When those words landed, a flicker of surprise crossed Jiang Shihuai’s face. “The woman beside her is one of the hottest male celebrities right now. Of course she looks familiar,” he said.
He glanced toward Shao Yinan—whose gaze had been lingering on Wen Yin—and involuntarily his expression hardened. Seeing the way the man at his side kept staring, he cut in, “Stop staring.”
“Mom.” Mrs. Jiang’s eyes finally returned to him, but there was something else in her tone now, something meaningful.
“Perhaps I’ve seen him somewhere else before,” she said.
Jiang Shihuai, however, had already set his mind on Wen Yin and didn’t register his mother’s aside. Mrs. Jiang noticed the way he was watching the girl and let out a small laugh. “You haven’t seen the Wen girl for so many years—why not go say hello? Catch up a little.”
It was an intentional prod. From the look in his son’s eyes she could tell Wen Yin still affected him.
Realizing his gaze had been too obvious—his own mother had caught it—Jiang Shihuai cleared his throat and withdrew his stare as casually as he could. “No need, I—”
Before he could finish, Mrs. Jiang had already started across the room toward Wen Yin.
“Wen family girl?” Shao Yinan had been called away on business; Jiûjiû was nowhere to be seen. Wen Yin sat alone in a corner of the sofa, quietly examining the promo images for the new collection. She didn’t notice the woman approaching until a kindly female voice spoke above her head.
Wen Yin raised her eyes politely. Behind the woman stood Jiang Shihuai, his face taut as he walked toward her.
“Excuse me, were you calling me?” she asked politely, standing out of respect for her elders, a faint question in her tone.
The woman’s smile was warm, a practiced charm. Wen Yin studied her—her posture, her clothes, the air of someone born to money. The face was familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place.
Wen Yin’s smile cooled slightly when she saw Jiang Shihuai following. “You look so different,” Mrs. Jiang said, still smiling. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman.”
“You and Shihuai used to play together when you were little—you even used to come to our place.” Mrs. Jiang’s voice softened as she took Wen Yin’s hand. “I’m Shihuai’s mother.”
Only then did Wen Yin remember—vaguely—that the Jiang family had once been their neighbors. When she was small, the two families had been close, until the J iangs moved away as their fortunes grew. These were the pieces she’d pieced together after she returned to the Wen household; the rest had been muddled by time and by the darker things that had happened later.
They had played a lot back then. For a while their relationship had been good—until the day Wen Yin discovered she had been treated as a stand‑in for Wen Zhi.
“Mrs. Jiang. Long time no see.” Wen Yin’s smile was polite but distant; a thin barrier held behind it.
The barrier hit Jiang Shihuai like a physical blow. He felt as if a stone had settled on his chest and he could not draw a full breath.
Mrs. Jiang, though, showed no awkwardness. She had no way of knowing the tangled history between the two of them. “Yes, it’s been years. You and Shihuai were inseparable when you were kids.”
Hearing that, Jiang Shihuai’s face betrayed nothing—no sign that the words mattered to him. It was as if she were talking about someone else.
“You’ve had a hard time these years, but I’m glad things turned out okay.” Mrs. Jiang patted Wen Yin’s hand, genuine warmth in her tone. She was delighted to see the once little neighbor grown into such a graceful young woman.
“I remember when you were always trailing behind our Shihuai, calling him ‘Little Pebble, Little Pebble’ non‑stop,” she added, laughing at the memory.
The nickname—familiar yet strange—made Wen Yin’s eyes blink. “Little Pebble?”
Before she could place it, Jiang Shihuai’s voice cut through, cool and sharp. “That wasn’t her. That was something Zhizhi used to call him.”
Mrs. Jiang was about to say more when Jiang Shihuai interrupted her save for a practical reminder. “Mom, weren’t you supposed to finalize the seasonal lineup? If we don’t go now everything will be reserved.”
He stepped between his mother and Wen Yin. Mrs. Jiang clapped her forehead, flustered. “Oh, I got carried away. Wen girl, you two talk a bit—I'll go on ahead.”
Wen Yin watched Mrs. Jiang’s retreating figure without offering Jiang Shihuai another glance, then turned to leave. Out of sight of anyone, she closed her fingers around the stem of her wineglass until the knuckles whitened. Confusion clouded her eyes.
“Little Pebble?” she murmured to herself. The name felt like an echo she should have remembered clearly.
She took a sip of red wine. The haze in her head cleared slightly.
Of course—she should have thought of this sooner. If he used to be “Little Pebble,” then why—why wasn’t he the same person as before?
Once Mrs. Jiang had gone, Jiang Shihuai stood where he was, staring after her as if in a trance. His mother’s sudden hand to his head snapped him back.
“You’re just standing there like an idiot. Where did Wen Yin go?” she scolded, rapping his skull lightly to shake him free of whatever fog had taken him.
He frowned and looked at her, helplessly. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt strangely—irresistibly—drawn to Wen Yin.
“I don’t know. She should be gone already.”
Mrs. Jiang grew anxious. “Why didn’t you talk to her? I didn’t even get her contact information!”
Jiang Shihuai pressed his lips together and said nothing. His mother’s mention of Wen Yin seemed to unsettle him.
She studied him, puzzled. “What’s wrong with you? Weren’t you and that girl close when you were little? Before you were five you were always together—how come now you act like you don’t know her?”
Mrs. Jiang frowned, frowning more at the thought of her son’s odd behavior. “Every time Wen girl left, you’d cry and beg them to let her stay. Don’t you remember?”
At that memory, something in Jiang Shihuai tightened. Then he spoke, almost to himself, the words small and incredulous: “The one I cried and begged to keep… wasn’t Zhizhi?”
Childhood memories were always fuzzy. Until now, Jiang had been piecing them together with the help of little things—names, the way people spoke. But as he tried to line the events up, the threads wouldn’t settle. Everything resisted fitting neatly.
Little Pebble—the girl who used to call him that—ought to have been Zhizhi. Not Wen Yin. The thought settled in him like a splinter: nothing matched the story he’d been certain of.