The morning light cut through the curtains like a blade, slicing the penthouse in gold and shadow.
Lin Yuyan didn't move from her side of the bed.
Not that Zhao Luchen had touched her.
Not once.
He hadn't crossed the invisible line she'd carved down the center of their bedroom. He didn't need to. His control wasn't physical—it was everywhere else. In the house staff who answered to him. In the media reports he could twist. In the career she was watching crumble day by day.
She reached for her phone.
#ZhaoWifeScandal was trending.
Again.
> "Her expression was so fake at the dinner party." "She never even posted a wedding photo!" "Where is the marriage certificate?"
There were hundreds of comments. Some doubting her. Some attacking her.
And a few that chilled her to the bone:
> "Bet she's pregnant." "Just wait—he'll trade her out in six months."
Yuyan shut the phone off.
It didn't help.
Luchen entered the room without knocking. Freshly dressed in a dark blue suit, tie perfectly straight, not a hair out of place. He looked like the very image of control.
And she hated how a small part of her still noticed how handsome he was.
"Good. You're up," he said. "Get ready. You have a shoot today."
She blinked. "I was dropped from—"
"I arranged another. New magazine. First cover as my wife. Clean, controlled exposure."
"You're using me again."
"I'm presenting you," he said, brushing imaginary lint off his cuff. "Do you want the public to believe you were tricked into marriage? Or do you want them to believe you were chosen?"
She stood slowly. "What do you want them to believe?"
He met her gaze evenly. "That you're mine."
---
The studio set was a world of bright lights, fake smiles, and curated lies.
Photographers posed them like royalty. Luchen's hand was on her waist, firm, possessive. His smile was minimal—but convincing.
"Closer," the director said.
He obeyed. She didn't flinch, but she felt the heat of his body like a silent threat.
"Pretend you're in love," the director joked.
Luchen didn't laugh. "We don't pretend."
Flash.
Yuyan's fingers tightened on his wrist.
"Don't touch me like I'm yours," she hissed under her breath.
"But you are."
Another flash.
---
After the shoot, she expected silence. A cold ride home. Maybe another dismissive meeting about schedules and damage control.
Instead, he took her hand.
She looked down at it, shocked. "What are you—"
"There are paparazzi outside."
"That never stopped you from ignoring me before."
He glanced at her. "I don't ignore what's mine."
The car ride was silent, but the air inside was tight with something unspoken. Resentment. Curiosity. Maybe both.
When they entered the penthouse again, the tension followed.
She pulled her hand away.
"You said you wanted a partnership," she said. "This isn't one."
"Correct," he said. "It's a marriage."
She stepped back. "No, it's a prison."
He didn't move. Didn't argue.
Just said, with terrifying calm:
"Then stop trying to run. Because I don't unlock the doors."
She turned away, storming into the bedroom. But his words echoed behind her like chains.
And she knew—deep down—this was only the beginning.
---