The villa clung to the Amalfi cliff like a sugar cube someone forgot to dust off.
Su Wanwan woke to the Mediterranean smashing sunlight into shards across the ceiling. No phones—Lu Shiyan had confiscated hers, leaving only Lin Zhou's apocalypse-only hotline: "Bankruptcy or death, otherwise silence."
Day one, they surfaced at ten.
Lu Shiyan padded barefoot into the kitchen, T-shirt collar sliding off one shoulder, wrestling an antique moka pot like it owed him money.
First batch: charcoal. He lifted the scorched pot with a grin. "Lu Enterprises, 12.7 billion market cap. Can't brew coffee."
Second batch: liquid gold. Su Wanwan leaned in the doorway, sunlight gilding his lashes. He looked seventeen.
Terrace breakfast: two lemon slices, sea-salt pinch, two espressos.
She flipped open her sketchbook. Pencil hissed:
His jawline, knife-sharp
The vein on his wrist when he gripped the cup
Hair whipped into chaos by wind
"Always want to design?" he asked, chin on her shoulder.
"Since crayons." She turned to a childhood page—dresses shaped like tornadoes. "Mom called it 'destructive aesthetics.'"
He laughed, ribs vibrating against her spine.
"I want us a house," he murmured, "push the window—sea."
She closed the book, pressed it into his palm. Answer enough.
Afternoon: rented twelve-foot sailboat.
Lu Shiyan peeled off his shirt, back muscles drawn like a bowstring.
Su Wanwan hesitated at the rail—she couldn't swim.
He scooped her up, leapt.
Saltwater punched her lungs. She flailed, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Hold breath. Three."
He pulled her two meters down. Fish flashed silver.
Surfacing, she coughed; he laughed, forehead to hers. "Scared?"
"Scared you'd let go."
Sun-dried on deck, fingers laced.
"Never pegged myself for a do-nothing guy," he said, tracking a gull. "Before you, life was deadlines and other people's yardsticks."
She squeezed. "You filled mine too. I thought love was plot twists. This—burnt coffee, ocean sting—is better. Real."
Dusk docking, village trattoria.
Red-check cloth, one chair leg propped by brick.
Nonna served spaghetti buried under whole lobster, refilled their wine.
"Vero amore," she declared in cracked English.
Lu Shiyan answered in Italian, "Grazie, lo è."
Su Wanwan kicked his ankle. "Since when Italian?"
"Crammed last night. Couldn't embarrass my wife in front of Nonna."
Moonlit walk, sand cold.
She stepped in his footprints to save energy.
"Back home," he stopped, "real wedding. No contracts. Just us."
Waves roared; she thought she misheard.
He dropped to one knee—jeans soaked—pulled not a ring but a shell. Inside, penciled:
S.W. → L.S. Forever
"Real ring's in Shanghai," voice wind-torn. "Promise travels faster."
Tears hit the shell; it cut her palm. She laughed through salt.
One week later, city.
Chen-Lu joint task force parked Su Wanwan's desk diagonal from Lu Shiyan—glass wall, prime paper-ball trajectory.
Her first scheme:
Modular units (cost ↓18%)
Rooftop solar + greywater (LEED Platinum pre-cert)
Ground-floor "living rooms" with projector walls for kids' art
Chen Sr. slammed the table. "Su leads national rollout."
A shareholder muttered "too green." Lu Shiyan's pen clattered.
"She took bronze at Milan Design Week age twenty-seven. Anyone else?"
Silence.
Site visit, sunset stretching cranes into giants.
Mrs. Li—first family to speak against Jiang—ran up, four-year-old on hip.
Kid thrust a crayon drawing: two houses, stick figures holding hands, caption New Home.
Su Wanwan crouched. The boy tucked a dandelion behind her ear.
"Will it happen?" Mrs. Li whispered.
"Keys December 24th." Su Wanwan gripped calloused fingers. "First batch."
10 p.m., office empty.
Su Wanwan pinned final render:
Lemon grove courtyard
Foldable balcony racks (wind-load tested by her own laundry)
Lu Shiyan circled behind, hand over hers on the mouse. Click—save.
"Tired?"
"Exhausted." She leaned back into him. "Worth it."
He kissed the shell of her ear. "Worth it twice—tomorrow, wedding dress."
Lights snapped off. Corridor sensors blinked awake.
Their shadows stretched side by side, two roads merging into one dawn.