The bathroom mirror was still fogged over, haloed in steam from the long, almost-too-hot shower Jiang Zhiqing had taken. The scent of sandalwood and mint clung to the air—sharp, fresh, and grounding.
She stepped out barefoot, a towel wrapped snug around her damp hair, her robe cinched tightly at the waist. Her skin glowed faintly from the heat, but her mind was already cooling into something sharper.
Her phone buzzed against the marble counter.
Du XiaomanIncoming Call
She pressed the green icon, balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she wandered toward the tall windows. Sunlight spilled into the room, golden and soft against the polished floor.
"Zhiqing," came her manager's crisp voice, already in business mode, "the press conference is locked in. 7 PM tonight. Royal Orchid Media Hall. I've kept the invite list curated—your usuals, no gossip rags, no internet drama chasers."
Zhiqing allowed herself a small smile. "Remind me again why I don't replace you with a PR firm?"
"Because a PR firm wouldn't yell at your stylist when they pick the wrong shoes."
"Fair." She ran a finger along the edge of the curtain, gaze unfocused. "Thanks, Xiaoman. You're the only one who doesn't give me a headache right now."
"I'm flattered. But don't thank me yet." Du's voice lowered slightly. "You sure about tonight? You're still trending—depending which platform, it's either sympathy, suspicion, or something unprintable."
"That's the point," Zhiqing murmured, watching sunlight stretch across the manicured gardens like an artist filling in blank canvas. "Let them come. I have things to say."
A pause. Then:"I've got your statement draft ready. Want to tweak?"
"Send it to my email. I'll take a look."
A firm knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Got to go," she said, ending the call without waiting for a reply.
She padded to the door, the soft hush of her footsteps muffled by the carpet. Cracking it open revealed her brother—Jiang Zhenyu, arms folded, hair charmingly disheveled as though sleep had been optional.
He scanned her robe and towel, then raised a single brow. "Are you planning to hold a press conference dressed like a luxury spa ambassador, or should I wait while you turn into a human?"
Zhiqing rolled her eyes. "It's not even seven yet."
"Exactly. And your future husband's flight touched down twenty minutes ago. Papa wants you looking like a Jiang, not a damp rag."
The smirk on her lips lingered for a second before fading into something quieter. "So… he's really coming."
"He'll be here in a few hours. Straight from the airport. No detours."
Zhenyu didn't tease her this time. He just studied her face—like he always did when things were heavier than she let on.
"You ready?" he asked.
Zhiqing tilted her head, the edge of her towel brushing her collarbone. Her smile was crooked, but her voice didn't waver."I'm Jiang Zhiqing. Of course I'm ready."
Zhenyu gave a short laugh. "Dangerous words." He turned to leave, but paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a glint of mischief. "Oh—and you've got a surprise waiting."
She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of surprise?"
But he was already strolling down the hallway, hands in his pockets, clearly pleased with himself."No spoilers," he called without turning. "Enjoy your chaos."
Zhiqing closed the door slowly, letting the latch click into place. The bathroom mirror had finally cleared. Her reflection stared back—barefaced, clean, but not soft.
She stared at herself for a long moment. Her fingers brushed the foggy outline left by her breath on the glass.
"A press conference. A fiancé. And now a surprise?" she muttered.
A beat. Then her voice dipped to something colder."Of course there's a surprise. It's my life."
She exhaled, steady and slow, and turned toward the closet. War armor, in her case, came with silk lining and sharp tailoring.
Time to dress.
Time to face them all.
The Jiang mansion, usually elegant in its restraint, had taken on an unmistakable hum of tension.
Housekeepers whispered in corners. Drivers checked and re-checked the stone courtyard for the arrival procession. The scent of lemon-polished wood and blooming camellias filled the air, but beneath the surface lingered something sharper: expectation.
Papa Jiang stood by the main entrance, flanked by Wei Xiaoying and Wei Xiaozing. Jiang Zhenyu was lounging nearby in a slate-grey suit, looking more like an heir himself than the elder son merely attending a formality.
And still, the heir hadn't arrived.
Not yet.
Inside the house, Zhiqing descended the staircase slowly.
Gone was the fluffy robe and towel. In their place was a structured ivory blouse with soft gold trim, high-waisted black trousers that elongated her already striking figure, and a pair of pointed heels that clicked confidently with every step.
Her hair was pinned in a loose twist, deliberate in its elegance, and her makeup was minimal—but precise.
She looked, in a word, untouchable.
Zhenyu whistled under his breath. "Damn. If you look like that at the press conference, the headlines might switch to engagement rumors."
Zhiqing arched a brow. "If I'm lucky, he'll be ugly and polite so I can flee early."
Papa Jiang gave her a warning glance, but before he could scold, a horn sounded in the distance.
Heads turned.
The tall iron gates at the end of the drive swung open.
A motorcade pulled in—sleek, black, and armored. Five cars in total, but it was the third one, gleaming beneath the early sun like a blade, that drew the most attention.
The staff instinctively straightened. Zhenyu adjusted the cuff of his jacket. Wei Xiaozing touched her necklace. Even Wei Xiaoying's lips thinned ever so slightly.
Zhiqing… stood still.
The car came to a stop.
The door was opened not by a chauffeur, but by one of the suited men flanking the vehicle like a security detail.
And then he stepped out.
The heir to the Fu family.
Tall. Calm. Devastating.
He wore a three-piece charcoal suit cut with the kind of tailoring that whispered power. The crisp white collar framed a jawline sharp enough to wound. His skin, pale with a warm undertone, caught the light just right. His black hair, styled with an effortless elegance, curled slightly at the nape.
He moved like a man used to being watched. Like someone who had never once needed to chase what he wanted—because the world came to him.
Zhiqing narrowed her eyes, her pulse oddly quickening. Something about him…
His steps echoed through the courtyard as he approached.
Wei Xiaoying gave a polite nod. Papa Jiang stepped forward to greet him with a firm handshake. Zhenyu offered a smile, calm and knowing.
Zhiqing stared, unmoving, until the Fu heir finally turned toward her.
Their eyes met.
And the world dropped out from under her.
Xie Zhenhua.
Her co-star.
The man who had played her on-screen adversary. The one who had held her steady on set when she nearly collapsed. The one whose presence always felt too composed, too quiet… like a man wearing armor she could never quite see through.
Now, here he stood—not as an actor.
But as the heir of the Fu family.
The man her father intended her to marry.
He looked different in this context. Sharper. Colder. The subtle intensity she'd noticed before had solidified into something regal, something dangerous.
"Miss Jiang," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "It's been a while."
Zhiqing's breath caught.
She opened her mouth to speak—only to find that no words came.
Zhenyu stepped forward, his voice far too amused. "Zhiqing, allow me to formally introduce you to your fiancé."
She turned her head sharply toward her brother.
"You knew?" she hissed under her breath.
He smirked.
"Surprise," he whispered.