Suddenly, Lu Ziqiu remembered what Wen Zhi had said earlier.
Shao Yinan told her to apologize, but she’d steered the blame toward him instead.
For the first time since arriving, Lu Ziqiu felt a flicker of confusion.
Why would Zhi Zhi do that? If it had been the old, clingy Wen Zhi he once knew, would she have been so quick to push herself forward like that?
He stared at the ceiling, eyes empty. Even he couldn’t say for certain why the girl had acted that way. Something in his gut told him Wen Yin wasn’t after money. He thought that and felt oddly calmed — or at least unsettled in a new way.
Lu Ziqiu covered his eyes with his forearm and lay there, listless.
—
The awkwardness clung to them through dinner. The four of them barely ate — Jiang Shihuai’s cooking left much to be desired — and Lu Ziqiu seemed the only guest who couldn’t force himself to finish a plate.
He kept stealing glances at Wen Yin, hesitant and careful, but she didn’t so much as throw him a look, as if he were nothing but air.
Lu Ziqiu’s silent, half-formed attempts at speech never drew her attention. Instead, Wen Zhi, sitting beside Wen Yin, grew impatient; her blunt stare at Lu Ziqiu soon caught Shao Yinan’s notice.
On the livestream, the chat erupted with people watching every tiny interaction.
“Wait, is Lu Ziqiu only now realizing he misunderstood Wen Yin?”
“Has Qian Shuzhi apologized for accusing Wen Yin of stealing the necklace yet? How does she have the nerve to sit here and eat?”
“Lu Ziqiu should apologize too! Nobody likes being yelled at for no reason.”
“This is wild.”
“Is Wen Zhi mad? Her simp is paying way too much attention to another girl.”
Wen Zhi smiled as if she hadn’t noticed the looks. “Ziqiu, try this dish. It’s pretty good.” She reached over, ladling food onto his plate with the sort of tenderness that looked practiced.
Lu Ziqiu blinked and snapped back to himself. He muttered a couple of thanks, but the food Wen Zhi offered remained untouched.
Seeing him pull away, Wen Zhi’s mood plummeted. Everything had gone wrong since the morning’s stream; she blamed Wen Yin for every misstep. A flash of cold threatened from Wen Yin’s eyes — so brief and sharp it made Wen Zhi shiver. She averted her gaze, silently grumbling.
After the afternoon’s fiasco, the producers had tightened the leash. They wouldn’t let the cast wander the set unsupervised again. The “necklace gate” scandal was still trending on Weibo; the only upside was the stream rating—viewers had nearly doubled.
They announced the evening’s theme and wheeled out the props. To match the deserted-island vibe, they hadn’t bothered with anything fancy: a plain green glass beer bottle would decide their fates.
“Nah, Truth or Dare is lame. Do something bigger!” the chat demanded.
“Calm down, this is a legit show.”
“Truth or Dare is peak shipping energy, though. Bring on the flirting and tug-of-war!”
“Yeah, extreme ambiguity = content.”
Wen Yin had little interest in games. She shrank into a corner, small and quiet.
“Look at her, so delicate,” some viewers cooed.
“Damn, makeup or not, she’s gorgeous.”
“Natural Wen Yin has a lazy charm I can’t resist.”
“Stop hyping her up—her look is nothing special.”
After the earlier storm, Wen Yin’s fans were on defense. Once, when Wen Yin was still under the radar, they swallowed insults silently. This time, Wen Zhi had gone too far; Wen Yin’s supporters hit back hard.
“We’re not thieves—we don’t fake anything,” one comment read. “Wen Yin doesn’t manufacture drama. To us, she’s the most beautiful.”
“You can stop now, Wen Zhi’s fanbase. Your idol’s reputation is tanking.”
“Hah, wonder why Wen Zhi’s fans are always so trash-talky—maybe the star herself isn’t so great.”
Outgunned, Wen Zhi’s supporters went quiet. The chat calmed.
“Is it me?” Wen Zhi covered her lips with a dainty hand, feigning coyness. One hand propped her chin as she glanced around at the three men, the smile on her face carefully placed.
“I’ll pick Truth,” she said.
Qian Shuzhi reached into the stack of prepared slips and read, hiding a wince. Before dinner she’d checked Weibo and found her name trending—she had been shredded mercilessly online. Even with all her resentment toward Wen Zhi, Qian didn’t dare stir the pot further.
The host’s question was delicate. “Zhi Zhi, is there anyone among the male guests who fits your ideal type?”
Wen Zhi pursed her lips and blinked rapidly, playing the part of a girl too bashful to meet the camera. When she caught the hopeful, eager looks from Xiao Mo and Jiang Shihuai, her smile widened, small and deliberate.
“Of course,” she said, barely above a whisper, but clear enough for the mics.
Both Xiao Mo and Jiang Shihuai lit up with bright, obvious hope. Wen Yin watched them and couldn’t help but smile inwardly. If memory served her right, in another life Wen Zhi had chosen Xiao Mo in the end, while keeping her options—Lu Ziqiu and Jiang Shihuai—ambiguous.
Lu Ziqiu sat stone-faced. The answer hadn’t brought him joy; instead, his mind drifted to Wen Yin. What, he wondered, did Wen Yin’s ideal look like?
This time he wasn’t seated next to Wen Zhi; Jiang Shihuai sat between them, shielding Wen Zhi from noticing the brief cloud that passed over Lu’s face.
“You’ve got talent,” the chat chimed. “A true Sea Queen confuses all her fish at once.”
“Wow, Wen Zhi really can juggle three suitors—same frame, even! Impressive.”
“She’s high-level. I’m shook.”
The bottle spun again, slow and deliberate, until its neck pointed at him.
“Next…” Wen Zhi watched the glass, then turned, voice soft and expectant. “Your turn, Ziqiu.”