Wen Yin stepped out of the car. With a single look—cool, precise—she glanced at the maid who had been smirking a moment before. That one look was enough to prick the maid’s skin; the woman turned away, hurried down the drive without daring to meet her eyes.
The feeling that the true eldest Miss Wen had changed—subtly, dangerously—settled in the maid’s chest as she left.
Wen Yin still wore the gown from the show. When she entered the living room, only her father sat in the middle of the sofa. He didn’t even lift his head when the door opened; his voice came out flat.
“You’re home?”
She walked to his side and nodded. “Dad—when will Sister be back?”
Only when Wen Zhi’s flippant, girlish voice floated down from the stairwell did his expression thaw in a way that softened the lines around his eyes.
Wen Zhi arrived as if she had never left the house: she’d already changed out of the show dress, eye masks still on under her eyes. Unlike Wen Yin—who’d been rushed home straight after the runway—Wen Zhi made no effort to hide the swelling by her cheek; she displayed it with practiced innocence. Seeing Wen Yin downstairs, a small, shameless delight crossed her face.
Jiang Shihuai couldn’t control Wen Yin, Wen Zhi thought. But she had Dad.
Wen Yin lifted her lashes and watched everything—every tilt of Wen Zhi’s head, every casual gesture—without flinching. Her expression remained unreadable.
“Sister’s back, huh.” Wen Zhi floated down the stairs with a syrupy smile, the same fake sweetness she’d worn the last life—like a wolf in a lamb’s pelt.
Wen Yin simply nodded. Long, elegant fingers tapped the fabric of her skirt with a faint impatience.
At last Wen Father got to the point, jabbing a finger at Wen Zhi. “Zhi Zhi—who did this to your face?”
“It was her.” Wen Yin’s answer came clean, straightforward.
The slap came as soon as the word left her mouth.
Wen Yin had been ready; she turned her head just enough. The hand missed where it should have struck by inches, leaving only a sting and a few scattered strands of hair falling over her ear. She toppled back onto the sofa, a little disheveled, a touch vulnerable.
“Dad! What are you doing?!” Wen Zhi shrieked outrage that could have been genuine if not for its practiced edges. She grabbed at their father’s sleeve with a show of concern.
“Family matters are handled behind closed doors,” Wen Zhi said loudly. “Making a scene like that—what would people think of the Wen family?”
That line—about the Wen family’s honor—was a lever Wen Zhi always knew how to pull. Wen Yin recognized immediately what had been poured into her father’s ear, how her sister had played his pride like an instrument.
Unhurried, Wen Yin rose from the sofa. The faint handprint on her cheek and the few loose hairs at her temple made her look more fragile than she felt. The vulnerability only sharpened her edges.
Wen Zhi’s smile thinned with annoyance—and a flash of envy. Wen Yin had always been considered merely a pretty face, but people had to admit she wore it well.
Wen Yin took out her phone and opened a video, placing it where their father could see. Each word she spoke hit him with calculated calm.
“If Father believes that hurting people and stealing another’s work are ‘family matters,’ then please—help me resolve it.”
Wen Father watched the screen. The footage showed Wen Zhi and Shen Ziying deliberately shoving Qiu Qing down the stairs. It showed Shen Ziying rifling through sketches and tucking a folder away. It showed the design boards Wen Yin had thought were only hers—taken.
Wen Zhi’s color drained. She sank onto the couch and lowered her head, eyes darting to hide panic.
“How can Father take only Zhi Zhi’s word and blame me?” Wen Yin’s lids drooped; her voice grew small and wounded, the picture of bruised innocence. The performance was flawless—every shade of hurt measured to persuade.
Wen Father’s face went iron-gray. He had always told himself Wen Zhi was like his own daughter—his tone betrayed disbelief. “I treated Zhi Zhi like a sister. I couldn’t imagine—my sister would bring the Wen name shame.” That last admission came out like an excuse: I slapped you because I loved her.
Wen Yin seized on the one phrase that always mattered most to him—“the Wen family’s reputation.” She placed it back in his hands like cold truth.
As she’d predicted, the words landed. Wen Father shot Wen Zhi a dark look and then softened, turning his irritation toward Wen Yin.
“I was mistaken. I’ll discipline Zhi Zhi properly. You shouldn’t hold it to heart, as her elder sister.”
Those comforting sentences were the very thing Wen Zhi needed. Wen Yin listened, collected, then found an excuse to leave.
Outside the Wen villa, Wen Yin allowed a cold smile to curl the corner of her mouth. If she hadn’t brought the video, half her face might have been gone tonight. His love hadn’t changed at all—when Wen Yin erred, she took a real slap; when Wen Zhi erred, she received a lecture and paternal forgiveness.
She wrapped an ice pack around her jaw and discovered, half asleep, that she had already been dragged into another storm online. Early-morning buzzifiers on her phone were relentless: ten, twenty notifications all about a single trending topic.
#LeR’s newcomer “Jinjin” accused of plagiarism.
Her pulse steadied. This wasn’t just noise—she was the Jinjin everyone meant. At the show Qin had told the designers to fill in a name on their boards. Not wanting to expose herself, Wen Yin had written a throwaway pseudonym—“Jinjin.” It had been nothing more than that: a name.
She opened the trending thread. The comments had turned into a mob. A few mid-level designers had already taken to social media, furious and indignant, decrying the plagiarist. Strangers piled on.
“Jinjin—where have I heard that name before?”
“That deer-girl’s dress last night was by this newcomer? She has talent—how could she do this?”
“Plagiarists deserve nothing—BISS to thieves.”
“Why steal? Do they know the original designers? How dare they take someone else’s work.”
“What a waste of talent—if you don’t have integrity, don’t call yourself a designer.”
Wen Yin frowned and traced the lines of the accused designs in her memory. Those sketches were from her university days—how did they suddenly resurface? She followed a link embedded in the trending post and found the original account: Kiki Doesn’t Feel Like Drawing.
Kiki’s post was precise and damning. “I’ve thought about this a lot. A finished design is the product of someone’s hard work. But some people use other’s labor for their own gain. I and Jinjin were classmates at art school. This was years ago…”
Beneath the post were nine long comparison images—side-by-side shots of Wen Yin’s old student work and the pieces shown on the LeR runway. Every line, every silhouette aligned. It was a perfect, irrefutable match.
In an instant the story exploded. LeR’s carefully curated image, already under scrutiny for hosting a newcomer’s showcase and business deals, took a hard fall.
“LeR has always seemed respectable—please handle this properly.”
“Fire the plagiarist. Don’t let thieves thrive.”
“You copied well—remember to hide your mother.”
“Another copier. Ugh.”
“Jinjin, go away. Don’t soil the design world. So disgusting.”
Wen Yin watched the barrage of hatred without blinking as the numbers climbed by the hundreds with each refresh.
Qin’s message popped up then: “A-Yin, upper management decided—put the Shaohua collaboration on hold for now. Don’t participate.”
She stared at the screen, the chill from the ice pack pressing against her jaw. Someone had pulled the strings that turned a pseudonym into a public noose. And whoever had put her university work online had lit a fuse that might burn everything around her.