Wen Yin looked up and, through the slit of her fox mask, bumped right into him. Mr. Shao’s hand stayed poised in that gentlemanly half-hold, the coat over his arm forming a small barrier that drew her in without ever becoming intimate. He’d sheltered her from the press of the crowd, not intruded.
“Mr. Shao.” The minty scent still lingered under her nose. A faint warmth rose to her cheeks, hidden neatly by the mask.
The live feed slowed as people realized what had happened; fans flooded the chat.
Someone shrieked, This is everything! Who is getting crushed by this historic scene—no spoilers, I won’t say!
Another chimed, Don’t ask—our “one and only crush” ship is satisfied!
Screenshots snapped. The embrace had atmosphere, people swooned.
One comment read, In a sea of faces I only see you—our OTP is rising in the ranks!
And someone else, a little salty, typed, Can Wen Yin’s fans stop riding this? Who are we even comparing? Lu Ziqiu? What league is Shao Yinan in, anyway?
Somebody bolded, If Shao Yinan really likes Wen Yin I’ll wash my hair standing on my head!
Wen Yin’s “thank you” came out smaller than she planned, and she forced her eyes elsewhere to cool the heat of her face. A low laugh reached her ear—Mr. Shao, always with that deep, lazy chuckle that tugged at something inside her chest.
“You’re welcome.”
By the time Lu Ziqiu hurried back, he caught Wen Yin stepping out of Mr. Shao’s arms. Anger slid across his face, thin and sudden. He shot her a look—exactly like a man who had just discovered his wife in the arms of another.
Too bad he was a bit shorter than Mr. Shao; the two of them standing there were a study in contrast. Shao Yinan needed do nothing but stand, and his presence already dwarfed Lu’s.
“Quite the mood, Mr. Shao,” Lu said, his voice a thread of sarcasm.
Shao lifted one lazy eyelid, regarded him briefly, and replied evenly, “Isn’t a night out worth enjoying?”
Lu’s barbed joke died unsaid. Unable to win the verbal spar, he turned the hostile stare on Wen Yin instead. Even as a petty maneuver, thinking she’d flirt with a man like Shao would sting. He gave her that resentful, housebound-wife look that made gooseflesh run down her arms. Wen Yin suspected Lu must be on some bad medication to look at her like that—and she had good reason to think so.
After the lantern festival’s peak had passed, the guests trickled back to the Heartbeat Villa for the next round of filming. The three of them—Lu, Shao, and Wen Yin—were among the first to return. With Lu’s constant meddling and snide remarks, Wen Yin felt cornered and opted out early, escaping to the backyard.
Lu spotted her heading for the swing and started to follow. When one of the cameramen made to trail her, Lu’s backcasted warning said it all: Don’t follow.
Wen Yin sat on the swing beneath the eaves and watched the remaining sky lanterns bob away, small lamps drifting into the night. Her thoughts replayed the embrace and the heat of her own face; she shook her head, trying to banish the image.
Lu reached her then, and for a moment Wen Yin thought he looked almost fond. He’d seen her roll her eyes earlier and apparently found it endearing, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Wen Yin.” He stopped in front of her, his gaze intense.
She had the urge to roll her eyes for real, but she kept calm and met his look.
“I know about what happened today.” Lu cleared his throat. His voice hit a different register—awkward, like someone dusting off old grievances. Wen Yin’s eyes shimmered in the lantern light and, with a single look, stole his breath for a beat. He admitted to himself then that her face had become unnervingly beautiful—more than he remembered.
She said nothing, prompting him to continue.
“I didn’t expect someone would try to drag you through the mud over that.” He averted his eyes at that, like the subject still made him uncomfortable. Their breakup had been rough; he’d said things he regretted. Bringing it up now felt clumsy.
When Wen Yin remained silent, Lu’s voice softened. “I thought you kept those gifts I gave you.”
There was a faint, almost derisive smile at the corners of her mouth. Since her rebirth, she’d thrown away anything connected to Xiao Mo, Lu, or the tangled past. She’d kept nothing—only an old photo or two, perhaps, but not the sentimental tokens Lu imagined.
“No,” she said. “Just pictures.”
Lu stared at her. “I believe you, Yin.”
“Maybe I misunderstood you before.” Saying that seemed to flip a switch in him; his eyes lit up and love showed through, frank and unguarded. For a moment he looked like the man who once sheltered another woman—Wen Zhi—with a tenderness Wen Yin had never received.
Wen Yin’s smile twitched. There was nothing for her in Lu’s sudden tenderness—it only exposed what she’d already long suspected about Wen Zhi. The sister’s sweetness had always been a little too well staged.
“So you thought I sold the gifts?” Wen Yin arched a brow, catching the implication behind his cheerful confession.
She’d never understood in her past life why Xiao Mo, Jiang Shihuai, and Lu had treated her with such coldness, while fawning over Wen Zhi. Only now did the pieces begin to slot together: if Wen Zhi could use underhanded tricks like this on Wen Yin, the hostility of the past finally made sense.
Lu hesitated, then nodded as if remembering something Wen Zhi had told him. “I’ll explain everything to Zhi Zhi. You’re not that kind of person.”
Wen Yin almost laughed at how transparently he’d revealed himself. Two sentences and the act was over; he’d already given her the clue she needed.
“No need,” she said evenly. Her voice was cool and clear, a distance to it that made Lu pause.
“The truth—Wen Zhi knows it better than you do. Those gifts were sold by Qin Xixi.”
Lu froze. Qin Xixi—Wen Yin’s college roommate—was a name that narrowed everything into sharp focus. He stood there, stunned, as though the world had shifted under his feet.
At that moment Wen Zhi swept into the room like a practiced sunbeam, instantly searching the living room for Lu. Spotting him on the sofa, she sang, “Zi Qiu~”
Lu looked up. The softness in his eyes turned to an unfamiliar chill, as if he were looking at a stranger.