POV Shen Yuxin
The apartment was too quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet that comes after a long day, but the kind that made every sound feel deliberate. The soft hum of the central air system. The faint city noise filtering through floor to ceiling windows. Even my footsteps across the polished wooden floor seemed louder than they should have been.
This place was undeniably luxurious. Minimalist. Immaculate. Every surface is clean, every piece of furniture positioned with intention. It looked like a model home designed for display rather than living.
Lu Chengye's residence.
Or rather, one of them.
I set my bag down by the entryway and slipped out of my heels, lining them neatly beside the others that had already been arranged for me. Someone from his staff had unpacked my belongings earlier. My clothes were already hanging in the walk in closet. My toiletries are placed carefully in the bathroom, spaced evenly as if measured.
There was no sign that anyone actually lived here.
I walked farther inside, pausing near the expansive windows that overlooked the city. At this height, the lights below looked distant and unreal, like something artificial rather than lived in. Cars moved in thin lines. People were invisible.
I pressed my palm lightly against the glass.
This was the first night since the contract became official. The first night we were under the same roof.
And yet, the distance between us felt deliberate.
I knew which room was mine. It was at the opposite end of the apartment from his. The layout itself enforced separation, long corridors and carefully placed doors ensuring privacy. Boundaries, built into architecture.
I appreciated that more than I should have.
I changed into the silk robe provided and tied it securely, making sure nothing felt out of place. I checked my reflection in the mirror, adjusting my expression into something neutral and composed.
Calm. Controlled.
That was the version of myself I needed to be here.
As I stepped back into the living area, I noticed the faint glow of light near the study. The door was partially open. Lu Chengye was inside.
I hesitated.
The contract did not require constant proximity. It did not require conversation outside public appearances. Still, avoidance felt like an unnecessary display of discomfort.
So I walked toward the study.
He stood near the desk, jacket already removed, sleeves of his shirt rolled neatly to his forearms. A tablet lay open in his hand, his attention focused on whatever was displayed on the screen.
He did not look up immediately.
"You're settled," he said, as if he had been aware of my presence the entire time.
"Yes."
"Good."
That was it.
I remained standing near the doorway, unsure whether to step inside fully. The study was sparse. Dark wood shelves. A single abstract painting on the wall. No personal photos. No signs of sentiment.
"You don't need to wait," he added.
"I wasn't."
His gaze lifted then, sharp and assessing. Not annoyed. Just observant.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you'll attend a luncheon with Director Wu's wife. My assistant will brief you."
"I'll be prepared."
"I know."
The certainty in his voice was matter of fact, not complimentary. He expected competence the way one expected gravity.
I nodded once. "Is there anything specific I should be aware of?"
"She values discretion. And she dislikes unnecessary familiarity."
"I can manage that."
His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, as if confirming something internally. Then he returned his attention to the tablet.
"Good night, Shen Yuxin."
"Good night, Mr. Lu."
I turned and left the study, the door closing softly behind me.
As I walked down the corridor toward my room, the silence pressed in again. The interaction had been brief. Controlled. Entirely professional.
Exactly as it should have been.
And yet.
There was a strange awareness that came with knowing he was just a few walls away. Not an emotional pull. Not anticipation. Just presence.
I entered my bedroom and closed the door, leaning back against it for a brief moment.
This is temporary, I reminded myself.
Six months. Defined terms. Clear expectations.
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing my hands over the fabric of the duvet. Everything smelled new. Neutral. Unused.
I checked my phone instinctively, then stopped myself. There was no one to message. No one I could explain this situation to without compromising it.
Instead, I opened the contract again on my tablet.
Clause after clause scrolled past. Behavioral expectations. Public conduct. Confidentiality. Termination conditions.
No emotional involvement.
No personal claims.
No future implications.
The language was precise. Impersonal. Designed to eliminate ambiguity.
Designed to protect both parties.
Or so it claimed.
I closed the document and set the tablet aside, lying back against the pillows. The ceiling above me was high, unadorned. Even here, the space felt like it belonged to no one.
I wondered briefly where Lu Chengye slept. Whether his room looked as untouched as mine. Whether he ever felt the weight of these spaces pressing in around him.
The thought surprised me.
I turned onto my side, pulling the covers closer.
Do not speculate, I told myself.
Speculation led to misunderstanding. Misunderstanding led to attachment.
And attachment had no place here.
Hours passed slowly. Sleep came in fragments, broken by half formed thoughts and unfamiliar sounds. At some point, I heard footsteps in the corridor. A door opening. A door closing.
Then silence again.
When I woke up later, it was completely still.
The apartment seemed to hold its breath.
I checked the time. Just past midnight.
For a brief moment, I considered stepping out, pouring a glass of water, grounding myself in movement. Then I dismissed the idea. There was no need to create proximity where none was required.
Distance was safer.
I lay awake, staring into the darkness, listening to the faint rhythm of my own breathing.
This arrangement was meant to be simple. Appearances. Cooperation. Mutual benefit.
And yet, I could already sense the complexity beneath it. Not in emotions. Not yet.
In power.
Lu Chengye did not intrude. He did not impose. He simply existed, and the world adjusted accordingly.
Including me.
As the night stretched on, a quiet unease settled in my chest. Not fear. Not doubt.
Awareness.
This was only the first night.
And I had the unsettling feeling that distance, here, was not measured by walls or doors.
But by how much space he allowed between us.
And how easily that space could disappear.