside the room?" she asked.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because if you were going to kill me, you would've done it by now."
She closed the folder. "You say the nicest things."
He handed her the pen.
She signed without flourish. Just her first name. The one she'd given him, at least.
Lin.
Clean, sharp strokes.
As she stood, he took the folder and placed it into a locked drawer.
"Your clothes are already in the room," he said. "Try not to dismantle the smart mirror again."
"It blinked at me."
"It's a mirror."
She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "So, do I start practicing fake affection tomorrow, or…?"
He didn't look up. "There's no rehearsal."
She hummed. "I'll improvise, then."
And with that, she vanished down the hallway, leaving the scent of subtle chaos in her wake.
In his study, Shen Rui sat still for a long time, staring at the drawer with the contract inside.
He wasn't sure which was more dangerous—the lie they'd just signed, or the girl who'd agreed to live inside it.