The rain hadn't stopped since dawn, a lazy drizzle painting the penthouse windows in streaks of gray. Inside, Lin Yuyan sat curled on the velvet chaise, her script in hand, lips moving silently as she rehearsed.
She hadn't spoken to Luchen all morning. He hadn't offered a word, either.
And for the first time, she preferred it that way.
A new message buzzed on her phone. Director Shen Rouyan.
> Call time moved to 6 a.m. sharp. No diva behavior. This is a character piece, not a fashion show.
Yuyan smirked. That was Shen Rouyan—renowned for her no-nonsense attitude and refusal to baby even the most A-list stars. She was harsh, demanding, and brilliant. Exactly the kind of challenge Yuyan craved.
And after the chaos of her marriage and Lemin's disappearance, Yuyan needed something to focus on. Something that wasn't tangled in lies, contracts, and piercing gray eyes that saw far too much.
She set the script down and rose.
Today, she would stop chasing shadows. Let Zhao Lemin stay missing. Let Zhao Luchen stew in his cold silence.
She had a role to embody—and it wasn't as someone's discarded bride.
—
The set was brutal from the start.
Yuyan stood in the middle of a barren soundstage, makeup smeared across her face, rainwater pumped overhead soaking her thin costume. The cameras rolled as she fell—again and again—into mud, into pain, into heartbreak.
"You're not crying for the audience," Shen barked from behind the lens. "You're crying because this woman lost herself! Find that emotion, Lin Yuyan, or walk!"
Yuyan's chest heaved. Her knees were raw. But something in her eyes lit with fire.
"I'm not walking," she said hoarsely. "Roll again."
And she did it—nailed the scene with such rawness that even the assistants fell quiet.
When Shen finally called cut, her expression softened just slightly. "Maybe you're more than just a pretty face."
Yuyan bowed her head. "Maybe I am."
—
Luchen didn't like the late nights.
He didn't say it outright. But the small signs betrayed him. The way he showed up unannounced at set, always dressed like he owned the place. The cold way he nodded to Shen Rouyan, like daring her to say something about his presence. The way he hovered near Yuyan's dressing room but never entered—except when she was alone.
"Why are you here?" she asked one evening, makeup half-wiped, costume unzipped at the back.
"You didn't come home last night," he said flatly.
"I slept at the studio."
"You have a penthouse. Security. Staff."
"I don't need pampering. I need space."
He stepped closer, gaze sharp. "Space from what? Your husband?"
She stared at him. "You're not my husband, Zhao Luchen. Not really."
His jaw twitched. "The law disagrees."
"So does my heart."
His fingers curled at his sides, but he said nothing.
It was the first time he didn't try to argue. And somehow, that silence said more than words.
—
Days turned into weeks.
Yuyan threw herself into the film. Her character—a fallen anti-heroine fighting corruption—seeped into her bones. She trained until her muscles ached, learned stunt choreography, dove headfirst into her role.
She felt alive again. In control.
But even with her attention fixed on work, Luchen lingered like a shadow.
He sent food to the set, though he never signed the notes.
When paparazzi swarmed her one night, a silent black car pulled up—and inside was Luchen, expression unreadable.
"Get in," was all he said.
She did.
When she asked why he came, he answered, "Because your driver was slow."
But his hand hovered near hers the whole ride home, and she swore he was trembling.
—
One night, Shen invited her for drinks.
They sat in a smoky rooftop bar, the city lights pulsing around them like stars.
"You've changed," Shen said bluntly, sipping her whiskey.
Yuyan raised a brow. "For better or worse?"
"For real. I used to think you were just another fame chaser. Now… you burn."
Yuyan smiled faintly. "Life gives you pain. You either break or burn brighter."
"And that man of yours?" Shen nodded toward her phone. "He keeps calling."
Yuyan glanced at the screen—three missed calls from Luchen.
She didn't call back.
"I don't know what he wants," she said. "Possession? Obedience? Or something else."
"Maybe he doesn't know either," Shen mused. "Men like that… they weren't raised to understand love. Just control."
Yuyan's smile faded. The words struck a little too true.
—
Later that week, after a grueling night shoot, Yuyan returned to the hotel.
She didn't expect Luchen to be there—but he was. Sitting on the edge of the couch, still in his suit, as if he hadn't moved in hours.
She froze at the door. "Are you waiting for me?"
He stood slowly. "You weren't answering."
"I was working."
"You didn't come home."
"I don't need to report to you."
He stepped closer. "No. You don't."
She blinked.
His voice was softer than she'd ever heard it. Not sharp. Not cold. Just… quiet.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted.
Her breath caught.
"Do what?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out, hesitated, then gently took her hand.
"Every day, you walk out the door, and I don't know if you'll come back. Not because of danger. But because you might decide I'm not worth returning to."
Her heart pounded.
"This started as a mistake," he said. "A contract. A name on a marriage certificate."
Yuyan stared at him, unsure where this was going.
"But somewhere along the line…" He looked at her, eyes dark and honest. "You stopped being a transaction."
The words hit her like a wave.
She stepped back, breath shaky. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I wouldn't risk saying this," he murmured, "if it wasn't already ruining me."
Silence fell.
In the distance, thunder rolled over the city.
Yuyan turned away, overwhelmed.
"I need to rest," she whispered.
He didn't stop her.
But just before she disappeared into the bedroom, he called her name once more.
"Yuyan."
She looked back.
"Don't disappear from me," he said, low and raw.
Her throat tightened.
She said nothing. But she didn't close the door all the way when she went in.
And that… was the first spark.
—