“Wen Yin.” Xiao Mo’s lips pressed into a thin line. His stare was cold enough to sting, a dozen invisible barbs aimed square at her.
A bitter little smile flickered across Wen Yin’s face. She knew that look too well. In the last season of the dating show, Wen Zhi had used Xiao Mo to parade herself in front of Wen Yin, and when Wen Yin tried to fight back, Wen Zhi had splashed her with filth. Not only had Xiao Mo and the others turned against her, she’d been swamped by vicious fans — every time she opened Weibo it was an avalanche of abuse.
If she’d been her old self, she might’ve rushed to explain. But experience had taught her: the more she explained, the worse it looked. She lowered her lashes and let the smug expression slide away. The moment had been witnessed by only the two of them; if she contradicted Wen Zhi now, wouldn’t Xiao Mo and the rest be more inclined to believe her?
Wen Zhi made her face unbearably pitiful, stretching those rare acting skills to the limit. “How could you do that?” Lu Ziqiu snapped, staring at Wen Yin out of reflex — a look he’d grown used to giving her. Whatever tiny sympathy he’d once had for Wen Yin evaporated.
“Seems like Wen Zhi deserves an apology,” Jiang Shihuai said as he climbed out of the water, still not having put on his glasses. Disgust showed plainly in his eyes.
On the sidelines the fan chatter erupted: “Go, Jiang Shihuai! Bring Zhi Zhi home!” “This cooling-off CP is trending!” “Xiao Mo, I’m going to take out the trash for you!” “Fans, someone just calculated their beads and they flew right into my face!”
Wen Yin stood perfectly still, eyes lowered in a posture that made her look small and wronged. Tears spilled down her cheeks in large, silent drops; she didn’t sob, she only made a soft, muffled sound.
Seeing her cry, Jiang’s brow knit. He hated seeing Wen Yin cry. He opened his mouth to scold, but then his voice died on his tongue. The woman’s eyes, usually bright and alert, were cast down now; only the reddened corners and the wet tracks on her face were visible. She looked like a wounded animal licking its wound alone. The sight tugged at him, a memory surfacing unbidden.
“You done crying yet? If you’re not, keep it to yourself — you’re disrupting my work,” a remembered voice said long ago.
Wen Yin’s lips pressed together. Her flushed, tear-streaked face and the reddened tip of her nose made her look irresistibly vulnerable. “I only saw that flatfish and wanted to catch it for soup,” she said, her voice small but clear as she looked at Lu Ziqiu — as if explaining to him alone.
Everyone froze. Lu Ziqiu’s look softened; the memory of her previous weakness sparked a protective instinct. Xiao Mo’s expression flickered, complex and unreadable. Was she doing this for the fish…?
“And I don’t know why both mine and Zhi Zhi’s dive regulators suddenly malfunctioned,” Wen Yin continued. Her gaze lingered on Wen Zhi, and there was something in the depth of her dark eyes — a razor-sharp coolness that belonged only to her.
Wen Zhi shivered, disbelief crossing her face. Her hands perspired; when she looked back at Wen Yin, the other woman was still the image of hurt.
Then Wen Yin shifted tone and dropped the clincher. “There was a cameraman behind me when I went under. Maybe the footage will show what happened.”
A hush fell. For a moment the only sounds were the lapping waves and the distant buzz of phones. Someone muttered. The cameraman by the water shrugged, “It’s a small cam, but it might be clear enough to see the gist.”
Wen Zhi stiffened as if struck. She sat up straight; the color in her lips drained away. Xiao Mo, thinking perhaps about the danger of the dive, gave her an appeasing look she barely registered in her panic. She forced herself to tamp down the fear.
“What’s the point of replaying it? Showing my terror again won’t change anything,” Wen Zhi snapped, voice sharper than before.
The online comments spiked, vicious and immediate: “Of course Zhi Zhi’s right — anyone would be terrified after that.” “Wen Yin is such a snake, I wish she’d just disappear.” “But we shouldn’t only hear Zhi Zhi’s side; anyone can smear someone else.” “Are those Wen Yin fans? Gross.” “Were you born without a brain? Call someone a dog and they actually bite?”
Lu Ziqiu frowned and reached for the little camera. “Let’s just watch it.”
The screen flickered to life. The underwater footage was grainy, often blurred, but the sequence was clear enough to make stomachs drop.
Wen Zhi could be seen deliberately bumping into Wen Yin’s regulator and knocking it loose. Wen Yin flailed, struggling to stay afloat; Wen Zhi watched, expression unreadable, doing nothing to help. She only moved when Wen Yin’s accidental shove sent Wen Zhi’s own regulator flying — then, at last, she reacted.
Gasps and curses flew from the watching crew. Wen Zhi’s earlier look of faux innocence melted into pale horror as the replay hammered the truth home.
“Is this still the gentle, sweet Wen Zhi we know?” someone mocked online. “Did you see her face? So cold. So utterly indifferent. This is terrifying.”
“The comments exploded: ‘That’s deliberate — that’s assault.’ ‘To the fans who were defending her earlier — how do you feel now?’”