The city of Shanghai was alive with endless motion. Traffic roared down glittering boulevards; digital billboards flashed the latest fashions, brands, and breaking news; skyscrapers, all glass and steel, pierced the gray afternoon sky like a challenge to the gods.
At the very top of it all sat the Zhen Corporation Tower — a sleek monolith that dominated the skyline. It was more than just a building; it was a monument to ambition, a fortress for the elite. And at its summit, seated behind a polished mahogany desk, was Liang Zhen — the youngest, most feared CEO in Shanghai.
He was the kind of man people lowered their eyes before — tall, with a face chiseled by fortune and fate, black hair immaculately styled, dark eyes that could cut through lies like a blade. In business, he was ruthless, brilliant, and cold. He trusted no one — not partners, not friends, not family.
And certainly not love.
Liang leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers steepled, his sharp gaze staring out the floor-to-ceiling window. He barely heard the polite knock on the door until his secretary, Miss Zhao, timidly poked her head in.
"Sir," she said cautiously. "Your grandfather called again."
Liang closed his eyes briefly. Of course he did.
The old man — Zhen Yong — was a legend, a titan who had clawed his way from poverty to build an empire. Now in his eighties, frail but iron-willed, he had one last wish before he died: to see his grandson married and the family line secured.
But Liang had no intention of marrying for love. His life was built on contracts, not emotions.
Still, the will was clear: If Liang did not marry within three months, he would lose everything. The company would pass to distant relatives eager to tear it apart.
Liang had spent the last two weeks calculating options, as if marriage was another business merger.
He didn't need a wife.
He needed a solution.
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Far from the glitter and noise of Shanghai, beyond the crumbling provincial towns and muddy fields, there was a tiny village called Xinghua. Here, life moved to the slow rhythm of seasons. People woke with the sun, worked with their hands, and dreamed of little more than a good harvest and warm winters.
In a modest clay house on the edge of the village lived Mei Lin — twenty-two years old, slender as a willow, her face pretty in a soft, unassuming way. Her black hair was always tied back with a faded red ribbon. Her hands were rough from farm work, but her heart was full of stubborn dreams.
She spent her days helping her ailing mother, tending chickens, and reading old magazines scavenged from the town junk shop — magazines that showed glittering cities she would probably never see.
Money was a daily worry. Medical bills piled up; the harvest had been poor. Sometimes at night, Mei Lin cried quietly, not knowing how they would survive the next winter.
She thought nothing extraordinary could ever happen to her.
Until one afternoon, when she saw an advertisement on the public board in town.
> "Young woman needed for a confidential opportunity in Shanghai. Generous compensation. Willing to travel. Inquire within."
The words sounded too good to be true. Probably a scam, Mei Lin thought.
But desperate hope is a powerful thing.
Two weeks later, clutching a small suitcase and a fluttering heart, Mei Lin boarded the train to Shanghai — unaware that her entire life was about to change