April had settled over Huixin West Street.
In the aging residential buildings, magnolia trees were in full bloom, white blossoms bursting across every branch. Su Li lived on the third floor. From her window, the magnolia limbs reached inward, as if trying to cross the glass and enter her life.
She woke to the scent of flowers—and to the faint sounds coming from the tiny kitchen outside her bedroom.
Still lying in bed, she pushed her door open with some effort. Across the narrow living room, she saw Ji Jiaheng standing at the stove, an apron tied around his waist, watching over a pot of soup.
He must have just come back from his morning run. He was still wearing his tracksuit, hadn't even changed, and yet there he was, cooking. The soup simmered quietly. Ji Jiaheng kept one eye on the pot and the other on a book. Su Li couldn't make out the title from where she stood.
She didn't need to.
It was definitely one of those dense, incomprehensible sociology texts.
Ji Jiaheng was tall—close to six foot three. A body like his didn't quite belong in an old-fashioned kitchen like this. Even so, he moved with an easy familiarity. The muscles in his back were clearly defined, smooth and restrained, strong without being showy.
He stood beneath the kitchen window, completely absorbed in his reading.
If Ji Jiaheng had any flaws, it was this: no formal job, and never bringing a single cent home.
Aside from that, as a sociology PhD candidate, he was perfect.
Keeping a man like this—handsome, cultured—hidden away in her rented apartment sometimes gave Su Li the strange illusion that she was secretly wealthy.
Reality, of course, was far less romantic.
As the lead content director at an MCN agency, Su Li had spent the previous night in nonstop crisis management. She'd soothed an intern who had been reduced to tears by an influencer's verbal abuse and was threatening to quit. At the same time, she'd stayed on voice calls, calming creators paralyzed by data anxiety, unable to sleep.
She didn't finally crawl into bed until four in the morning.
And today was simply yesterday repeating itself.
The pay was decent—respectable, even—but in Beijing, it barely stretched far enough. Rent. Utilities. Property fees. Food. Supporting two adults wasn't cheap.
Still, watching Ji Jiaheng in the kitchen, Su Li thought quietly:
It's worth it.
Ji Jiaheng seemed to sense her gaze. He lifted his eyes from the page and caught her staring, eyes darting slightly, clearly lost in her own thoughts—like a small fox plotting something.
"It's almost noon," he said gently. "Come eat."
"Smells amazing. What did you make?"
She still hadn't gotten out of bed, leaning forward, head tilted back, her hair nearly brushing the floor.
"Lotus root and pork rib soup. You specifically asked for it yesterday."
Only then did Su Li get up. Their home was tiny—five long steps were all it took for her to reach him.
She stood on her toes and rubbed her cheek lightly against his, half playful, half seeking comfort after another exhausting workday. Ji Jiaheng lowered his chin and brushed the top of her head in return.
In the dim, cramped apartment, their poverty was completely exposed. Skin pressed against skin, they looked like two small animals recognizing each other, offering mutual comfort.
But if Ji Jiaheng could hear what Su Li was really thinking, he would be shocked.
Inside this "we-have-nothing-but-love" kind of rented-apartment embrace, her thoughts were actually—
Why does a rich heir enjoy cosplaying tragic romance so much? Did he grow up watching too many TV dramas? Was he obsessed with Yang Mi or something?
My eyeliner is this obvious—how can he still not tell I'm wearing makeup? Do men really only judge makeup by lipstick and false lashes?
His cooking is honestly terrible. Can I at least wait until his family has ten billion before pretending it tastes good?
Yes. Despite her friends' confusion—why would Su Li, already exhausted and barely making money, choose to date a humanities PhD student?
Only Su Li herself knew the answer.
Ji Jiaheng, who had been hiding his true family background all this time, was the winning lottery ticket she held tightly in her hand.
Living together, piece by piece, she began to sense it. His family wasn't just wealthy—it was the kind of wealth sprinkled lightly on top of life, like sugar frosting on a cake. Casual. Effortless. Real.
The clearest example had appeared the previous winter.
One night, when Su Li came home to change into pajamas, her sweater crackled violently with static electricity, zapping her so badly she grimaced.
Ji Jiaheng, seeing her exaggerated reaction, thought she was joking around. When she explained she'd been shocked, he looked genuinely puzzled.
"That doesn't really happen to me," he said. "Even if it does, it's never that bad."
She didn't respond.
We're both wearing polyester, she thought. Yours doesn't conduct electricity?
Yet before going to bed, she found herself picking up his sweater. The care label was covered in a long string of English words she didn't recognize. She didn't pay attention to the brand—only the material.
"100% Pure Kashmir Pashmina."
Her English wasn't great, and she didn't want to embarrass herself by asking him. She looked it up in secret.
Cashmere.
They had only just moved in together then. Laundry was her assigned chore. Ji Jiaheng had casually told her to throw everything into the washing machine.
Still, something about treating cashmere that way felt… irreverent.
She took the sweater to the dry cleaner downstairs. The elderly owner took one look and shook his head.
"I can't wash this."
"Why not?"
He pointed at the label, pronouncing each syllable carefully.
"Bru-nel-lo Cu-ci-nel-li. I ruined one once. Had to pay eight thousand to settle it. Later found out it was fake."
"What about this one?" Su Li asked, curious. "Is it real?"
The man examined the logo-less sweater carefully, then nodded.
"It's real. Which is why I definitely can't wash it."
Brunello Cucinelli.
The longer Su Li stayed with Ji Jiaheng, the more words like this she learned. What she still couldn't understand was why he insisted on hiding all of it from her.
She only knew that the more cracks she discovered, the more she found herself performing a kind of effortless normalcy—like carefully applying "no-makeup" makeup every April morning, or praising Ji Jiaheng's cooking even when it was objectively bad.
Deep down, she despised herself a little for it.
But at twenty-seven, she had to admit it: a rich boyfriend—even one who took no money from her and still relied on her support—mattered to her.
Back in the present, in the cramped living room, Su Li spread out the flyers and newspapers Ji Jiaheng had collected from who-knew-where across the coffee table. She set down the lotus root soup and two simple vegetable dishes.
Ji Jiaheng, fresh from his run and smelling of cooking oil, took a quick shower before lunch. A clean freak, after all.
Su Li crouched by the table waiting for him. She grabbed her phone to pass the time—only to feel something off.
After scrolling unconsciously for a moment, she realized she had picked up Ji Jiaheng's phone instead. Same model.
He had rushed into the shower and forgotten to lock the screen.
In those few careless swipes, a "Featured Photos" notification popped up.
A photo of him—with another woman.
The afternoon tea lounge at the Rosewood Hotel. Even through the screen, Su Li could almost smell the signature scent of luxury hotels. Ji Jiaheng was smiling at the camera, dressed in a perfectly tailored casual suit, a watch on his wrist.
She had never seen him wear any of these things at home.
The woman beside him stood at a polite distance—a small relief. She wore a simple black one-piece dress, brandless, her hair pulled tightly into a high bun. Her narrow, cat-like eyes held an expression of impatience toward the world.
That gaze, paired with her taut skin and sharp jawline, made her look like a blade wrapped in black silk.
She looked strangely familiar—yet Su Li was certain she wasn't anyone she knew.
Who was she?
What kind of relationship did she have with Ji Jiaheng?
Why did he look like someone Su Li had never met when he was with her?
The sound of running water stopped. The faint rustle of clothes followed.
Su Li quickly took out her own phone and snapped a picture of the screen. Then she locked Ji Jiaheng's phone and put it back where it was, as if nothing had happened.
Ji Jiaheng came out after changing, sat down at the coffee table, completely unaware. He picked up a bowl and served her soup first.
Through the rising steam, his eyes shone brightly, waiting for her reaction.
Su Li took a sip.
For her taste, the soup was slightly gamey—and far too bland.
But she hid it well.
Ji Jiaheng noticed nothing. Like a puppy waiting for praise, he asked eagerly, "Is it good?"
"Yeah," she said.
Did she have any other answer?
"Do you know the secret to making good soup?" he asked proudly, not waiting for her reply. "The key is more ribs, less lotus root."
No wonder it's so greasy, Su Li thought.
After lunch, Ji Jiaheng cooked. Su Li did the dishes. A fair division of labor.
Standing at the sink, she couldn't stop thinking about the photo. About the Ji Jiaheng in that photo. About the woman beside him.
She knew she could ask him. Just say it outright—she'd accidentally picked up the wrong phone, accidentally seen a photo of him with a strange woman, and could he please explain who they were?
But she couldn't.
She didn't believe their relationship was stable enough to survive that question.
She was afraid of the answer.
The pot in her hands was too greasy. She pumped in more dish soap, creating even more foam. Her apron was soaked. The pot still wasn't clean. She just looked more miserable.
Suddenly, Su Li wondered—
Eight months ago, when she had first met Ji Jiaheng, if he really were as poor as he pretended to be… would she still have chosen him?
She would have.
If swearing on her monthly salary of twenty thousand meant nothing, she would swear on her feelings for Ji Jiaheng.
Rounded up, she was practically swearing on her future.
This wasn't a lie.
She could swear on it again.