Assistant Li led Wen Yin to retrieve the gown that had long been prepared for her, and a makeup artist tugged her into the chair for a quick touch-up. The moment the artist saw Wen Yin she wouldn't stop talking—overflowing praise like a practiced river.
"Miss Wen, your skin is impeccable. I've been a makeup artist for years, but I've never seen an entertainment star with a base like yours."
Wen Yin smiled politely and said nothing more. A sliver of doubt still lived beneath her calm surface.
When she didn't smile, Wen Yin carried an aloof chill. The upward sweep of her eyes lost all flirtatiousness and instead sharpened into something edged and unapproachable, as if a warning hovered around her. The makeup artist, sensing that change, fell silent and focused on her work.
When the full face was finished it was impossible to deny—the right face makes any makeup sing. Today Wen Yin wore a pale blue mermaid gown, and the artist braided hints of blue into her look. Her winged liner held a tiny thread of azure; she looked, suddenly and utterly, like a mermaid who'd slipped ashore and refused to be caught.
She was breathtaking.
By the time Assistant Li escorted her into the ballroom, Wen Yin's face betrayed no ripple of feeling. If questions churned beneath, she hid them well.
As she crossed the threshold, the crowd around the entrance froze for a beat. Voices dropped; heads tilted up to look. Wen Yin casually scanned the faces and, without warning, met a pair of eyes full of venom and envy.
Those eyes burned like coals, wanting to scorch every inch of her away. Their owner was exquisitely made up, wearing this season’s tweed set with the air of a swan princess—an image of nobility looking down her nose at Wen Yin.
Wen Zhi felt the breath catch in her chest. She hated it—this provincial fool was clearly showing up on purpose, trying to steal the brother’s attention. The thought of Jiǎng Shíhuái, Lù Ziqiū, and Xiāo Mò possibly being present made Wen Zhi bite her lip with even more fury.
Wen Zhi's eyes flashed at Wen Yin once, hard and accusing, then she withdrew them.
Wen Yin's arrival turned the room into a whispering hive. These gatherings were common in high society, but usually Wen Yin was nowhere to be seen. More often the second Miss Wen—Wen Zhi—showed up at every function. Tonight was supposed to mark the return of the Wen family's eldest son, Wen Zeru; Wen Yin’s sudden appearance left everyone puzzled and more than a little curious.
Shen Ziying, standing behind Wen Zhi, couldn't hide her disdain. "What a show," she said, loud enough for a few around them to hear. "A country bumpkin—what's she doing at a place like this? Does she think haute couture makes her a real phoenix?"
Her voice landed perfectly within earshot of both Wen Yin and several onlookers. The subtle shift in the room’s attention sharpened, as if people wanted to see how the family’s so-called true daughter would answer.
Wen Yin gave Shen Ziying a half-smile that barely registered. Before she could reply, a low, cool male voice cut through the chatter from behind her.
"Miss Shen, did you forget that your last design was, shall we say, a little... derivative? Now you step up to belittle her—"
Shao Yinan let the sarcasm trail like a blade. Although the corner of his mouth lifted, there was an unmistakable chill in his eyes. "Jealous, perhaps?"
His presence slammed into the room like a tide. Shen Ziying stiffened and shot back with forced bravado, voice too loud by intention. "Please! Jealous of someone from the countryside? Someone who's never even handled real luxury—her designs are nothing special!"
She raised her voice as if volume could mask insecurity, trying to make her disdain a shield.
Shao Yinan's laugh was quiet, cold. He swept a glance at her like a knife. "If the sky were to fall, Miss Shen would try to hold it up with her mouth."
Everyone caught the implication: he was calling her nothing more than hot air. Shen Ziying faltered, then stammered for a reply and finally retreated to Wen Zhi like a scolded child.
Shao Yinan tipped an eyebrow at her, then his expression softened the instant his eyes found Wen Yin. His smile was warm, his gaze like polished obsidian that somehow pulled, gentle yet impossible to look away from.
"Wen Yin," he said. "What a surprise."
On hearing his voice, Wen Yin's own face eased. "What a coincidence, Shao Yinan."
The exchange between them felt like a private tide, drawing notice. Eyes around the room shifted, calculating; everyone knew who Shao Yinan was—his name carried weight. And yet someone else had the audacity to speak up.
Realizing whom she was confronting, Shen Ziying pushed herself out from behind Wen Zhi and strutted forward with a superior smile. "I was wondering who it was. What is an actress doing at our party? Do you think you're some kind of performer now?"
A few people sucked in amused breaths; some fixed her with looks of barely concealed contempt. Shen Ziying pivoted and fixed her glare on Wen Yin. "Wen Jie—excuse me, Miss Wen. You’ve been in show business so long you probably don't understand that events like this require invitations, right?"
She rolled a hand as if offering a polite hint. "This isn't some second-rate industry soirée. You don't just waltz in."
Wen Yin's eyes darkened. A small, cool smile touched one corner of her mouth.
So Shen Ziying was looking for trouble.
Shao Yinan's face had gone icy, too. Anyone who couldn't sense the mockery in Shen Ziying's words after all his years in the industry would have to be deaf to nuance.
Shen Ziying, seeing them both fall silent, felt triumph flood her. Finally she'd spoken her piece and felt vindicated. She drew herself up, smug and radiant.
"And since when do members of the Wen family need invitations to their own family's banquet?" she finished, as if that settled everything.