“Mr. Min, since we’re going to be living together for a while,”
Vivian Wen said as the thought suddenly struck her,
“shouldn’t you tell me your full name?”
He looked at her, voice calm.
“Simon Min,” he said.
“And I want you to remember it.”
Vivian smiled, bright and unguarded, missing the faint depth behind his eyes.
“I will.”

That evening, she returned home to pack.
The house was empty again—no doubt George Wen had taken Helen Zhao and Summer Wen out for dinner.
Vivian gave a small, bitter laugh. Better that way. I don’t want to see them anyway.
Simon had offered to come help, but she insisted there wasn’t much to move.
He could just wait for her downstairs.
When she came out, suitcase in hand, Simon took it from her wordlessly—
one hand on the luggage handle, the other naturally wrapping around her fingers.
At the gate, the security guard straightened immediately.
He didn’t know Simon’s true identity, but anyone who occasionally drove a million-RMB car and carried himself like that was clearly someone important.
“Evening, sir,” the guard greeted, bowing slightly.
Simon’s voice was even, deliberate.
“She’s my fiancée. She’ll be living with me from now on.”
Vivian’s eyes widened in surprise.
He didn’t even blink as he said it.
Probably just to avoid unnecessary questions, she told herself, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck.
The guard nodded briskly.
“Understood, sir. I’ll inform management to register your fiancée’s face ID right away.”

It was Vivian’s second time in this apartment—but everything felt different now.
She carried her bags into the guest room.
It was spotless. Simon had clearly arranged for cleaners in advance; even the bedding was brand new.
After changing into comfortable clothes, she stepped into the living room.
Simon sat on the sofa, relaxed in a navy home outfit, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
A book rested in his hand, lamplight tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, softening his usual chill with a quiet warmth.
Without looking up, his voice came from behind the book.
“Had a fight with your family?”
Vivian pressed her lips together. She knew she couldn’t hide it forever.
“Yeah,” she admitted.
“Because of the engagement?”
“No.” She shook her head quickly.
“Something else. Nothing serious.”
He set the book down, his expression unreadable.
“That woman we ran into the other day—she’s your sister?”
“Her?” Vivian snorted softly.
“She’s Helen Zhao’s daughter. We’re the same age, but there’s no blood relation. Not really my sister.”
“And you don’t get along?”
“That’s putting it mildly,” she said, then caught herself.
Household drama wasn’t worth sharing.
“Anyway, it’s nothing worth mentioning.”
Simon didn’t press.
Vivian glanced around the apartment.
It was elegant but… empty.
Too perfect. Too quiet.
“Mr. Min, I have an idea.”
He closed his book, curious.
“Go on.”
“This place feels too empty,” she said, eyes gleaming.
“Why don’t we get some decorations—plants, paintings, little things to make it cozy?”