My Surreal Marriage: Life with a Billionaire

Chapter 7

After signing the marriage agreement, I had assumed everything would proceed as planned—I would move into Lucas's luxurious penthouse, while he would continue to maintain his aloof demeanor, keeping a “nonchalant” attitude. However, reality turned out to be far more complicated.

In the end, Lucas moved into my small apartment.

The reason behind this was actually quite simple yet subtle. Lucas's mother, Eleanor, had been pressuring her son from the start, using the excuse of “corporate image,” to maintain the appearance of a “perfect family life” in the eyes of the public. She firmly believed that if Lucas continued to live in his empty, spacious apartment—that steel fortress surrounded by towering modern skyscrapers—the public would begin to question the legitimacy of this arranged marriage.

“You cannot live alone in such a remote place,” Eleanor summoned Lucas and me together and said matter-of-factly, “Your relationship with Claire has already been exposed; you need to give the outside world an explanation.”

The words were spoken so casually, yet they carried an invisible threat. Lucas hesitated slightly, furrowing his brow as if weighing the pros and cons. However, he eventually relented.

What I didn’t expect was that Lucas actually followed his mother’s advice.

More accurately, his choice wasn’t driven by any emotional reasons, but rather by his mother’s demands, the company’s image, or perhaps to avoid unnecessary trouble. As for me, although I knew this marriage held little personal significance for me, Lucas moved into my apartment to fulfill the agreement, which made me smile wryly—we were both compromising for others' expectations, even in the details of marriage.

For me, this small apartment was originally where I lived with my father and my private space. In the early days of living with Lucas, I felt like I had become some kind of “unavoidable” backdrop—though he had moved in, I knew it was all just to maintain a superficial sense of “normality.”

So, in this cozy, cluttered little apartment, I became his “host,” while he became a guest who had to adapt to this space and constantly clash with me.

The door lock emitted a soft electronic beep, followed by heavy footsteps entering the foyer. My small apartment, once a warm sanctuary filled with the scent of old books, coffee, and Keats (my cat), was suddenly invaded by a cold, unfamiliar energy field carrying the scent of cedar and metal. Lucas Grayson stood at the door, followed by two movers in NexTech uniforms, silent as robots. They efficiently unloaded several minimalist, cold-metal silver boxes, their movements precise as if arranging samples in a high-tech laboratory. The boxes were placed in the corner of the living room, forming a jarring contrast with the lush, vibrant monstera plant in the corner—one representing a cold future, the other representing chaotic vitality.

My world was suddenly disrupted by a storm named Lucas Grayson, who barged in without warning.

In the days that followed, every item in my possession seemed to begin a silent protest. The books on the shelves were no longer merely vessels of knowledge; their stacked curves and the worn gold-embossed titles on their spines became a mockery of the invader’s minimalist aesthetic. The pothos and spider plants on the windowsill, with their freely spreading vines and drooping leaves, seemed to shrink back under Lucas’s stern gaze, yet stubbornly continued to grow. The air was filled with an invisible tension, like a taut string, waiting for the first off-key note.

That note, unsurprisingly, sounded in the kitchen.

In the evening, under the warm glow of the kitchen lights, the countertop looked as though it had weathered a small storm. Tomatoes glistened with vibrant redness, onions revealed their white layers, and crisp green celery, plump mushrooms, and potatoes with the earthy scent of soil were scattered around the cutting board. The olive oil bottle, the small jar of chopped herbs, the white porcelain dish filled with minced garlic... together they formed a scene brimming with the warmth of home, preparing to welcome a “feast.” I was wearing that faded floral apron, focused on slicing a chicken breast into even, thin slices. The knife blade made a soft, rhythmic sound as it touched the cutting board, creating a soothing cadence.

A tall figure appeared silently at the kitchen door, like a cold door god, instantly breaking the warm bustle.

“This kitchen of yours,” Lucas's voice rang out, his usual calm tone assessing the efficiency of the equipment, his brows furrowed, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered countertop like a spotlight, “looks like it's undergoing some kind of unsystematic... large-scale experiment?” His gaze finally settled on the knife in my hand and the poor chicken breast, as if studying the inefficient operation of a mechanical arm.

A surge of anger shot up my throat, but I forced it back down. I stopped moving, the knife tip resting on the cutting board, and met his cold, gray-blue eyes. “This is called ‘preparing dinner,’ Mr. Grayson.” My voice remained steady, but the trailing note carried a barely perceptible tension. “Ingredients need to be prepared, seasoned, and combined—a process worthy of the term ‘cooking.’ Or,” I paused deliberately, a hint of challenge in my tone, “do you find these ‘experimental materials’ too primitive, requiring your legendary ‘smart kitchen system’ to take over?”

Lucas’s gaze shifted away from my face, sweeping across the countertop once more before settling on the cast-iron stew pot I frequently used, its bottom bearing faint traces of time. “My system is still in testing,” he stated matter-of-factly, “but it’s evident that the workflow here has significant room for improvement. Ingredients are not properly categorized, the pre-processing area is not separated from the cooking area, and the workflow design..." He shook his head slightly, his posture itself a silent critique.

I took a deep breath. The familiar scent of fresh produce and olive oil in the kitchen felt suffocating at that moment. “If you think these ‘primitive operations’ don't befit your status as a tech giant,” I picked up a slice of pre-cut chicken breast, almost wanting to throw it like a dart, but ultimately restrained myself, instead flinging it forcefully into the prepared bowl beside me, “The door is over there. Or, if you really can't stand it,” I pursed my lips, a bold (or perhaps foolish) thought crossing my mind, "why not step in and give some guidance yourself? I’d be curious to see how the CEO of NexTech conquers a piece of chicken breast with data streams and algorithms.”

The air froze for a moment. I could feel his piercing gaze, like a cold probe, lingering on my face for a few seconds. Just as I thought he’d scoff or turn away, he surprisingly didn’t refute it. He simply walked forward two steps in silence, stopping at the empty space beside the countertop, leaning casually against the edge of the cold quartz stone surface. His deep eyes no longer focused on the “chaos” on the countertop but instead rested on my hand holding the knife and the remaining ingredients on the cutting board, his gaze intense, carrying a... research-like observation? Like a scientist studying the behavioral patterns of an unknown organism.

This silent “supervision” was more unsettling than direct criticism. I deliberately avoided looking at him and refocused on the knife in my hand.

Thud, thud, thud… The sound of chopping vegetables echoed clearly in the quiet kitchen. I could feel his gaze, like invisible rays, scanning every one of my movements: how I used my knuckles to steady the back of the knife to prevent cutting myself, how I submerged the sliced potato pieces in water to prevent oxidation, how I crushed the garlic cloves and finely chopped them into a paste... My movements grew stiff under this silent scrutiny, and I nearly cut my own finger.

Even the decorations on the wall couldn't escape his “evaluation.” . The slightly crude watercolor painting I had bought—depicting a few plump tomatoes and a bunch of parsley, with warm and rich colors—was directly opposite him. His gaze occasionally drifted over, pausing for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing imperceptibly, as if analyzing the meaning of this non-standardized, “subjectively flawed” aesthetic existence. There were also a few sticky notes I had pinned to the side of the refrigerator with colorful magnets, jotting down recipe notes and shopping lists in messy yet lively handwriting. His gaze swept over the notes, his expression fleetingly tinged with what could almost be called “confusion,” as if wondering why I didn't use a more efficient electronic memo app.

This dinner was completed in this strange and tense atmosphere. A simple herb-roasted chicken breast with seasonal vegetables was steaming hot on the table. Lucas sat across from me, his posture as upright as if he were attending a board meeting. He picked up his knife and fork, his movements standard and elegant, and began cutting the chicken. Each cut followed the muscle fibers precisely, each bite chewed slowly and thoroughly, his face showing no expression—neither praise nor criticism—as if he were merely executing a necessary energy-replenishment procedure. This silent, mechanical eating process made the aroma of the food seem to lose its warmth.