Part 1: Ninety-Nine Strangers and One Terrible Idea

Ninety-nine women.

That’s not a typo.

Ninety-nine carefully screened, background-checked, family-approved, tax-bracket-verified women—lined up in a Midtown Manhattan hotel ballroom like some dystopian version of The Bachelor sponsored by Wall Street.

And Shen Tuoyan, heir to a multi-billion-dollar tech empire, was expected to smile through all of it.

He stared at the guest list on his phone and exhaled slowly.

“Ninety-nine,” he muttered. “Why not make it a hundred? Round numbers are classy.”

His assistant, Daniel, didn’t laugh. Daniel never laughed at the right times.

“Your mother personally approved each candidate,” Daniel said carefully. “She believes efficiency is key.”

“Efficiency,” Shen repeated dryly. “We’re not sourcing microchips.”

Outside, traffic roared down Sixth Avenue. Yellow cabs honked like impatient geese. Somewhere below, a street vendor shouted about pretzels. Normal life. Meanwhile, his mother had turned his love life into a corporate acquisition strategy.

He could already hear her voice.

 

Marriage stabilizes legacy. Marriage reassures investors. Marriage is maturity.

Marriage, apparently, was also mandatory.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll go.”

But he wasn’t going as himself.

Across town—Brooklyn, technically, though she refused to apologize for the zip code—Lu Xiangxiang was standing in front of a mirror the size of a cereal box.

“Okay,” she whispered to her reflection. “We’re not doing this for romance. We’re doing this for freedom.”

Her father had delivered his own ultimatum that morning over jasmine tea in a porcelain cup worth more than her monthly rent.

“You will marry the Shen heir,” he’d said calmly, as if discussing weather patterns. “It benefits both families.”

“I’m not a joint venture,” she’d replied.

He’d smiled. Which was worse than yelling.

So here she was—twenty-five, stubborn, talented, and absolutely unwilling to be traded like stock—heading to the same matchmaking event for the exact opposite reason.

She needed a husband.

Temporarily.

Just long enough to get her family off her back and carve out her own career in design without constant surveillance.

A paper marriage. One year. Clean exit.

Simple. Probably.

She grabbed her purse. “Let’s go ruin our lives responsibly.”

The Midtown Marriott ballroom smelled like expensive perfume and ambition.

Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead. Tables were numbered. Parents lingered near the edges like silent shareholders. It felt less like a dating event and more like a merger summit.

And then he walked in.

Except he didn’t look like an heir.

Shen Tuoyan had traded his tailored suits for faded jeans and a plain charcoal hoodie. His Rolex was gone. His hair was slightly mussed on purpose. He looked… average. Handsome, sure—but in a “guy you’d see at Trader Joe’s buying oat milk” kind of way.

Perfect.

If someone wanted him for money, they’d walk right past.

Xiangxiang noticed him because he wasn’t trying.

Everyone else leaned forward, laughed too loudly, performed. He sat back, observing. Calm. Detached.

Suspicious.

She slid into the seat across from him when the coordinator called her number.

They looked at each other for a beat too long.

He broke first. “Shen Lin. Twenty-eight. I work in facilities management.”

Facilities management.

That was vague enough to mean janitor. Or maintenance. Or something involving mops.

She nodded once. “Lu Xiangxiang. Designer.”

He waited.

She didn’t elaborate.

Interesting, he thought.

Most of the women he’d met in the last thirty minutes had recited résumés like LinkedIn profiles come to life.

Silence stretched between them.

Not awkward. Just… deliberate.

Finally, she leaned forward slightly. “Let’s skip the small talk.”

His eyebrow twitched. “Okay.”

“I need a husband for one year,” she said plainly. “Legal marriage. Separate lives. No interference. After twelve months, we file for divorce.”

He blinked once.

Of all the approaches he’d expected, blunt contractual negotiation wasn’t high on the list.

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“And why,” he asked carefully, “would you assume I’d agree?”

She studied him—his worn sneakers, his unremarkable watch, the absence of luxury cues.

“Because you don’t look like someone who wants to be here either.”

Touché.

He leaned back in his chair. “Terms?”

“Financial independence. No shared accounts. No romantic expectations. Publicly cooperative. Privately separate.”

He considered it.

A fake marriage would solve his problem instantly. His mother wanted a legal certificate, not a love story. Investors wanted optics. This could work.

“My condition,” he said slowly, “is that we present a united front to my family.”

“Fair.”

“And,” he added, testing her, “my mother expects grandchildren.”

She stared at him.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m joking.”

She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t funny.”

Okay. She had boundaries. He liked that.

They sat there, two strangers sketching out the framework of something absurdly serious.

Finally, she extended her hand.

“One year,” she said.

He looked at her hand.

Then shook it.

“One year.”

Just like that.

No violins. No sparks flying dramatically across the ballroom. Just an agreement—cool, pragmatic, slightly reckless.

If either of them had paused to think longer than thirty seconds, they might’ve reconsidered.

They didn’t.

The clerk at the city office barely looked up when they signed.

“Congratulations,” she said in a monotone that suggested she’d witnessed everything from shotgun weddings to Vegas-level regret.

They walked back onto the Manhattan sidewalk as husband and wife.

Traffic roared. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.

“Well,” Xiangxiang said lightly, “that was efficient.”

He almost laughed.

Efficient.

If only she knew.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Brooklyn,” he replied automatically.

She raised an eyebrow. “Same.”

Technically true. He owned three buildings there.

They ended up outside her small apartment building—a narrow brownstone squeezed between a laundromat and a bodega that smelled perpetually of coffee and fried something.

“You live here?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She crossed her arms. “Problem?”

“No. I just—”

He was used to penthouses with skyline views.

She was used to earning every inch of independence.

Different worlds.

“Rent’s reasonable,” she said. “And it’s mine.”

That shut him up.

Inside, the apartment was tiny but tidy. A drafting table sat near the window. Sketches covered one wall—bold lines, intricate details, real talent humming beneath the surface.

He noticed immediately.

“You’re actually good,” he said.

She glanced at him sharply. “Actually?”

“I mean—”

“Relax,” she sighed. “I know what you meant.”

He wasn’t used to correcting himself.

Weird.

That night, they stood awkwardly in the center of the apartment.

“There’s one bed,” she said.

“I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re tall.”

“I’ll survive.”

A pause.

“Just so we’re clear,” she added, “this doesn’t change anything.”

“Agreed.”

But as he lay on the too-short couch staring at the ceiling, he found himself replaying the way she’d spoken—direct, unapologetic, a little fierce.

Not like the polished daughters of CEOs he’d grown up around.

She felt… real.

And in the bedroom, Xiangxiang stared at the ceiling too.

Facilities management, huh?

Something about him didn’t add up. The way he carried himself. The quiet confidence. The way he hadn’t flinched when she proposed a contract marriage.

Men who made eight thousand a month didn’t usually negotiate like corporate attorneys.

She rolled over.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself.

One year. Then freedom.

Outside, the city hummed. A subway rumbled beneath concrete. Somewhere down the block, someone laughed too loudly at nothing.

Two strangers. One legal document. Zero understanding of the storm they’d just invited into their lives.

And neither of them—not even a little—was prepared for what would happen when truth inevitably showed up at the door.

It always does.

Just not politely.