“Snap—”
The lamp behind Wen Yin clicked on, the new light spilling across her face. Shao Yinan noticed, with a small, unreadable smile, that her cheeks had taken on an unexpected flush.
He watched her with that half-amused look he always wore, a trace of mischief curling the corner of his mouth. As if to prove a point in his own head, he moved a little closer.
His voice was naturally low, and in the hush of the room it seemed to deepen—there was even a rasp to it, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. It was infuriatingly sensual.
“Yin, why are you blushing?”
The question came soft and close to her ear. Wen froze for a heartbeat. When her gaze met Shao’s—those impossibly hooded, almond eyes—she belatedly remembered to withdraw.
She scrambled back, curling in on herself like a small animal, hunched up on the bed under the covers. The sight of her made a strangled laugh escape from his throat.
Wen could almost feel the vibration of his chest when he laughed, the slow, deliberate bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Her eyes fluttered. What on earth had she been thinking?
She didn’t dare touch her own cheeks. She was certain she looked ridiculous—red and embarrassed. Shao’s behavior had crossed the line into downright dangerous.
Before she could steady herself, he peeled back the blanket, exposing only her flushed face.
She looked like a tender rose, all warmth and vulnerability—cheeks as round and sweet as a peach. Shao leaned in, grin widening.
“Are you shy, Wen?”
His words pierced right through her. Her ears burned hotter; she curled tighter, as if that could hide her. “No… I’m just a little warm,” she said, the lie thinnier than tissue.
His smile widened. There was something cool against her heated cheek—an almost mocking contrast. Shao’s black eyes were fathomless, seductive. “You do look a little warm.”
He let the last syllable trail up, lazy and indulgent. The room felt suddenly smaller; Wen’s face flamed hotter. In a heartbeat she sat up and put some distance between them.
“I’m fine,” she lied again, though her usually cool features were veiled now with a watery light. In the dim lamp glow her lashes cast soft shadows; the faint lift at the corners of her eyes was almost, she realized with an inward jolt, beguiling.
Shao’s gaze shifted away, off-balance, strangely awkward. He straightened, the smile gone from his thin lips. “It’s not even midnight. Get some rest.”
Wen thought of tomorrow’s taping of Heartbeat, Lovers and how exhausted she’d looked at the product launch tonight. At the memory her temple throbbed.
“All right… good night.” She burrowed under the covers, voice muffled, only her eyes peeking out at him.
For a moment the only sound was his quiet laugh. Then the bedroom door shut.
—
The next morning Wen didn’t wake until nearly nine, the sun prying through the curtains and warming her face. For a second she lay still, the unfamiliar bedding reminding her where she was.
Shao’s house.
She padded downstairs to find him already at the table, a cup of warm milk set out. He smiled that easy, wicked smile again. “Breakfast.”
Wen nodded, washed her face, and joined him. They talked briefly about going to her place to collect the suitcase for the recording—small, practical things. When they stepped outside together and Shao opened the car door for her, the camera-trained part of her noticed something off immediately: an uneasy feeling, like being watched.
Shao closed the door and, in the blink of an eye, his expression sharpened. He’d spotted the photographers.
Their eyes were ruthless; two men with cameras huddled near a hedge, whispering and grinning. “Bro, this is the mother lode,” one breathed. “Shao Yinan and Wen Yin—this will sell like crazy.”
The other, a pocked-faced man with a grotesque smile, added, “Watch and see. If Shao’s desperate, maybe he’ll buy the photos.” He fawned, “You’re the pro, man.”
They hadn’t noticed Shao approach. He was masked, but that didn’t hide his presence; by the time they looked up his steps were already close enough to make them flinch.
“Shao… Shao Yinan?!” Their screams were clumsy and high, like people caught red-handed.
The amusement vanished from Shao’s face. His eyes went hard, measuring. “You’re photographing me?”
The question was lazy, but it landed cold. Hands trembling, they handed him the camera. The screen showed exactly what they’d bragged about: him and Wen stepping out together, a couple of frames of both of them heading toward the same car. It was scandal-grade material.
Shao scanned the shots, then—unexpectedly—something like a smile returned. “Nice work,” he said lightly, and the two men exhaled as if they’d been forgiven.
Then a second figure, smart in a suit, materialized at Shao’s shoulder. The man’s voice was an icicle. “Handle it.”
Shao’s order was simple and absolute. The photographers’ relief crumpled into panic. Their faces fell; they knew exactly what “handle it” implied.
Back in the car, Shao noticed Wen staring off, faraway and pale. He followed her gaze and saw what she saw—
Qili Culture — Resignation Letter.
The headline reared up, black and brazen, like a slap.