The diner was quieter than usual the next morning. Rain had kept the usual breakfast crowd away, leaving only the regulars who liked their eggs over-easy and their coffee black. I moved through the motions on autopilot: refilling salt shakers, wiping menus, pretending the black rose on the far end of the counter wasn't staring at me.
It had arrived at eight sharp, wrapped in black tissue, thorns clipped clean. The courier didn't say a word, just handed it over with a polite nod and left. Attached was a small card, heavy cream stock, handwriting sharp and precise.
*Forty-seven hours left. Don't make me come find you. __G*
I hadn't opened the note yet. It sat beside the rose like a loaded gun. Every time I glanced at it, my stomach knotted tighter.
Cai Wen had texted twice already.
**Cai Wen:** Girl what is this black rose drama? Spill or I'm coming down there myself.
**Cai Wen:** Xiao Ying. Answer me. Is some rich creep stalking you?
I hadn't replied. How could I explain without sounding insane?
*Hey bestie, yesterday a billionaire walked into the diner and offered me five million to marry him for a year because his dead dad put it in the will. Also he hates me. She thought.*
Yeah. No.
I finished the breakfast rush, clocked out at eleven, and told Lin Mei I needed an hour. She raised an eyebrow but didn't ask questions. I grabbed my coat, slipped the envelope, rose, and note into my bag, and headed to the small café two blocks over, the one with the quiet corner booth and no windows facing the street.
I ordered tea I didn't want and sat facing the door.
At eleven forty-five, he walked in.
Same black suit. Same unreadable expression. Raindrops clung to his shoulders like he'd walked through the storm without an umbrella. He scanned the room once, found me, and crossed the floor without hesitation.
He slid into the booth opposite me without asking.
"You're early," I said.
"You're here," he replied. "That's what matters."
No greeting. No small talk. Just straight to business.
I pulled the envelope from my bag and set it between us. "I read it. Twice. The will. The note from your father."
His jaw flexed. "And?"
"And I still don't understand why me."
He leaned back, arms crossed. "You don't have to understand. You just have to decide."
"That's not how this works." I kept my voice low. The café was half-empty, but I didn't want an audience. "I'm not some placeholder. I'm not going to sign my life away because your dad decided to play matchmaker from the grave."
His eyes narrowed. "You think this is about romance? It's about control. My father hated that I built the company without needing anyone. He wanted to force me to depend on someone. You were his choice."
"And you hate that."
"I hate being manipulated," he corrected. "By anyone. Including him."
Silence settled between us, thick as the steam rising from my untouched tea.
I opened the envelope and slid the will toward him. "There's a clause here. 'No substitutions. No exceptions.' If I say no, what happens?"
"The estate goes to charity. The company fragments. Board members start carving it up. My stepmother and stepbrother get their hands on pieces they've been eyeing for years. Everything my father built, everything I've protected, disappears."
His voice stayed even, but I caught the flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Fear. Buried deep, but there.
I leaned forward. "So you need me."
"I need a wife. You're the only name on the paper."
I studied him. The man who'd stormed into my diner like he owned it. The man who looked at me like I was dirt on his shoe. The man who was now sitting across from me, asking, demanding I marry him.
"Five million," I said slowly. "Plus the card. One year. Divorce. No strings."
"That's the offer."
"What if I want changes?"
He raised one brow. "Such as?"
I took a breath. "No physical contact unless we both agree. Separate rooms. No public displays unless necessary for appearances. And when it's over, you don't get to dictate what I do with the money or where I go."
He considered it for a long moment. "Reasonable. I'll add a prenup. Unbreakable. You keep what you earn during the marriage. No claims on my assets after divorce."
"And you?" I asked.
"I keep the company. You keep your freedom. We both get what we want."
I looked down at the black rose still in my bag. "You sent this. Why?"
"To remind you time is running out."
"Or to scare me?"
His gaze didn't waver. "If I wanted to scare you, I wouldn't send flowers."
I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead I reached into my bag, pulled out a folded sheet of paper I'd written last night at 2 a.m., and slid it across the table.
He picked it up. Read.
It was simple. Bullet points.
- Marriage certificate filed within 30 days.
- Term: 365 days from filing date.
- Payment: 5 million yuan upon filing + black card access.
- Living arrangement: Shared residence, separate bedrooms.
- Physical intimacy: None required. Mutual consent only if both parties agree in writing.
- Public appearances: As needed for business/social obligations.
- Termination: Divorce at end of term, no contest.
- NDA: Both parties sign. No media leaks.
- Breach: Full payment forfeited if either party discloses or sabotages.
He read it twice.
Then he looked up.
"You've done your homework."
"I'm not stupid."
"No," he said quietly. "You're not."
He pulled a pen from his pocket, gold, expensive and made two small changes.
- Physical intimacy: None required. Mutual consent only if both parties agree verbally in the moment. Written consent optional for clarity.
- Breach: Full payment forfeited + legal damages if either party discloses or sabotages.
He slid it back.
I read the additions.
My pulse jumped at the change to intimacy.
Verbal consent. In the moment.
It left room for… something. Heat crept up my neck.
"Why change it?" I asked.
"Because I don't trust paper when bodies are involved." His voice dropped. "And because I don't want you claiming later that I forced anything."
I met his eyes. "And if I never agree?"
"Then nothing happens."
I searched his face for the lie. Didn't find one.
I took the pen, crossed out his addition, and rewrote:
- Physical intimacy: None required. Any contact must have explicit verbal consent from both parties at the time. No assumptions. No pressure.
I slid it back.
He read it.
A ghost of something, amusement? Respect? flickered across his face.
"Agreed."
He signed first. Sharp, decisive strokes.
Then pushed the pen toward me.
My hand hovered.
This was it.
One signature.
One year.
Five million.
And a man who looked at me like I was both salvation and poison.
I pressed the tip to the paper.
Signed.
Fan Xiao Ying.
The ink gleamed wet for a second, then dried.
Gu Jing Yu took the paper, folded it carefully, and placed it inside his jacket.
"Tomorrow," he said. "9.a.m. Civil Affairs Bureau. I'll send a car."
I nodded once.
He stood.
Paused.
"Look at me."
I did.
His voice was low, almost gentle. "This doesn't have to be war. But if you make it one, I'll win."
Then he turned and walked out into the rain.
I sat there for a long time after he left.
The tea had gone cold.
The rose still sat in my bag.
And somewhere in my chest, a small, dangerous part of me wondered what it would feel like to say yes to more than just a signature.