I stood in the center of Wu Zihan's master bedroom, gripping the handle of my suitcase like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
The room smelled faintly of his cologne — clean, crisp, and expensive. Everything here was coldly perfect from the smooth charcoal sheets to the untouched leather armchairs near the fireplace, the entire space whispered power, privacy, and self-control.
And now, I was supposed to sleep and live here.
Pretend here.
Zihan had said we didn't need to share the bed. "Just appearances," he reminded me. But it still felt like I was trespassing, like the room would swallow me whole if I let my guard down for even a second.
The door opened behind me.
"I told the staff you moved in. They'll spread it on their own," he said as he walked in, loosening his tie.
"Efficient," I muttered.
He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what you married me for?"
That stung a little more than I expected. "No. I married you to survive."
He paused. "Then this is just part of surviving. It's not personal."
Of course it wasn't.
Nothing ever was with him.
We quickly established boundaries.
I would take the right side of the closet.
He would continue his early workouts — no knocking needed.
The bed was king-sized. The pillows were Switzerland.
No accidental touching. No implied meaning.
But despite the agreement, the space between us felt thinner than before like we were both aware of the other in ways we hadn't been in separate rooms.
That night, I lay stiffly on the left side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Zihan's breathing. It was calm, even and unbothered.
Meanwhile, my heart was sprinting.
I couldn't stop thinking about the gala. His comment in the car. The look in his eyes when I stood up to Lin Yunmei.
"You were more than enough."
Those four words had lived in my chest since he said them.
I turned to glance at him.
He was already facing me.
My breath hitched.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, voice low.
"No."
"Still nervous?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
I hesitated. "I don't like pretending when we're alone."
His expression didn't change. "We're always pretending."
"That's what worries me."
His eyes stayed on mine for a moment too long. Then he turned over, facing away.
"Get some rest," he said quietly.
And that was that.
The next morning, I was brushing my hair in the en-suite bathroom when I heard voices down the hall.
Two women whispering, gossiping.
"Did you see her come out of the master bedroom this morning?"
"I heard she's really Mrs. Wu now."
"She looks like a commoner. I bet she trapped him somehow."
I clenched the brush in my hand. My reflection stared back at me — calm, composed, flawless.
Let them talk.
Let them wonder.
I would prove myself without stooping to their level.
When I stepped into the dining room, Zihan looked up from his laptop.
"You're trending," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
He turned the screen to show me.
A blurry photo of us at the gala. I was smiling up at him and he was looking at me with an expression I didn't recognize on his face.
#MrAndMrsWu
#PowerCouple
#FakeOrReal?
I sat down slowly. "Did you… arrange this?"
He shook his head. "I don't need to. The media does it for me."
"They think we're in love."
"They think what we show them."
I sipped my tea in silence. My phone buzzed a moment later. A message from Xiaoyu — my best friend, the only one I still trusted.
Xiaoyu: Girl. Is this real? Are you actually falling for him?
I stared at the message for a long time before locking the phone and slipping it back into my pocket.
I didn't have an answer.
Later that afternoon, I went to the Wu Corporation building with Zihan. He said I should be seen. "A CEO's wife should look involved," he explained.
But walking through those glass doors was like entering another world. Everyone stared. Some with curiosity, some with quiet disdain.
One woman didn't even bother to hide it.
She was tall, immaculately dressed with red lipstick and sharp heels.
She walked straight up to us in the executive hallway.
"CEO Wu," she greeted with a polite smile. "You didn't mention your wife would be visiting."
"Mrs. Liang," he nodded. "My wife is now part of my image. Get used to it."
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting.
Mrs. Liang's gaze cut to me. "And what exactly do you plan to do here? Look pretty in the break room?"
I smiled sweetly. "Only if that's where you hide the ambition."
Zihan chuckled — again. Twice in one week.
Mrs. Liang looked like she'd swallowed a lemon.
I didn't know what game I was playing, but I was finally starting to get the rules.
When we returned to the penthouse that evening, I collapsed onto the sofa, kicking off my heels. My feet throbbed, my temples pounded, and my stomach growled.
Zihan walked in behind me and paused.
"You didn't eat at the office," he observed.
"I wasn't hungry," I lied.
He disappeared into the kitchen. I heard cabinets opening, things clinking. Ten minutes later, he returned with a bowl of noodles.
Handmade, perfectly seasoned and still steaming.
"You cooked?" I blinked.
"I own five restaurants."
"Do you cook for all your fake wives?"
He gave me a look. "Only the ones who handle my investors better than I do."
I smiled, surprised. "That's almost a compliment."
He handed me the bowl. "Don't get used to it."
But I was and that terrified me because slowly, inch by inch, Wu Zihan was becoming more than the man I married to survive.
He was becoming the man I didn't know how to resist.