A cool morning. Lances of sunlight slipped through the window’s narrow seams, sketching bright bars across a small room. The air, damp from a dawn drizzle, shed its moisture like a steaming veil, and the temperature settled into a perfect balance.
A young man with cropped black hair sprawled across the bed like a starfish. The boyishness had left his handsome face; maturity now sat there like a steady drumbeat.
“Damn, what time is it…”
He raked his hair and sat up, eyelids heavy as rain-laden clouds. On a nearby shelf, a photo caught the light. Two people stood in it. One was him, in a white suit, wearing a smile that trembled with disbelief. Clinging to his arm was a blonde girl in a white wedding dress; the gold of her hair turned the white to something holy, and happiness bloomed on her face like spring.
He chuckled to himself, a silly laugh that warmed the room. The photo always pulled Lin Fan back to the brightest day of his life, to that single, held breath of a moment.
He smoothed his pajamas and slid into V‑strap flip‑flops, the household kind. From the kitchen floated the rhythm of chopping and oil, so he drifted that way like a moth to lamplight.
At the stove stood a petite girl, maybe one‑sixty‑five, in a pink teddy‑bear nightdress. The hem hovered above her knees; her legs were pale and long like carved jade. Her golden hair was tied into a single ponytail, lifted high to escape the kiss of smoke.
Lin Fan’s hands rose by habit. He circled her slender waist and set his forehead against her shoulder. A thread of jasmine scent slipped into his nose, soft as night wind.
“Wifey~”
Thunk.
A clean, ringing note—head met skillet. He recoiled, clutching his skull, and yelped like a cat who’d stepped on snow.
“Don’t call me that. I’m not that old!”
Her voice was clear and bell‑bright, filling the room. She gathered the plates with neat fingers. With a lift of crimson qi, the Western breakfast slid from the kitchen like gliding swallows and settled onto the dining table.
“Did you even wash your face?” Xiao Qianxue untied her apron and shot a look at the long strides headed for the food.
“My face is covered in traces someone left during last night’s… close contact. Would be a shame to wash them off.”
Lin Fan grinned, boyish mischief flashing like sunlight on water.
“You—ugh…” A flush climbed the blonde girl’s cheeks like dawn. “Go wash your face! And tonight you can sleep alone!”
Crimson qi burst from around her like a sudden flame. It wrapped the young man in a snap and flung him straight into the bathroom like a tossed pillow.
After the scuffle, calm settled like tea leaves falling. They ate quietly at the table. Maybe because they’d spent a year abroad, they still chose Western breakfasts now and then.
“You were right. A small place really does feel warm.” Lin Fan popped a bite of buttery scrambled egg and sighed, contented as after rain.
“Right? Those big houses, and all the messy people floating through… there’s no comfort in that.” Xiao Qianxue sipped milk in small tastes, eyes flicking to the young man opposite—her lawful husband. She was nineteen now, a spring willow that had learned the wind.
They both knew what living in mansions felt like, so agreement came easy as breathing.
“Eat faster. We still have to work.” Xiao Qianxue stood, plate in hand, drifting toward the sink. “You were late yesterday, and Tang Shaoyu nagged half the day.”
“Forget him. Doesn’t he have a woman keeping him in line too?” Lin Fan muttered around a mouthful, words tumbling like marbles.
They changed into plain clothes and stopped at the door.
“Before we go, there’s a little ritual we skipped.”
His voice turned playful, eyes sliding to the blonde in front of him like a cat eyeing cream.
“…” She bit her lower lip, leaned in, and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. After a few heartbeats, she pulled back, face the color of sunset.
“We’re an old married couple. What’s with the shy act?”
He rubbed the kissed spot with shameless pride, teasing like a breeze that wouldn’t quit.
“Out. Now. Or I’ll toss you straight to HQ from here.”
Downstairs, a black Rolls‑Royce waited at the curb, drawing stares like a magnet in a nail shop.
“Young Master, Madam, please get in.”
The voice came from a girl with deep green hair, wearing a crisp business suit. She stood by the door with still water calm. This was Lin Moyu.
“Hello, little Moyu. Thanks for the hard work~” The blonde bounced forward and hugged her, light as dandelion fluff.
“X‑Xue… Sister Xue!” Lin Moyu froze, words stumbling like beads slipped from a string.
“All right, Xiaoxue, stop teasing her. Let’s get in.”
It was the same Rolls Lin Moyu had once shot, a scar turned badge. Back when she met Xiao Qianxue, those days were the hardest stretch of Lin Fan’s life—bitter first, then sweet at last.
They rolled up to the familiar tower, the car itself a jade seal of identity.
“Never thought I’d be a consul, and you’d be my secretary. Couldn’t have imagined this.” Lin Fan couldn’t help it; the sigh came from deep in the chest. He and Xiaoxue had walked a twisted mountain path. Especially when she slept for three years, and woke almost not remembering him—that nearly scared him out of his soul.
Those cheap jokes about secretaries didn’t apply to them. Work came every day, but they split it down the middle and cut it like a clean blade. The rest of the time, they drank tea and traded jests with the others.
At the office door, Tang Shaoyu was already waiting, patient as a pine.
Lin Fan frowned, then noticed the girl behind him lagging a step. He strode up, hooked an arm around Tang Shaoyu’s shoulder, and murmured by his ear like wind under eaves:
“Getting a little bold, aren’t you? I handed you my most precious subordinate, and you still come bug me every day. Aren’t you keeping her company at home?”
Tang Shaoyu’s face twisted in helplessness.
“Bro—Lin Fan, you’re my real bro. Xing’er is all cute and dazed at home, but the second it’s close to work she turns serious and on time. You think I don’t want to linger?”
“Ahem. What are you two whispering about?”
The blonde cut in, her tone as cool as spring water. Beside her stood a silver‑haired girl—Qing Xing—like moonlight peeking from a cloud.
“I’m so jealous of the consul’s and vice consul’s wives,” someone whispered, envy thick as perfume in summer air.
“Each one prettier than the last. I’m dying over here,” another voice drifted, half‑laugh, half‑groan.
Nearby men let their gazes slide over the two women, drawn like moths to lantern silk. They couldn’t help it; the light was blinding.
“Let’s get to work.”
