Chapter 1: Terms at the Contract Table

The night rain in Singapore carried a salt taste as it lashed against the glass doors of the back kitchen at “Old Lin’s.” Lin Enxi stood in a corner of the restaurant, her phone clutched in her hand, the screen glowing with a collection notice from the bank. Outside, the creditor’s voice came through the glass, coarse as sandpaper dragged across a tabletop. Zhou Xiulan moved briskly at the stove, firelight catching in the streaks of white hair at her temples. This old establishment had held out for half a lifetime, yet now it couldn’t even scrape together next month’s rent. Lin Enxi drew a deep breath, smoothed down the corner of her clothes where the rain had seeped through, and pushed open the side door.

The rain had grown heavier. Neon lights shattered into splotches of gaudy grime on the waterlogged pavement. She had barely taken a single step when a black sedan glided to a stop on the curb without a sound. The door opened, and Lu Zeming stepped out, a black umbrella in his hand. The canopy shielded his expression, leaving only his cold, sharp jawline visible. In the other hand he held a sheaf of documents, rainwater dripping from the umbrella’s ribs to tap a staccato rhythm against the asphalt.

Lu Zeming walked up to her and held out the documents.

Lin Enxi didn’t take them right away. She stared at the line of gold-embossed lettering on the cover. Her fingertips had gone cold, rainwater seeping down her sleeve and into the spaces between her fingers. Lu Zeming looked at her, his voice even, carrying no detectable shift in emotion.

“It’s a contract. One year of marriage. I clear the Lin family’s debts, inject capital into the restaurant. You agree to attend every family and business occasion alongside me,” Lu Zeming said.

Lin Enxi took the documents. The paper had already gone soft in the damp air. She scanned the clauses, her brow drawing into a tighter knot the more she read. She flipped to the second page and paused her fingertip on the paper for a beat.

“Clause three: no contact with any of my old friends, including my mother. That’s out of the question.” Lin Enxi fixed her gaze on Lu Zeming, her eyes holding no pleading—only a cold, level scrutiny. She pulled out her own pen, pressed the tip directly onto clause three, and drew a hard line across the text until the words were reduced to a smear of ink. “That clause is deleted.”

“That’s for your focus. A contract marriage requires absolute boundaries,” Lu Zeming replied.

“Focus? I’m here to save my mother, not to become a decorative vase.” Lin Enxi turned the page, her pen tip landing on clause five. “Clause five: unconditional cooperation with all social engagements. Delete. I’ll cooperate only with family and business occasions that are agreed in advance. For everything else, I remain the event planner at the hotel.” When she was done, she drew another hard line through the clause and, beside it, wrote out the amended wording, her handwriting quick and steady.

Lu Zeming didn’t stop her. He watched the two black ink lines with a slow, deliberate gaze.

“Clause seven: it requires me to abandon all my current professional projects and follow your schedule full-time. That’s a naked stripping of my rights.” Lin Enxi’s pen hovered over clause seven, her voice trembling slightly with anger. “I can barely save myself—on what grounds should I hand you my freedom too?” The words landed, and the third line slashed across, voiding clause seven entirely.

Lu Zeming was silent for a moment. Rain beads burst softly against the surface of his umbrella. He looked at Lin Enxi, and for the first time a faint, hard-to-read stirring crossed his eyes. This woman—her mother’s restaurant still blocked by creditors—dared, right in front of him, to cross out three of his clauses.

“Everything you crossed out, I accept.” Lu Zeming reached forward and, one by one beside the three alterations, signed his initials. “But the essence of a contract is exchange, not charity.”

“Then we add another clause.” Lin Enxi turned to the blank space at the end of the terms and wrote, word by word: Mutual non-interference in private lives. “Aside from the occasions we must attend together, my time belongs to me and your time belongs to you. You don’t get to police where I go or who I see.”

Lu Zeming didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the three scratch marks and the newly added line. The rain was easing; somewhere in the distance a ferry’s horn sounded as it entered port, low and long.

“Mutual non-interference. Fine.” As he spoke, Lu Zeming set his pen down and signed his acknowledgment beside her new clause.

Lin Enxi let out a slow breath, her rigid shoulders relaxing by a fraction. Lu Zeming looked at the knuckles that had gone white from the force of her writing. For the first time, he met the gaze of this woman who had dared to bargain with him to save her mother. He picked up his pen, flipped back to the first page of the contract, and in the space for clause one, wrote four characters by hand: No one may fall in love.

“Why add this clause?” Lin Enxi pointed at the new line, her pen suspended in midair.

Lin Enxi froze. She stared at the words; the ink was not yet dry, blooming ever so slightly in the humid air.

“Are you making terms with me? Or issuing an ultimatum?” Lin Enxi asked.

“It’s for the protection of both parties.” Lu Zeming set down his pen and looked her in the eyes. Rainwater ran along the umbrella’s ribs and dripped onto his shoe, soaking a small patch.

“Protection? Mr. Lu, you have far too much of a savior complex,” Lin Enxi returned the pen to him, the corner of her mouth twisting into an icy curve. “Something like falling in love—no contract clause can keep that in check.”

Lu Zeming didn't answer. He simply picked up the contract and smoothed out each page, one by one. His movements were meticulous, as though he were handling a piece of precision instrument.

"Sign it, Enxi," Lu Zeming said.

Lin Enxi watched him, a trace of scrutiny in her gaze. She took the pen and signed her name on the other side of the contract. The scratch of the nib across the paper was unnervingly clear in the silent, rain-soaked night. Lu Zeming finished his signature, closed the contract, and with a clean, efficient motion tucked the document into his briefcase.

"Tomorrow's family banquet—if you can't hold on, it's not too late to change your mind," Lu Zeming added.

He pulled open the car door, and rain flooded instantly into the vehicle. Lin Enxi stood where she was, watching the car disappear into the curtain of rain. She looked down at the pen in her hand; a few drops of rain clung to the cap, cold to the touch.

Zhou Xiulan emerged from the dining room, a bowl of hot soup in her hands. She looked at her daughter, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.

"You're back? The soup's still warm," Zhou Xiulan said.

Lin Enxi took the bowl. Steam rose up and blurred her vision.

"Mom, I signed a contract," Lin Enxi said.

Zhou Xiulan's hand trembled, and a splash of soup spilled onto her dress.

"What contract? You haven't been tricked by those people from the Chen family, have you?" Zhou Xiulan frowned, her voice edged with urgency.

"The Lu family's. Lu Zeming," Lin Enxi said.

Zhou Xiulan went still. The spoon in her hand clinked against the rim of the bowl, a sharp, clear sound.

"The Lu family?" Zhou Xiulan's voice dropped, a complicated flicker passing through her eyes. "That's a Lu family member."

Lin Enxi didn't answer. She took a sip of soup; the salt spread across her tongue. The rain was still falling, tapping the glass doors like countless small fingers drumming.

Lin Enxi laid the rain-soaked contract paper flat on the dining table, pressing down the edges with her fingers to smooth out the wrinkles bit by bit. Zhou Xiulan stood nearby, the soup bowl still steaming in her hands, her gaze drifting from the written characters on the contract to her daughter's face, then back again.

"Mom, look here," Lin Enxi pointed to three strikethrough marks on the paper, her voice kept low. "These were the three most brutal clauses, and I crossed them out on the spot: no seeing my old friends or you, I'd have to attend every social obligation unconditionally, and I'd have to quit every project I'm currently handling. Not a single one of those survived."

Zhou Xiulan leaned closer, her reading glasses sliding down to the tip of her nose. She squinted, trying to make out the struck-through printed text, then glanced at Lu Zeming's acknowledgment signature beside the marks. She said nothing, only tapped her fingers lightly against the table's edge, slow and steady.

"Debt settlement and capital injection into the restaurant—he agreed to both," Lin Enxi turned the page; the paper rustled faintly. "The clause I added is in there too: mutual non-interference in private lives. Aside from the scheduled events, I keep working as normal. The restaurant accounts—I'll go through every single one with you, just like always."

The rain outside had softened, leaving only the drip of water from the eaves—one drop, then another. Zhou Xiulan straightened up and set the soup bowl on the table's corner; the porcelain base thudded dully against the wood.

"Enxi," Zhou Xiulan began, her voice softer than before. "How much do you actually know about Lu Zeming?"

Lin Enxi raised her face to look at her mother. There was none of the cold resolve from before in her eyes—only a fatigue, as if soaked through by rain.

"Not much," she said. "I've seen him three times. The first was when you fell outside the banquet hall and he handed you a towel. The second was when the creditors blocked the door—he was standing by the car, on the phone, calling in a lawyer. The third is tonight. He made me sign this."

Zhou Xiulan was silent for a moment, then turned and walked toward the kitchen. The refrigerator door shut with a heavy, solid thud. Lin Enxi listened to the sound, her gaze dropping back to the contract. Her fingertip traced over the four characters "shall not develop feelings"—the ink had dried, its color slightly darker than the surrounding printed type.

"Why did he add that clause?" Lin Enxi asked. It was directed at her mother, but it sounded more like she was asking herself.

Zhou Xiulan peeked out from the kitchen, a small plate of sliced ginger in her hand. She didn't answer; she simply set the plate in the center of the table, and the sharp, spicy smell of ginger spread out.

Lin Enxi looked down at the plate of ginger and suddenly felt hungry. She picked up a slice and put it in her mouth; the heat exploded on her tongue and her eyes grew warm. The warmth wasn't from being moved—it was her body's normal response to the stimulation.

"Mom," she said, chewing between the words, her voice muffled. "Are you afraid I'll fall for him?"

Zhou Xiulan wiped her hands and turned. Under the kitchen's dim yellow light, her face looked especially weary, the lines deeper than usual.

"I'm afraid you'll be like him," Zhou Xiulan said. "Treating feelings as just another part of the deal."

Lin Enxi paused mid-chew, swallowed the slice of ginger, and the burning sensation slid down her throat. She looked at Lu Zeming's signature on the contract—the strokes were sharp, with a small, deliberate pause at the end of the last character.

"He won't," Lin Enxi said, her tone calm, though beneath the table her fingers had tightened into a fist around the folds of her skirt. "I won't either. We're conducting a deal, not a romance."

Zhou Xiulan didn't take up the thread. She simply lifted a spoon, ladled a small bowl from the soup, and held it to Lin Enxi's lips. The broth was hot, sweet with jujubes and goji berries. Lin Enxi opened her mouth and swallowed, hissing as the heat seared the inside of her throat.

"Tomorrow evening," Zhou Xiulan said, "someone from the Lu family will come to fetch you for the dinner. Wear that navy-blue dress, pin your hair up. Don't be late. Don't speak first. Answer only as they ask."

Lin Enxi nodded, watching her mother. Zhou Xiulan turned her back and began clearing the dishes from the table. Porcelain rimmed against porcelain, the sound crisp and clear, oddly loud in the hush of the rainy night.

"Mama," Lin Enxi spoke suddenly, "do you hate me? For using you to barter for these terms?"

Zhou Xiulan's hand paused, then resumed wiping the table. Her back stayed straight; she did not turn.

"I don't hate you." Her voice came from ahead, tinged with a damp roughness. "I'm only afraid that the day you look back, you'll find this is a road I must walk alone beside you."

Lin Enxi said nothing. She lowered her gaze to the final page of the contract. The blank space held no signature, no additional clause—only the streaks rain had left sliding down the windowpane. The watermarks meandered downward like some unfinished pattern.

Outside the door, an engine coughed to life, a low rumble that faded into the distance. Zhou Xiulan straightened, glanced toward the window, and drew the curtain shut. Slowly. Without anger.