The man strode up to Wen Yin with all the swagger of someone who expected admiring glances. He was already arranging his pose when his eyes met a pair of cold, indifferent ones. Shao Yinan stood there as if lounging on a winter throne, his gaze sweeping over the man with a single, casual, icelike glance.
The man's confidence faltered. The dim lighting had been doing him a favor; until now he hadn't had a clear look at Shao Yinan's face. The smile that had been flirting at his lips froze mid‑curve. “S‑Shao… Young Master Shao…” His voice trembled; he looked on the verge of dropping to his knees.
If he couldn't recognize Shao now, he might as well pack up and leave this scene altogether. The man and the woman beside him—weren't they the people Shao had defended at the door a little while ago? The thought made him stammer an awkward apology. “I… I didn't realize it was your people. My mistake. I'm sorry.”
Wen Zeru barely concealed a lift of an eyebrow. As if Shao were some great man of consequence—turns out he was just another hanger‑on the younger sister had dragged along.
Shao's smile was a half‑smirk, half‑snarl. “Since you know now, get lost.” His gaze then flicked to Wen Zhi. The thought that she could stoop to such cheap tricks made his ivory complexion look even colder. He knew the man for what he was—a pampered playboy, one of those rich boys who went from bed to bed and came away with nothing but a bad reputation. The image made his stomach churn.
Wen Zhi felt the weight of that look and a chill prickled down her spine.
Shao shifted closer to Wen Yin and bowed slightly, offering his large, warm hand. “Yin—would you honor me with a dance?”
His eyes held hers without blinking, dark and intoxicating. Wen Yin's smile lifted on its own; she nodded and placed her hand in his. It was impossible to say how many times that evening their hands had met. His solid palm closed over hers; he drew her to him and led her into the swirl of the dance floor.
Wen Zhi watched them, green with a sudden, sour jealousy. She was distracted, listless. Above her, Xiao Mo's deep voice cut through like a low chord. “Wen Zhi, something on your mind?”
She only snapped back to attention when she caught the tinge of displeasure in his tone. Xiao Mo mattered more in this moment — she plastered a sweet, innocent smile on her face. “No—it's nothing. It's just… sister found a good man, isn't she?”
Xiao Mo's eyes tracked to Wen Yin and Shao. There was a shadow there, something that made his jaw tighten; he couldn't tell if it was the sight of them dancing or the fact that another man was so near to Wen Yin. He couldn't sort the irritation out and, in the end, chose to stop thinking about it.
The band shifted gears. The next number was brighter, quicker, and suddenly the couples began to swap partners in a playful rush. Wen Zhi saw her chance. Tilting her chin, she pecked Xiao Mo with feigned reluctance. “Oh, they're swapping partners. I suppose I should be a little sad I have to let you go…”
Her words sounded coy, but her eyes kept drifting back to Wen Yin and Shao. At the same time, the dancers around them adjusted, subtly nudging Xiao Mo and Wen Yin away from Shao. It was deliberate choreography from the crowd, a small conspiracy that gave the arrangement she wanted.
Before Xiao Mo could reply, the woman he’d been dancing with vanished and when the new partner slid into place he found himself suddenly facing Wen Yin. The closeness of her profile struck him like a small shock. He had thought she was merely pretty; standing so near, she was something sharper, a beauty that seemed both fragile and hazardous—as if the rose were drenched in dew and lined with thorns.
He reached out almost instinctively, one arm coming around her waist. The touch of her, slight and cool, made heat creep up the back of his neck. He'd never stood this close to Wen Yin before. A naive, baffling bloom of color rose to his ears.
“Mr. Xiao, you shouldn't be distracted while you dance.” Wen Yin's voice was cool and familiar, like wind off an icemelt peak—pleasant only at a distance.
Xiao Mo forced a nonchalant cough. “I don't need reminders.”
His face, though, betrayed him; the faint flush that stained his cheeks was not his usual composure at all.
Wen Yin caught the subtle change and let a corner of her mouth curl with something between amusement and scorn. She didn't speak further. Her movements were precise and graceful—turn, step, pivot—each beat falling exactly where the music struck, utterly unlike the provincial, clumsy image Wen Zhi had joked about earlier. Guests who had thought she was no more than a country bumpkin watched, surprised, as one elegant figure after another realized there was more to her than they'd assumed.
For Wen Yin, every second of contact with Xiao Mo made her stomach lurch. The scent of him, the heat of his arm—she felt sick in a way that had nothing to do with formalities. Nearby, Shao was no calmer. Wen Zhi had spent the early minutes chirping at him like a sparrow, filling his ear with pointless chatter; it rattled his temper and frayed the evening's boredom into a small, sharp annoyance.
Luckily for everyone, the song halted at the next bar. Shao moved fast—he released Wen Zhi's hand, pivoted, and took Wen Yin by the arm, shepherding her out of the throng. The move was brisk, decisive. Heads turned; whispers rose like a breeze through dry leaves.
“Is she really the Wen family's eldest daughter?” people murmured. “Where did she learn to dance like that? She could be a professional.”
Tonight's party had rearranged impressions. Wen Yin's reputation—tarnished by Wen Zhi's careless talk—was being quietly rebuilt in a dozen watching minds. Wherever she had come from, she wasn't as unbecoming as the gossip had suggested.
Wen Zhi's gaze followed Shao's retreating figure with a black edge. Xiao Mo watched Wen Yin go, his feelings a messy tangle.
The event wound down. A handful of couples slipped out early; no one tried to keep them. Wen Zeru set his wine glass down with a small, controlled hardening of his features. Shao had taken his sister away—again.
There was a tightness in Wen Zeru's face that could have been amusement had it not been edged with concern. He made a mental note to give Shao a piece of his mind later.
Wen Zhi sidled over to their father and turned on the charm. “Daddy, why did sister end up with Shao Yinan?”
Mr. Wen's expression hardened. “You all were on the same variety show. Don't you know the connections between them?”
He sounded ponderous and a little awed—no one had imagined that the elder sister had more skill, more leverage, than they'd expected.
Wen Zhi puckered her lips and put on her best plaintive tone. “He kept his identity so well hidden. I thought he was just some ordinary little celebrity.”