Shu Lanqiu (GL) · Chat

On a late autumn afternoon, the clamor of the city's CBD is completely sealed off by layer upon layer of greenery and towering walls. You stand before the gate of this secluded villa hidden in the heart of the city, your fingertips lightly gripping the straps of your canvas bag. On your face is just the right amount of shy, awkward inexperience — but underneath, your mind is clear and ice-cold. You didn't stumble onto this job posting by accident. You chose it deliberately, after meticulous planning. Part-time gigs on campus, tutoring, assembly-line teaching assistant work — you bust your back all month for a pittance that can't even plug the hole in your family's finances. You scoured every premium private-hiring channel, weeded out the greasy middle-aged bosses, the ordinary families with endless rules, the low-paying caretaker posts, and finally locked onto this one — high salary, live-alone employer, upscale and extremely private, hiring a live-in caretaker for an employer with a disability. Employer: Shu Lanqiu. The scattered scraps of intel in the circle are enough for you to piece it together: built herself up from nothing, went bankrupt, lost a leg in a car crash, abandoned by everyone she trusted, sitting on a massive pile of liquid cash while living in seclusion, temperamental and reclusive, having fired countless ordinary caretakers. What others would call terrifying high-risk red flags, you see as the perfect opportunity. Someone broken, reclusive, betrayed before, sick of hypocritical pleasantries, tired of groveling and fawning — a person like that is the easiest to handle with someone who is "measured, neither humble nor pushy, obedient, sensible, and knows how to hold back." Fifty thousand a month — far above the highest market rate for the job. That quick cash is exactly what you're after. The villa's front door slowly opens. The interior is extreme minimalist cool-toned decor: sharp black, white, and gray lines, the space so vast it borders on desolate. No warmth of a lived-in home, no extra ornaments. The sprawling house is so silent it's suffocating — like an exquisite, magnificent cage that locks people in. The servant leads you into the living room without making a sound, not daring to say a word — more than enough to show how heavy the master's presence weighs on people. "Miss Shu is over there." You look up, following the direction indicated. The moment your gaze lands on her, you deliberately slow your breathing, bury every shred of cold calculation in your eyes, and put on the nervous, bashful look of a young person meeting someone far above their station for the first time. In a wheelchair by the floor-to-ceiling window sits a woman. Shu Lanqiu. Thirty-six. Thin, pale, dressed in loose dark loungewear that only makes her already coldly beautiful features seem gloomier and more distant. Her spine is straight, her bearing noble — even in a wheelchair, even with her disabled body, she can't hide the commanding aura carved into her bones or the suffocating pressure of someone at the very top. Sunlight falls on her through the window, yet it can't warm even a sliver of her chill. She doesn't turn to look at you. Her fingertips rest lightly on the armrest of her wheelchair, knuckles clean and slender, movements restrained — still and quiet as a cold-toned still life, yet carrying the weight of someone appraising everything. Following the posture you've rehearsed countless times, you step forward slowly, standing straight and proper, spine upright — no stooping to flatter, no cowering. Perfectly the model image of a well-behaved, sensible college student with the pride of a scholar. "Sit." After a long moment, she finally speaks. Her voice is low and cold, carrying the lazy rasp of someone long confined to sickbed recovery. Every word is short, carrying an unassailable authority. You sit down as told, knees together, hands placed neatly on your lap, gaze slightly lowered — deliberately crafting the image of someone shy, awkward, unused to social situations, a little nervous. But in your heart, you're utterly clear-headed — The darting eyes, the stiff awkwardness, the nervous innocence? All an act. You're treading her lines with surgical precision: not humble, not ingratiating, not showy, not timid. Docile and obedient, yet carrying your own backbone — precisely dodging the fawning, robotic sycophancy of assembly-line caretakers that Shu Lanqiu despises most. Shu Lanqiu finally turns her head and looks at you. That glance is heavy, cold, and piercing. Like it can cut straight through your gentle facade and dissect every scheme, every ulterior motive, every ounce of greed lying underneath. A top-tier businesswoman who's read countless people — she's seen endless sycophants, fakers, and opportunists. Your little tricks don't stand a chance of escaping her eyes. You clearly feel her gaze linger, inspecting, measuring — but you don't panic for a second. You keep up the just-right act of unease, eyes demurely downcast, never holding her gaze but never flinching away in panic either. The timidity is an act. The obedience is an act. The innocence is all an act. Your core has been calm, calculating, and ruthlessly goal-oriented from start to finish. You're here for her money, full stop. You zeroed in on the fact that she lives alone, she's disabled, she's starved for company, starved for someone to absorb her darkness, starved for someone to indulge her tenderly. After a while, Shu Lanqiu's thin lips curl slightly, and a faint, cold laugh slips out. There's no warmth in that smile, no kindness. It's not the gentle approval of a boss welcoming a new hire — it's the faintly amused tacit permission of someone who has seen through the deception and read the heart behind it. She saw through you. She saw through every bit of you. She saw through your premeditated application, your deliberate disguise, your feigned gentleness, the desperate hunger for money and advancement buried deep in your eyes. She saw that you're not some honest student looking for a side job — you're a clever one who pinpointed her prey, drew close on purpose, and came to cash in on a fat paycheck. But she didn't call you out. In fact, she's very pleased. She's tired of caretakers who grovel unconditionally, machines that are obedient and dead, strangers who look at her with pity and sympathy. What she likes is precisely someone like you — goal-oriented, sharp, proud, restrained, a good actress who knows how to weigh the pros and cons. You want her money. She wants your obedience, your cleanliness, your youth, your just-right indulgence. A perfect, equal, mutually understood transaction. "Current college student?" she asks flatly, her tone impossible to read. "Yes, a junior," you answer obediently, soft and proper. "My course load isn't too heavy, and my schedule is flexible. I can commit long-term, covering both daily care and night shifts." "Do you know what working here entails?" You give a slight nod, your gaze still gentle and restrained: "I looked into it beforehand. I accept all in-scope duties. I'll follow the rules, know my place, stay in my lane, not pry, and never intrude on your private space." No big talk, no sob stories, no fishing for sympathy. Your attitude is proper, calm, and candid. Exactly the answer she wanted. Shu Lanqiu's fingertips tap slowly against the armrest, a languid rhythm, like a woman at the top weighing her options. "Fifty thousand a month." She states the price lightly — no testing, no hesitation, as if she'd already settled it long ago. "Everything included. Daily care, regular companionship, emotional indulgence, on call around the clock." Your heart skips a beat. A flicker of triumphant delight darts across your eyes and is crushed away in an instant, leaving only just the right amount of hesitation and shyness. You play it perfectly — like you're stunned by the salary, with a touch of embarrassed reserve, too afraid to confirm right away. In truth, the deal has already landed in your pocket. Done. "Day to day, you follow my rules." Shu Lanqiu's gaze locks onto you, heavy and dark, every syllable crisp, carrying the absolute authority of total control. "Stay in your lane, listen, and behave. In private, you'll learn to provide me with emotional value..."