Fake Marriage in the '70s: The Stoic CEO Forces a Renewal - Reviews

Okay so I have to talk about this jam subplot because it is honestly the most clever piece of plot engineering I've seen in ages. Think about it—Gu Yueqian makes blueberry jam, which seems like just a cute domestic scene, but then she strategically distributes it to the brigade leader, Xiuyun, the accountant, the meat seller, and the firewood-gathering families. This isn't just being nice. This is nation-building through sugar water. And then the real plot move drops: she approaches the brigade leader about selling jam through official commune channels. Lu Zhenzhong's reaction is everything—his eyes light up because this aligns perfectly with government policy on planned production. She's not just surviving; she's building an economic foundation for her family while playing by the system's rules. That's how you win in this setting. But the plot twist that really got me is Wen Yan. In the original story, she was supposedly polite and gentle to everyone. But here? She throws away the jam Gu Yueqian offered because she 'doesn't eat other people's food.' The narrative is already diverging from the source material, and Gu Yueqian notices this herself—she wonders if Wen Yan knows she's destined to abandon her husband and child and meet a tragic end, which is why she's being cold. The transmigration has already fractured the original plot, and the stakes just got a lot higher. What happens when the original heroine realizes the story has changed?

There's something really interesting about the blueberries as a symbol in this whole scene. They're small, wild, gathered from the mountains—nothing grand, nothing valuable by any official measure. But Granny Dabao and Lu Dabao are willing to physically assault someone over them. It's not about the blueberries, is it? It's about power. It's about establishing that they can take what they want from whoever they want, especially the new person in the house who doesn't yet have allies. The blueberries represent everything the Lu family has been taking from Lu Cheng and his sister over the years. The work points registered under Lu Zhuang's name. The grain that gets skimmed. The labor that goes unpaid. Small things, everyday things, things that add up to something massive. And Gu Yueqian picking them and eating them herself—refusing to hand them over—is the first crack in that whole system. Then there's the pigs. The literal dividing of the pigsty with bricks. Two pigs, one for each family. This is such a concrete, physical representation of the abstract concept of family division. The author doesn't talk about "severing ties" in some poetic way—they just brick up a wall between two pigsties. It's grounded, practical, and somehow more powerful for being so mundane. And the household division itself is the biggest symbol here. In this setting, your household registration determines your survival. Work points = food = life. By splitting from Lu Zhuang's household, Lu Cheng isn't just being dramatic—he's reclaiming his literal means of survival. The debt his mother claims he owes them is quantified and dismissed in one sentence. The author is saying something really clear about family: it's not blood that makes family, it's reciprocity. And when that reciprocity breaks, the bond breaks with it. Wen Yan's entire arc is built on this theme too—she's trying to rewrite her fate, to choose her own alliances instead of being defined by who raised her or who she was supposed to love. She's essentially doing the same thing Lu Cheng did, just through manipulation instead of direct action. Two sides of the same coin.

'Keep struggling and I'll take care of you,' Lu Cheng warned, his deep, steady voice layered with restrained desire. I need to sit down. This scene. THIS SCENE. Let me walk through it because my heart is still racing. Gu Yueqian is fuming because it's hot and Lu Cheng won't stop cuddling her at night. She grabs the covers, turns her back to him—this tiny act of rebellion, this little pout disguised as a sleeping position. And what does he do? He leans over her. Chest like a furnace. Warm breath on her neck. She's sweating already and she's supposed to be mad at him. She kicks him. In the knee. Hard. And he grunts. Actually grunts. This man who doesn't show emotion to anyone is physically affected by her kick and still doesn't let go immediately. Then she says 'I'm pregnant' like it's a weapon. And his face—'a flash of raw desire crossed the man's cold, stern face. His dark pupils were like a storm brewing.' But he stops. He lets go. Because the book says three months. Reason wins. For now. And then he sulks. He actually SULKs. The text literally says '(Sulking! The kind you can't coax away.)' and I am deceased. This cold, powerful, capable man who can't even share a bed without wanting more and gets rejected and just... curls up and sulkes. Like a big sad dog. The tension between them is incredible. He's restrained, she's irritated but clearly not indifferent, and there's this undercurrent of desire that's barely contained. The fact that he's holding back because of the pregnancy shows he genuinely cares about her and the baby, even if his first instinct is selfish. And she's not cruel about it—she's just firm. 'Sleep. No touching.' And he obeys. This is the kind of romantic tension that makes you want to scream into a pillow. They're married, they're growing closer, but there's this physical distance that's both frustrating and delicious.

The pacing in these chapters is actually really clever when you step back and look at it. The author doesn't rush anything, but they also never let you settle. Let me walk through it. Chapter 9 opens with domestic stillness—cornmeal porridge, a single egg, Gu Yueqian waking up. Very quiet. Very slow. Then Lu Yao drops the bomb: new educated youth have arrived. The heroine is here. And just like that, the entire narrative compass shifts. We're no longer just watching a woman adjust to rural life; we're watching a reborn heroine enter the arena. The stakes just doubled in one sentence. Then the author takes a breath. The firewood-gathering scene is almost idyllic—girls in the mountains, teasing villagers, wild blueberries. It's warm and sunny and feels like a breather. But it's not. Because underneath all that warmth, the author is doing something subtle: they're showing us Gu Yueqian's capability, her generosity, her supernatural ability, and her social integration all in one seamless sequence. Nothing is wasted. And then—bam. Chapter 11. The warmth evaporates. Old Lady Da Bao's malice is introduced with such surgical precision. 'Her face turned mean.' Two sentences and we're in full conflict mode. Lu Dabao's internal justification for stealing—'snatching it was honorable!'—is so perfectly ridiculous that it's almost funny, but the threat is real. And the chapter ends with him being kicked through a doorway. Cliffhanger? Not exactly, but it's a sharp emotional pivot that makes you immediately want to read what happens next. The structure here is basically: establish normal → introduce threat → build warmth → shatter warmth → end on action. It's a classic rhythm and it works because the author trusts the reader to feel the contrast. The blueberries taste sweeter because we just saw how bitter the alternative could be.

I have to talk about the dialogue in these chapters because the author has given every character a distinctly different voice and it's genuinely impressive. Let's start with Lu Cheng. The man says approximately three words per sentence and somehow communicates everything. "My wife is pregnant." "To buy some brown sugar." "And two taels of cured meat." "No." "Thank you. I'll bring the rabbits in a few days." That's it. That's his entire dialogue in the midnight scene. And yet we know exactly who he is: a man of few words, practical, devoted, not interested in fuss. His silence speaks volumes, and the author uses it brilliantly. When the old woman says "Don't tell me you haven't even caught them yet" and he just says "Mm," admitting he hasn't caught the rabbits he promised to trade — that single syllable tells us everything about his character. He doesn't make promises he can't keep, but he also doesn't make excuses. The old couple, on the other hand, are a study in contrast. The old man is warm and practical: "Congratulations! That's wonderful news, Xiao Cheng! Your wife coming from the city to our countryside wasn't easy—you must take good care of her!" The old woman is sharp and quick-tempered: "So your wife's pregnant—what are you doing here in our house then? Nearly scared me to death—I almost lost half my life!" But then she softens: "He's a sincere boy. His wife is blessed." And then immediately back to sharp: "Old man." "What now?" This back-and-forth feels absolutely real. These are people who have been married for decades and know exactly how to push each other's buttons. Lin Yufen's dialogue is the most revealing. She's constantly performing, constantly trying to shape how others see things. When she talks to the educated youths, she's careful to present herself as concerned and moral: "If Lu Cheng keeps spoiling her like this, give it a year and she'll be completely out of control." But her internal monologue is different — it's bitter and personal: "After all, I raised those siblings, and when they wanted to split the household, I had no say." The gap between her public and private voice is where the real character lives. Wen Yan is interesting because she's almost silent in these chapters. She speaks once: "A capitalist's granddaughter? So she was sent down?" And then later: "If they keep eating like this, no matter how deep their family savings, they'll soon run dry." But her silence is louder than her words. We know she's calculating, that she's observing, that she's planning. Her few lines are carefully chosen to sound reasonable while actually advancing her own agenda. Liu Jilan is the sweet one, the naive one, the one who just wants to be polite. Her dialogue is simple and warm: "Brown sugar is really precious. I was planning to bring some, but my mom couldn't even bear to part with it. Yet Lu Cheng actually made his wife brown sugar eggs for breakfast—he's really generous." She's the moral compass of the group, and her innocence makes her a contrast to both Lin Yufen's bitterness and Wen Yan's calculation. The village women's gossip is perhaps the most entertaining dialogue in these chapters. They talk about Gu Yueqian's fairness, about Lu Cheng's devotion, about what happens "at night" — all while pretending to be harmless. The bawdy joke about Lu Cheng and his wife is delivered with such casual confidence that it's funny rather than crude. These women are the chorus of the story, commenting on the action, shaping the social narrative. And Gu Yueqian's internal voice — what we get of it — is restrained but observant. She notices things. She calculates. She doesn't speak much but she's always processing. When she thinks "This man..." after realizing Lu Cheng went out at midnight for her, that trailing thought is perfect. It's everything she feels and can't say. The author's narrative voice is also worth mentioning. It's warm, observant, occasionally humorous, never judgmental. It describes the village women's sun-reddened cheeks as looking "just like old rustic paintings" — that's a line that could only come from a narrator who genuinely appreciates the beauty in these people's lives, even their hardships. Every character sounds different. Every character has a purpose. And the dialogue never feels forced or expository. It's natural, it's revealing, and it's genuinely entertaining.

Okay so I need to talk about this one moment because honestly it wrecked me in the best way. When Lu Cheng comes home and sees his mother and brother demanding answers about his wife getting kicked, he doesn't even hesitate. He just—steps in front of Gu Yueqian. His tall frame blocks everyone's view, and the text literally says his broad shoulders looked like they could bear the weight of the world. And then he says the line: "I've said before—no one tells my wife what to do." Brigade leader Lu Zhenzhong's internal reaction was basically me reading this—"This was the longest sentence he had ever heard come out of Lu Cheng's mouth." And that's what made it hit so hard. This man doesn't talk much, doesn't do grand speeches, but when it matters he draws a line and the whole family trembles. And then the whole household splitting thing—"I. Want. To. Divide. The. Family." Each word separated like a hammer strike. He's not doing this out of anger, he's doing it because they've been skimming his and his sister's rations for years and pretending it was kindness. When Grandma Dabao tries the guilt trip about how they raised him, his response is just "That debt's already repaid." CHILLS. Absolute chills. But what really got me was the contrast between how his family treated him versus how he treats Gu Yueqian. These people raised him, fed him, clothed him—and treated him like an ATM. Meanwhile this woman he's been married to for literally days stands up to Granny Dabao with a kick and then calmly offers tea to her sister-in-law like nothing happened. And Lu Cheng sees all of that and chooses to protect her, to split from his own blood family for her. That's not just romance, that's partnership. That's someone who actually sees you. I keep thinking about Wen Yan's perspective too—she watched all of this and thought Lu Cheng was a responsible man because he shielded his wife. But then she muttered "Your judgment isn't very sharp." And I'm sitting here like—wait, what does that mean? What is Wen Yan planning? Because clearly she's not just some background educated youth character. There's something underneath her head and I cannot wait to find out what it is.

I need to talk about Lin Yufen because this woman is genuinely terrifying and I love how the author wrote her. She's Lu Cheng's ex-wife. She has a bruised face from fighting with Lu Zhuang. She sneaks over to Gu Yueqian's house hoping to scrape leftover brown sugar egg soup from the pot, and finds it already scrubbed clean. Her exact reaction: "What a fine city-bred young lady. Only here a few days, and it's either lard noodles with eggs or brown sugar egg soup. Even the Empress Dowager didn't eat so well." This is a woman who is actively trying to poison the well against her own husband's new wife. And the worst part? She genuinely believes she's doing the right thing. Listen to this speech she gives to the educated youths: "If Lu Cheng keeps spoiling her like this, give it a year and she'll be completely out of control. Then he'll be the one crying. After all, I raised those siblings, and when they wanted to split the household, I had no say." She raised them. She helped raise them. And when they split the household, she had no say. That is a woman who has been discarded and she is NOT handling it well. She's projecting her own pain onto Gu Yueqian and calling it moral righteousness. But here's what makes her interesting — she's not just a cartoon villain. She has a point, a twisted one, but a point nonetheless. "Us country folk live frugally—we simply can't afford this kind of extravagance. Men work hard in the fields for every single work point. Even if a wife doesn't help him earn more, at the very least she shouldn't drag him down!" She genuinely believes that women should be hardworking and frugal, and that Gu Yueqian is being lazy and greedy. Whether or not that's true is a separate question — Gu Yueqian is pregnant and clearly not doing physical labor — but Lin Yufen's worldview is internally consistent. She's a product of her environment, and in that environment, a woman who doesn't work is a burden. The scene where she tries to recruit the educated youths to her household is peak Lin Yufen. She's calculating, manipulative, and completely transparent about it. She wants their ration cards. She wants their fine grains. And she's offering them a place at her table as if this is a generous offer when really it's a transaction. But Wen Yan sees through it. Wen Yan, who has her own agenda — she wants to get close to Lu Cheng — recognizes that Lin Yufen is playing a game. And Liu Jilan, sweet naive Liu Jilan, just wants to be polite and not offend anyone. The author is setting up a triangle here and I am HERE for it. Lin Yufen represents the past, Wen Yan represents calculated ambition, and Gu Yueqian... Gu Yueqian represents something new. A woman from the city with skills from the apocalypse who is learning to navigate this world. I also love that the author gave Lin Yufen a bruised face. That detail alone tells us so much about her life without needing exposition. She fights. She gets into physical altercations. She's not a passive victim, she's a woman who's been through hell and came out bitter. And the ending of this section where Gu Yueqian decides to make jam and give it to the brigade leader's family and friendly old ladies? That's a woman who's playing the long game. She's not going to fight Lin Yufen with words. She's going to win over the community with kindness and food. This is someone who survived an apocalypse — she knows how to build alliances.

I've been thinking about this book a lot since reading these chapters, and the thing that keeps coming back to me is food. Not just as sustenance but as a language, a weapon, a currency, and a symbol of everything this story is really about. Let me start with the brown sugar. In this time period, in this village, brown sugar is PRECIOUS. Liu Jilan says so herself: "Brown sugar is really precious. I was planning to bring some, but my mom couldn't even bear to part with it." And yet Lu Cheng goes out at midnight to acquire it for his wife. This isn't just about cooking — it's about prioritization. It's about saying: my wife's nutrition matters more than my own comfort, more than saving resources, more than social convention. The cured meat is another layer. "Fresh meat was only available during holidays if you queued at the commune. Most of the time, villagers had none at all—only a few better-off families could keep some cured meat." Two taels of cured meat is a significant amount. It's wealth displayed through food. And Gu Yueqian, who came from the city with her own supplies, finds that Lu Cheng has somehow acquired more than she brought. This is a man who is actively working to provide for her in a context where providing is difficult. But the most interesting food symbol is the jam. Gu Yueqian decides to make jam and distribute it to the brigade leader's family and friendly old ladies. "Once she opened that door, everything else would become much easier." This is a woman who understands that in a close-knit community, food is diplomacy. It's how you build relationships. It's how you survive. And then there's what the food represents for Gu Yueqian personally. She was a survivor in the apocalypse. She knows how to make do with nothing. She knows the value of every calorie. And yet here she is, being fed brown sugar eggs by her sister-in-law, being provided for by a husband who goes to midnight trouble for her. She's not used to this. She's not used to having her needs anticipated. The contrast between Lin Yufen's worldview and Gu Yueqian's is also expressed through food. Lin Yufen sees food as something to be rationed, saved, earned through labor. Gu Yueqian sees food as something that can be shared, used to build relationships, a way to show care. Neither is wrong — they're just products of different experiences. The blueberries in Gu Yueqian's space are another food symbol. They've gathered spiritual energy and ripened into "the most exquisite fruit." This is her secret — her cheat, her advantage from the apocalypse. But she's not flaunting it. She's using it subtly, making jam, building goodwill. This is a woman who knows that power is most effective when it's disguised as kindness. The author is really exploring what it means to be cared for in a world where care is a luxury. In the apocalypse, everyone was looking out for themselves. Here, in this village, people are looking out for each other — but it's complicated by class, by history, by jealousy, by the fact that Lu Cheng's past with Lin Yufen still casts a shadow. Food in this book is never just food. It's love, it's power, it's survival, and it's the thing that brings people together or drives them apart.

Let me just sit with the sheer stakes of this world for a moment. We're talking about an era where rock sugar is so precious that using it for jam is considered 'pure extravagance.' Where people barely have enough to eat. Where a hen's eggs are saved to sell for cash rather than eaten. Where the Lin Yufen family across the way would 'throw herself on the ground screaming and rolling around' if they knew about the sugar waste. Gu Yueqian is navigating all of this while pregnant, with a taciturn husband who works himself to exhaustion, a traumatized child, and an original novel's heroine who is actively hostile toward her. The stakes aren't just 'will she survive'—they're 'will her family survive, and on what terms?' The jam-selling plan is huge because it's not just about money. It's about legitimacy. By going through official channels and sharing profits with the production team, she's embedding her family into the community's economic structure. If she fails, she's just another urban transplant struggling to survive. If she succeeds, she has leverage, connections, and a reason for people to protect her. And Wen Yan? She's the wildcard. In the original plot, Gu Yueqian was supposed to be the villainous wife who abandons her family. But now that she's actually competent and kind and building something real, the entire moral framework of the story is upside down. The conflict isn't just external anymore—it's narrative itself fighting back.

The stakes in this chapter are deceptively low-key but I'm genuinely worried about what's coming. Let me lay out the conflicts: First, there's the immediate social conflict with Wen Yan. She's rejected, humiliated, and sitting across the courtyard eating dry rations while Lu Cheng's family enjoys steamed buns and porridge. Liu Jilan tries to comfort her, but Wen Yan's face is 'long and sour.' She's not going to forget this. People like Wen Yan don't take rejection well. But the REAL conflict is Lin Yufen. This woman is watching. She's noticed the jam, the early mornings, the feast, the money. She's connected the dots and concluded that Lu Cheng is selling collective property. 'That damned Lu Cheng—daring to sell production team goods! Fine, she thought. She'd catch him in the act. Just wait and see!' This is the kind of line that should make you nervous. In these stories, the neighbor who accuses someone of selling collective property isn't just being nosy—she's weaponizing the political system against them. If Lin Yufen reports this, Lu Cheng could face serious consequences. Not just social shame, but actual punishment. The stakes are layered. On one level, it's about survival—can this family eat? Can they make enough money to survive the winter? On another level, it's about reputation and safety in a community where gossip can destroy lives. And underneath everything, there's the meta-conflict of Gu Yueqian wondering whether her presence has altered the original story's trajectory. The tension is maintained perfectly because we know Lin Yufen is plotting, but we don't know when she'll strike or what she'll do. The jam sales, the money, the feast—all of it is both a triumph and a liability. Every success makes them more visible, more vulnerable.

I want to talk about conflict in these chapters because on the surface, nothing explosive is happening. But the stakes are incredibly high and the author understands this. Let's start with the most obvious conflict: Lin Yufen vs. everyone. She's the ex-wife who was discarded, the woman with a bruised face who sneaks around hoping to scrape leftover food from pots. Her conflict with Gu Yueqian is immediate and personal, but it's also layered with class resentment. Gu Yueqian is a city woman, from a capitalist family, married to a man she didn't choose. To Lin Yufen, Gu Yueqian represents everything she lost: Lu Cheng's attention, his provision, his place in the household. But Lin Yufen's conflict isn't just personal — it's ideological. She believes in frugality, hard work, and the traditional role of women. Gu Yueqian, by being pregnant and not working, represents everything Lin Yufen despises. And yet — and this is the brilliant part — Lin Yufen might be partially right. In this context, in this village, in this time period, Gu Yueqian's consumption of brown sugar and cured meat IS a luxury. The question is whether that makes her lazy or whether it makes her lucky to have a husband who can provide. The conflict between Gu Yueqian and the village social structure is subtler but no less real. She's an outsider — a city woman, a capitalist's granddaughter, a pregnant wife who doesn't work. The village women gossip about her, Lin Yufen actively works against her, and the educated youths are caught in the middle. But Gu Yueqian isn't passive. She's making jam. She's planning to distribute it to the brigade leader's family and friendly old ladies. She's building alliances. This is a woman who survived an apocalypse — she knows how to navigate hostile environments. Then there's the internal conflict within Lu Cheng. He's torn between his past and his present, between his duty to his sister and his devotion to his wife. He's a man of few words but many responsibilities. The midnight scene shows him in his element — practical, decisive, caring. But we also see the tension when the old woman says "Don't tell me you haven't even caught them yet" and he just admits he hasn't. He's a man who makes promises he can't immediately keep, and that's a very human flaw. The conflict between Wen Yan and Lin Yufen is interesting because they're both trying to manipulate the same situation for different reasons. Lin Yufen wants to control the educated youths for their rations. Wen Yan wants to get close to Lu Cheng. They're rivals, but they're also both women in a patriarchal system, trying to maximize their power within the constraints they have. The fact that Wen Yan sees through Lin Yufen's scheme shows that she's not naive — she's just playing a different game. But the most interesting conflict in these chapters is the one between Gu Yueqian's past and her present. She was a survivor in the apocalypse. She knows how to make jam from scratch, how to preserve food, how to survive in the wilderness. She has a secret space where she can grow food. And yet she's choosing to use these skills subtly, to build relationships rather than flaunt advantages. This is a woman who could dominate this village but chooses connection instead. That's a conflict worth watching. The stakes are never in danger of being lost — we know Gu Yueqian will survive, we know Lu Cheng will provide, we know the village will eventually accept her. But the tension comes from the HOW. How will she navigate the social landscape? How will Lu Cheng balance his responsibilities? How will Lin Yufen's schemes play out? How will the educated youths choose sides? These are quiet stakes, but they're real. In a world where a basket of eggs can determine your social standing, where a midnight trip for brown sugar can reveal your character, where a jar of jam can build an alliance — every small action has weight. And the author understands this completely.

Let me be honest with you—this section changed how I see the entire conflict structure of this novel. Up until now, the stakes have felt fairly low. Gu Yueqian is adjusting to a new life, dealing with a brother-in-law who bullies her, surviving on cornmeal porridge. It's uncomfortable, sure, but it's not life-or-death. Or at least, it didn't feel like it. But then the blueberry scene happens, and everything shifts. Because suddenly we're not just watching a woman cope with rural hardship—we're watching her build power. She has a supernatural ability. She has knowledge from a past life. She has the respect of the villagers. And she has zero tolerance for people like Old Lady Da Bao and Lu Dabao. The conflict with the Da Bao family isn't just about stolen blueberries. It's about who controls resources in this household, who has authority, and what happens when the person everyone underestimates decides to draw a line. And the line is drawn with a kick to the face, which is honestly the most satisfying thing I've read all year. But here's what keeps me up at night: Wen Yan. The reborn heroine. She's supposed to be the one with the advantage—she knows the future, she knows who to cling to, she knows how to win. But Gu Yueqian also knows the story. Both of them are playing with full information now. That's not a one-sided predation anymore; that's a collision. And I am genuinely terrified for everyone involved except Gu Yueqian, because she's the one who's actually prepared. The stakes just went from 'will she survive the countryside' to 'what happens when two reborn women realize they're in the same story.'