Chapter 2: Rules for Getting the Marriage Certificate and Cohabitation

Zhou Xiulan straightened her back, glanced out the window, and drew the curtains. The motion was slow, without a trace of anger. The hem of the fabric brushed against the glass, carrying a faint rustling sound that seemed to shut out the car headlights and the rain outside all at once. Lin Enxi lowered her head to look at the contract on the table. Her phone vibrated on the surface; Lu Zeming had sent an address and a single line: “Nine a.m. tomorrow, downtown Marriage Registration Office. The lawyer will be present.”

She stared at that line for a few seconds, then flipped the phone face-down on the table.

“He’s certainly quick with the arrangements,” Lin Enxi said. “Last night he was still telling me to take my time, and today he’s even pinned down the registration time—he’s thought through down to what tea my mother drinks.”

Zhou Xiulan stacked the bowls into the sink. The old jade bangle on her wrist clinked against the porcelain edge, a sharp, clean sound.

“If you don’t want to go through with it, you can still back out now,” she said. “The restaurant can close its doors. The creditors’ calls can keep coming. At my age, I can still wait on tables. I won’t starve.”

“I know that.” Lin Enxi tucked the contract into the file folder. “Which is why I’ll look everything through carefully before I sign. If the lawyer says any clause is off, I’ll press them on the spot until I get a straight answer.”

“Don’t just look at the money.” Zhou Xiulan turned to look at her. “Marriage lands on paper, but the days land on people. The more the Lu family gives, the heavier the debt you may have to pay back.”

The next morning, the rain had washed Tanjong Road until the pavement shimmered with reflected light. Lin Enxi wore a cream-colored suit skirt, her black hair pulled back into a low ponytail. The small pearls on her earlobes caught the light through the car window, flickering briefly. She had not worn the dark blue dress her mother had prepared, nor had she dressed up as a bride awaiting selection. Carrying the file folder, a tablet, and a black signing pen, she looked like she was heading to take over a hotel event that had been rescheduled at the last minute.

Lu Zeming stood under the covered walkway outside the registration office. His dark navy three-piece suit was free of a single crease, the silver-cased watch on his left wrist snug against the cuff. He raised his hand to check the time, then shifted his gaze to the tablet in her hands.

“Miss Lin, today we are only handling the registration; no negotiations are scheduled,” he said. “If you still have objections to the clauses, the lawyer can explain them item by item, and we can push back the signing time.”

“I brought the tablet to note down items that need to be added,” Lin Enxi said as she stepped in front of him. “The registration itself is quick. It’s married life that’s prone to slipping out of control. Since you expect me to accommodate the Lu family at social events, you should accept an execution checklist.”

Lu Zeming looked at her for two seconds. “You’re treating marriage like an event execution?”

“You’re treating a one-year marriage as equity preservation. Why should I handle it with feelings?” She flipped the screen open. “Today I’m only confirming three things: where I’ll live, when public displays of affection are required, and who is responsible for explaining things to the outside world.”

The lawyer on the side opened the electronic documents and explained that Singapore’s marriage registration required both parties to meet the eligibility criteria, and that the contract could only stipulate voluntary civil arrangements agreed upon by both sides. It could not replace the rights and obligations under the Marriage Act, nor could it make childbearing, pregnancy, or child-rearing into mandatory performance items. After listening, Lin Enxi photographed that page of explanation and saved it into her records.

“Keep this section,” she said. “And any clause that adds penalties related to pregnancy or children must be deleted. Bodies and children don’t accept contractual management. If there’s a real dispute in the future, we’ll have to find a lawyer to renegotiate.”

Lu Zeming closed the file. “I never proposed that kind of clause.”

“Not today doesn’t mean no one will bring it up later.” Lin Enxi looked at him. “Your cousins, your elders, your shareholders—any of them could push that pressure onto me. I need you to promise that if anyone uses this matter to demand something from me, you block it first.”

His finger paused at the edge of the document. After a moment, Lu Zeming said: “It can be written into a supplementary agreement. You have the right to refuse any demand related to childbirth. I will not use the marriage duration, financial arrangements, or public appearances to pressure you.”

Lin Enxi typed that sentence into the tablet, then looked up. “What happens if you breach that?”

“What do you want?”

“You cover the reasonable legal fees I incur from refusing those demands. Additionally, you explain the reasons in public settings.” She pushed the screen toward him. “I’m not going to take a fall for the Lu family without a clear source.”

Lu Zeming read it, then picked up the signing pen. “Miss Lin, you are very good at cornering people into the clauses.”

“I do event planning at a hotel,” she said. “If guests show up unexpectedly, the stage power fails, or the head table is late, you write down in advance who is responsible for what. That way, no one points fingers on the ground.”

After the registration was complete, they each signed their names and the electronic records were uploaded. Lin Enxi looked at the marriage registration confirmation on the screen, tapping her finger on the table three times. There was no dizziness as she had imagined, and no joy either. Her phone buzzed with a bank transfer notification. In accordance with the agreement, Lu Zeming had already paid the first installment, an amount sufficient to cover the restaurant’s most urgent outstanding debt.

She immediately sent the screenshot to Zhou Xiulan, then dialed the call.

"Mom, the money's landed in the account. Clear out the most urgent supplier payments and the medical bills first." Lin Enxi said. "Don't rush to sign any new paperwork on the expansion debt — I'll look over it again when I get home tonight."

Zhou Xiulan's voice came through mixed with the clatter of a spatula in the kitchen: "Where did the money come from? Did you sell yourself too cheap?"

"I signed a one-year cooperative marriage. Every clause has been reviewed by a lawyer." Lin Enxi said. "Don't ask for details right now. Today, organize the books by date — stop stuffing cash envelopes into the drawer."

"You talk like you're planning a hotel banquet." Zhou Xiupal paused for a moment. "Enxi, has anyone from the Lu family made things difficult for you?"

"Not so far. If anyone asks about me, just tell them I'm dealing with work and household finances. Nothing else — not a word."

"The creditors called just now. They're willing to give us a three-month grace period and recalculate the interest." Zhou Xiulan lowered her voice. "Days ago they were pressing me to sell the shop. Today they've suddenly changed their tune. Do you know why?"

Lin Enxi gripped the phone, her fingernails pressing into her palm. She glanced at Lu Zeming and saw him confirming the apartment address and a supplementary agreement with his lawyer.

"Maybe someone spoke on our behalf," she said. "Don't treat this as good news yet. Don't sign any new documents — wait until I get home."

Zhou Xiulan didn't press further; she only reminded her not to go to bed on an empty stomach. After hanging up, Lin Enxi logged the grace-period note into her tablet and marked it with a question mark. Lu Zeming walked over and handed her a set of keys and an electronic door card.

"The apartment is near Binhai Bay — three bedrooms, two living areas." He said. "You can take the master bedroom; I'll stay in the secondary bedroom next to the study. We'll use the common areas separately. Staff will come by twice a week, and I'll cover the daily expenses."

"The master bedroom is yours." Lin Enxi took the door card. "I need a desk big enough for event materials, by the window, ideally close to a power outlet. Also, the shared refrigerator gets divided by shelf: left side is yours, right side is mine, and the middle shelf is for shared groceries."

Lu Zeming asked, "Are you planning to turn married life into a hotel floor plan?"

"A floor plan at least won't leave you scrambling for coffee at two in the morning." She opened her notes app. "I'm also adding one more: anyone — even you — knocks before entering my room."

"It's my room."

"And it's the living space you've leased me." She put her phone away. "My time and my public identity are all spelled out in the agreement. The boundaries of where I live have to be clear."

Beyond the apartment's floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the harbor and its high-rises; in the distance, the container terminal's string of lights ran in neat, orderly rows. The living room furniture was all cool, muted tones. A single silver coffee pot sat on the kitchen island. Lin Enxi set the file bag on the dining table and pulled out a printed sheet, divided into four columns: date, occasion, attendees, and approved talking points.

Lu Zeming took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. "When did you print that?"

"The moment you sent the address." She stuck the sheet on the refrigerator door. "This is version one of *Mrs. Lu's Public Appearance Schedule*. Monday: formal dinner, we enter arm-in-arm. Wednesday: port dispatch meeting, we simply appear side by side. Friday: family dinner, prepare two shared topics so we don't contradict each other when someone asks a question on the spot."

"Even the arm-in-arm entrance needs scheduling?"

"Every public display of affection needs a boundary." Lin Enxi pulled out a second sheet. "For example: holding hands is limited to the photo zone, hugs don't last more than three seconds, we call each other 'Zeming' and 'Enxi' at all times — no improvising 'darling' in the middle. If you have any objections, write them in the remarks column now."

Lu Zeming stared at the schedule on the refrigerator door, a crease pressing between his brows. "I won't accept the three-second limit."

"Then make it two," she said. "A camera shot usually holds for about a second and a half. Three seconds is already enough for someone to post the photo across every social platform."

"You've broken down so-called marital affection into a photography shot list."

"Because photos stick around, but explanations rarely get heard." She turned and pulled out a third sheet. "This is our public talking point: we met through a long-term business partnership, recently decided to register our marriage, our private lives are not available for interview, both sets of parents are aware, and we will not comment on the marriage's duration."

Lu Zeming picked up the sheet, read it, and handed it back. "'Both sets of parents are aware' — that's not accurate."

"Your grandfather knows, your cousin knows, the lawyer knows. My mother knows I'm getting married, but she doesn't know what deal I accepted." Lin Enxi smoothed the paper flat. "So I'm changing it to 'both families have been informed of the marriage' — I won't specify the extent of her knowledge."

He looked at her. "You're not planning to tell Mrs. Zhou?"

"All she needs to know is that the restaurant will survive." Lin Enxi said. "Every yuan you give me, I'll keep a ledger of. Once the restaurant is back on its feet, I'll repay it according to the agreement. The more she knows, the more easily the Lu family can use her as a bargaining chip."

Lu Zeming did not answer at once. He walked over to the refrigerator and studied the blank line at the very bottom of that sheet for a long while. It read: "Emergency situations: Lin Enxi makes the first call; Lu Zeming provides resources. If legal issues arise, contact a lawyer immediately."

"You've placed yourself in the first-response position," he said. "And if a situation exceeds your capability?"

"I stop the bleeding first, then call for backup." She pulled a slim folder from her suitcase. "When something goes wrong at a hotel event, nobody has the luxury of waiting for the person in charge to work it out. If you're willing to let me take part in the Lu Group's galas and press conferences, I need the full run-of-show documents—venue, guest lists, vendors, load-out times, and backup contacts."

"You're already negotiating your job."

"The contract says I'm to support the Group's events." She looked up at him. "Supporting doesn't mean standing beside you and smiling. I need to know where things can go wrong, and I need the authority to adjust arrangements on the spot."

Lu Zeming took out his phone, forwarded her requirements to his assistant, and added a note on the scope of her authority. When the screen lit up, he noticed she had taped a chore rotation chart to the side of the refrigerator: Monday, Lu Zeming handles groceries; Tuesday, Lin Enxi organizes the tableware; Wednesday, Lu Zeming cleans the coffee machine; Thursday, Lin Enxi reviews shared bills; Friday, they alternate the recycling sort.

"Does this chart count as part of the agreement too?" he asked.

"It's the bare minimum of living together." She said. "If you skip your day, you transfer the housekeeping cost to me, and I'll hire someone to handle it."

"I work more than twelve hours a day."

"And I'm not here to be your full-time housewife." Lin Enxi held a roll of adhesive labels up in front of him. "You can propose adjustments, but you can't unilaterally cancel a slot. Marriage is complicated enough—the recycling schedule should at least be simple."

Lu Zeming stared at the roll of labels, then finally picked up the black marker and signed his name after the Wednesday coffee-machine slot. The pen scraped across the paper, leaving a single horizontal stroke that read more like a command than his handwriting.

At three in the afternoon, Zhou Xiulan called again. She said the creditors had agreed to an extension, the restaurant's supply line was back up, and her voice carried a noticeable lightness.

"Enxi, I ran the numbers today," she said. "As long as revenue holds steady for the next three months, the place will survive. Did you find some powerful person to help you? I'll owe them one for this."

"I will." Lin Enxi stood at the kitchen island, watching Lu Zeming slide a cup into the left-hand cabinet. "But don't ask who they are, and don't try to see them."

"I can't just not ask anything about your marriage," Zhou Xiulan said. "Is that person treating you well?"

Lin Enxi watched the man's back. He was putting the coffee mugs back according to the chart, movements precise, his face blank.

"For now, his cooperation is adequate." She said. "He's still in the observation period. Mom, don't jump to conclusions for me."

Lu Zeming did not put his phone away; he simply watched her save the menu to her device. A few seconds later, another message popped up in the family group chat. Lu Zeqian sent a smiling emoji, then followed up with: Please both arrive on time. Grandfather has an announcement to make this time, and it concerns the succession arrangements.