No Matter What

Iyana Jiran woke up, her eyes still groggy as one hand reached for the phone on the side table. She looked at it. Six. She sat up slowly. The other side of the bed was empty—just a white bed skirt, crinkled. She checked her phone again and opened the local news back home. 

She was in Europe for five years now—but still more interested in Asia. 

Her country, especially. 

She scrolled. A flood. A new bridge. A new law passed. A new movie by a popular actor. The business section talked about electric cars, crypto, and a newly hired chief executive of a giant robotics company. 

And…

Gosuico Group's takeover of Vista Properties, one of the largest real estate firms in the country. GG would take ownership. Vista would continue operations. A multi-billion deal. Analysts called it a major ripple. GG had gotten wealthier.

Her lips curved. 

Even a college student could say that. 

A dark boxer lay folded at the foot of the bed, then glanced at the door. 

What was he doing there? 

A faint streak of light touched her bare shoulder through a hole in the curtain. She stood and pulled it open. Light spilled across the room. Below, children and a man walking his dog passed through the park. She stood still for a while. Her legs were still weak. Tired from last night. 

She slipped on a long satin robe. 

Later, she padded into the kitchen and slid onto a bar stool. Poured herself a glass of water. Drank in silence. Her eyes drifted to a man's back as he moved calmly at the stove. Where he got all that energy, she didn't know—off the plane, into bed, now cooking like nothing happened. He plated the food, turned, and saw her. Then slid a smaller plate of pancakes in front of her. 

The strawberry apron made it easy to forget he was Claude Maximilian Gosuico. 

"We've run out of oranges," he said as he took the stool beside her.

"Hm," she murmured, slicing the pancake with her fork.

"We'll get some later," she added between bites, not looking up.

"How is it?"

"Tastes good."

"Then have some more," he said. "Making pancakes wasn't as tricky as I thought."

Her face stayed blank.

It was the instant mix—the kind where you just add water.

But she was too tired to say it. No—she was still tired.

They'd done it until midnight.

He noticed her silence, eyes drifting from her bare neck to her hips.

"Tired?" he asked, pressing her hand.

She glanced at him.

"Lian, where are you getting all your energy? Is it really just carbs?"

He smirked a little.

"Yes," he said. "Also the sun, water, wind. And oil."

She gave a faint snort.

Of course. He'd flown in just yesterday from India. Maybe another oil company. 

"Oil is fat, though," she said, looking at him.

"Probably why we only see fat-bellied men in the oil industry," he replied.

She just smiled, then sipped her coffee. 

"Good thing I'm just a financial broker," he added.

She watched him pouring mango jam on the pancake. Her lips curved even more. He made it sound like he was just some guy who landed a job through a random online portal. 

He met her gaze. 

"We'll go back in three days," he said, then took a bite.

Her smile faded. 

She looked away and sipped. 

"Yes," she said. "Does your mother know?"

"Everyone knows," he said, then paused. "In the family."

She wondered what he'd told them.

"They must have asked questions, right?"

"They said I got lucky."

She fluttered, then steadied. 

"Lian, I'm serious."

"I told them you're an engineer for computer chips."

She said nothing.

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, and then he gave her cheek a light pinch. 

Her startled eyes snapped back to his.

"Which part are you worried about?" he said, his tone soft. 

"They will cherish you. I've made sure." He sipped his coffee. "Mother will have the daughter she's always wanted. And Lyron, well—" He paused, lips curving slightly. "He should be happy to see his future sister-in-law."

She watched him spread honey jam onto the steak. As if it were the natural order of things. Even in food, he had to mess with it. He took a bite. Chewed. His face stayed the same. Then he looked at her. "But it's good," he said. As if he'd read her mind.

"Does he really know about us?" she asked.

"He heard it at the family meeting."

She frowned, her brows tightening. What's that even supposed to mean?

"When did this meeting happen?"

"Last week."

Her lips parted—then pressed thin.

"Your friends know too?"

"You know I've made it clear," he said. "I have a girlfriend. But you asked me to keep your name out of it. I did—for three years."

He refilled a cup from the pot and set it in front of her.

"But when we return—even if we're just engaged—there's no point in hiding anymore."

He forked a steak and took a bite.

"I just got accepted into the Institute. The higher-ups know you there," she said. Even scholars had their share of sycophants and shamelessness. "I've got no patience for nosy people."

He smiled—dry and crooked.

"So we're in a dilemma. Between the prying… and the plotting."

She just looked at him.

He met her gaze.

"It'll just stir up more trouble," he added. "You've seen the tabloids for years."

Her gaze slipped away, she sipped her coffee.

She knew her need for secrecy had pulled him into unnecessary dramas he never asked for. While she lived quietly in the shadows for three years, he dealt with the press and scheming women. At first, he found it all mildly amusing. She saw it from their first encounter—him sitting in a dark corner, gaze wry while girls kept watching him. 

Now that gaze held a clear, cold wind—enough to dry the skin.

At one point, the press decided some famous actress was his secret girlfriend, just because she happened to sit beside him at two events. When the actress got caught in a scandal, Gosuico Group had to release a statement. A dozen lawsuits were filed against the press. Another woman—a heiress—snapped a photo of him when he visited her father's office. People online ran wild for months, calling her the mystery girlfriend. Later, a video of her leaving a party early topped the trending news. The story: she'd collapsed. Claude, nearby, just stood there. 

The video caught women laughing—saying her little act hadn't worked on whoever she was aiming for. Claude was never mentioned. But it became clear what their relationship really was. That, too, had become the fate of others. But he put up with it. Because it would all end the moment she returned.

"Nan." 

His low, warm drawl pulled her back to her senses. 

But no one spoke for a while. 

"Let's do it," she said slowly.

Her voice was soft, but her gaze steadier now. 

"No matter what," she sighed, "I'm still a famous story just for being your woman."

She sipped.

He caught a few strands of her hair and brushed them back behind her ear.

"They're idiots," he said, his voice quieter.

Her lips curled slightly. "They say the world's run by idiots." 

She looked at him. 

"Except you. You're a madman."

His mouth curled into a slow smile.

"The madman will protect you."

"Hm."

She stopped—her smile fading. 

"But aren't you… going to be really busy with that facility project?"

His gaze wandered, settling on the table. 

"I have people who'll handle it," he said evenly. "There are things more important now."

She pulled her lips from the cup. "Like?"

"Getting married, of course."

He carefully set another pancake on her plate.

"Just keep doing your work at M.U.," he added, softer this time. "I'll handle the rest."

"Alright."

"You'll see your aunt soon."

Her lips curved. "She'll have a lot of questions."

"We'll visit her."

She gave a faint nod.

"Let's buy suitcases later. Oranges too."

"As you wish."

After breakfast, she called her aunt. Then she opened boxes and put her things away. Most of it was chemistry and engineering books, science journals, piles of research papers, seminar invitations, letters, and coupons. Tucked in one of the folders was a small slip of paper. 

She pulled it out. 

It was a concert ticket—unused, from seven years ago.

Suddenly, she remembered her friends—then messaged them. Be back soon.

Now, she just stood still for a moment, staring at the boxes. 

She wondered what would happen if she came back and saw Lyron. 

A sharp tuck sounded. 

Her gaze shifted to the half-open window. 

Claude was outside, tossing garbage into a metal drum. 

She smirked. This man could do everything.