The Hacker Queen & Her Cold CEO.

The gates of Dragon Manor creaked open with a slow, dignified heaviness, like ancient doors unwilling to welcome a stranger. Qian Ruiqing stood at the threshold, her slender fingers tightening around the strap of her worn shoulder bag. Her knuckles turned white. She’d always thought her first visit to the Zhen family estate—if it ever happened—would be as a guest, not as someone sold to the family under the weight of a hospital bill. But fate didn’t ask for opinions. The manor loomed like a cold monument, with towering stone walls, sweeping courtyards, and a silence that made her skin crawl. Behind her, the black car that had picked her up from the hospital quietly rolled away, taking with it the last sense of escape. A woman in a gray uniform approached her at the door. “Miss Qian?” the woman asked, expression neutral. “Master Zhen is waiting in the study.” Ruiqing nodded once. “Thank you.” Her shoes clicked faintly against the polished floor as she followed the maid through carved wooden halls, passing antique vases, embroidered screens, and calligraphy scrolls—wealth displayed with the kind of casual indifference that stabbed into her like ice. They stopped at a wide mahogany door. “Go in,” the maid said. Ruiqing took a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside. The study was spacious, almost too large. Books lined the shelves, sunlight filtered in through gauze curtains, and at the far end, seated behind a massive desk, was Zhen Yichen. He didn’t look up. Even seated, his presence dominated the room. He was dressed in a black shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing elegant wrists and a luxury watch. His fingers tapped faintly on a closed document—likely the contract. Ruiqing stood quietly in front of his desk. Seconds passed. Finally, he looked up. Their eyes met. Cold. Sharp. Distant. Zhen Yichen didn’t smile. “You’re early.” “I didn’t think punctuality would bother you,” Ruiqing replied, voice even. A faint curve of amusement touched his lips—gone before it fully formed. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.” She sat. Neither spoke for a moment. Then, with that same flat tone, he asked, “Did you read the contract my assistant sent?” “I did.” “And you’re ready to sign?” Her lips pressed together. “Can I ask you something first?” He raised an eyebrow. “Why me?” she asked. “Of all women, why me?” Zhen Yichen leaned back, arms folding across his chest. “Because my grandfather insisted.” “That’s not an answer.” He gave her a long look, then exhaled. “Because he made a deal with you, didn’t he? Said he’d pay your mother’s hospital bills if you agreed.” Ruiqing’s heart clenched. She hated hearing it out loud. But it was the truth. “My mother is in a coma,” she said quietly. “And we couldn’t afford another surgery. Your grandfather offered help. I didn’t have a choice.” “Exactly,” Yichen said coolly. “That’s why it’s you. Not because you’re special. Not because I chose you. But because you needed something bad enough to sell yourself for it.” His words were cruel. But she didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t let him see her bleed. “I’m not selling myself,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m borrowing time.” He stared at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, without another word, he slid the contract toward her. “One year. No interference in each other’s lives. Appear together at family events. After that, we divorce.” She looked at the paper. Her name was already printed next to his. Zhen Yichen × Qian Ruiqing. Legal spouse. She picked up the pen with a hand that didn’t tremble. She had no illusions. This was not love. This was a transaction. And she had to be strong enough to survive it. She signed. Yichen didn’t offer a handshake or smile. He simply closed the folder and stood. “You’ll move into the west wing. My assistant will help you with arrangements.” “Is anyone else in the manor aware of this?” she asked. He gave her a dry look. “My mother knows. She disapproves. You’ll figure that out quickly. As for the others… only Aunt Han will be friendly. She’s kind, but don’t count on her too much. No one here believes this marriage will last.” “Do you?” He paused at the door. “No,” he said simply. “I don’t.” And then he walked out, leaving her alone in the study. — Later that evening, Ruiqing sat in the guest room that was now called “hers.” A wedding dress box sat unopened on the bed, delivered by his assistant. It was white. Lace. Traditional. She stared at it without touching it. Her phone buzzed. A photo appeared—her mother, pale and unconscious, lying under fluorescent lights, tubes everywhere. From the hospital nurse: “Stable today. No seizures.” Tears threatened behind her eyes. She curled into herself, burying her face in her knees. Tomorrow, she would marry Zhen Yichen. Not as his bride. Not as his love. But as a woman who sold herself to save her only family. She would wear the white dress. She would sign more papers. She would live under a roof where no one wanted her. Except Aunt Han, who quietly placed a cup of warm tea by her door without knocking. That small gesture broke something inside Ruiqing. She cried silently through the night.