Fake dating my enemy, The playboy billionaire

YIREN (PART 1)

"Papa?" The word slips from my lips out of habit, even though I know I won’t get a reply. Yet, some things are impossible to let go of.

"Here."

My heart skips a beat. Did he just... reply?

I’m frozen for a moment, unsure of what’s happening. He’s not sitting by the window like he always does, sinking into that worn-out old couch. He’s in the kitchen. Cooking? Am I in the right house?

I blink, eyes darting around. The house is... spotless. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen it. Even the unreachable cobwebs I could never get to are gone. It’s like someone took the tired, dim version of the house I’ve known for years and breathed life back into it. The couch by the window—Papa’s "real home" after Mom passed, once blackened with time and neglect—now gleams in its original cream shade.

"Give me two minutes, Yiren." His voice snaps me out of my daze, and I peek into the kitchen, too curious to stay still.

He’s packing sandwiches. For me?

Carefully, he places the sandwich box into a bag, followed by a juice bottle, a fruit box, my favourite spicy Cheetos, and an energy bar. Exactly how Mom used to pack lunches for me. How long has it been since I saw this?

A tap on my shoulder makes me jump. "Relax, it’s just me," Jun chuckles softly, throwing his arm around my shoulder with an ease that surprises me. "Don’t forget to share the sandwich."

"You did this?" My voice choked with emotion.

"Don’t know what you’re talking about, rabbit," he says lightly before nudging me further into the kitchen.

Everything about this feels surreal, like I’m walking through a memory, too afraid to blink in case I wake up and everything’s back to the way it was—broken. My father, who hasn’t made eye contact with me in ages, still won’t look me in the eyes. He’s holding the bag he packed for us, but he hesitates. I can see it in the way his fingers tremble slightly.

"Papa," I say gently.

He shoves the bag into my hands, not meeting my gaze. "Take care."

Then, without another word, he walks past me, returning to his old seat by the window. But instead of picking up Mom’s photo, like he always does, he grabs one of the Sudoku books I’d brought him ages ago. It’s a tiny thing, but it shocks me to my core.

I turn to Jun, silently asking him if he had anything to do with this. He just shrugs, looking as if he has no idea—or maybe he’s hiding something. Typical.

I want to go over to my father, to hug him, to say something more. But Jun shakes his head ever so slightly, a silent message passing between us. I don’t understand why, but it feels right to listen.

As we walk back to the car, my heart feels like it’s been split in two—one part yearning to go back, the other too scared to stay any longer. I glance over my shoulder, hoping for some kind of sign, some kind of acknowledgment. But Papa doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t even look my way.

Jun reverses the car out of the driveway, and I force myself to stare ahead, swallowing down the emotions that are threatening to overwhelm me. But just as we’re about to turn the corner, something catches my eye.

A shadow moves behind the curtain.

"Stop." The word bursts from me before I can think, and I’m already jumping out of the car, sprinting back toward the house.

Papa wasn’t expecting me to turn back. By the time he realizes, it’s too late. I catch him running midway to the couch, throwing my arms around him from behind, holding him tight.

He doesn’t move.

I turn him around, and with trembling hands, I pinch his chin to make him look at me. The hurt in his eyes is so raw, so deep, but there’s something else there—something I haven’t seen in years.

Hope.

"Go. Take care of Ning, and yourself. I’ll be fine here," Papa says as he pushes me gently away, his hands trembling just a little. He turns back toward the couch, already focused on the half-finished Sudoku puzzle like it’s his new lifeline.

Whatever Jun did—or didn’t do—to make this happen, but seeing my father like this, taking even the smallest step toward something normal, makes me hesitant to push him any further. I don’t want to overwhelm him, especially when it feels like we’re on fragile ground. It’s enough for now.

I place a gentle kiss on his stubbled cheek.

My walk back to the car has a noticeable spring in my step. My heart feels lighter, the weight of worry about Papa lifting just a little.

"Hi, Yiren!" comes an obnoxiously sweet voice just as I’m about to open the car door.

Oh no. Not now.

My nosy neighbor, Valentina, is standing in her yard, one hand on her hip, the other holding a giant bouquet of red roses. Her blonde hair is styled into her usual over-the-top curls, and her judgmental gaze sweeps over me like she’s already planning the next gossip session.

Great. The perfect way to turn a good day into a bad one. I inwardly groan, already bracing for the interrogation disguised as concern.

"Valentina," I acknowledge, forcing a smile. I swear, if she so much as asks one personal question.

"Nice car," Valentina says, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. I can already feel the follow-up insult bubbling on her lips.

3... 2... 1...

"And which rich uncle are you sleeping with to get this upgrade from your rundown pickup?"

A slow smile spreads across my face as I lean against the car, completely unbothered. "Uncle Juju," I reply, truthfully. Technically, I am sleeping with him—well, accidentally, once—but still. And, of course, this sleek Lamborghini belongs to him.

She snorts, clearly unimpressed. "Uncle Juju? That’s a tacky name, even for a bald, tummy-protruding, hairy, seventy-year-old guy." She saunters closer, her high-heeled boots clacking against the pavement like some sort of approaching doom.

I roll my eyes, angling myself to block her view of Jun, who is seated in the driver’s seat, rolling down his window. I feel his gaze burning into the side of my head, his expression saying exactly what I’m thinking: Did she really just call me that?

Oh, this is too good.

*****