“Ahhhhh—who is that male guest? Can the production team hurry up already?!”
This time the director had sworn not to give away the men’s locations. Even when a few shots popped up, the camera never showed the male contestants’ faces fully—just silhouettes, hands, the sudden flash of a rose. The fear was that viewers would piece together who was where.
As a result, the chatrooms around the date-venues exploded. Viewers offered frantic guesses about which man might be proposing to which woman; every fan topic was suddenly ablaze.
Only Wen Zhi’s fans were awkwardly quiet, unable to reconcile what they’d once said about her with what was unfolding. They had been the first to put her on a pedestal—calling her understanding, charming with the opposite sex, an innocent white flower. Now the reality felt like a slap to the face.
Never mind the way Wen Zhi had egged Qian Shuzhi into framing Wen Yin; even just tracking her supposed popularity with men since the show began was enough to make the earlier praise look ridiculous. Once there had been a whole swarm around Wen Zhi—Xiao Mo, Jiang Shihuai, Lu Ziqiu—but now only Xiao Mo remained. Keen-eyed viewers had even dug that up online.
Across the last two episodes, Xiao Mo’s attitude toward Wen Yin had visibly grown complicated. He stared at her sometimes with a look that went on too long—awkward, off-kilter. Only a fool wouldn’t notice the shift. As Wen Zhi’s fans ramped up their online theater, her general reputation started to crater. The fandom's frantic, often nonsensical remarks had cost her a lot of neutral support; many had already turned from casual followers to vocal critics. Wen Zhi could have guided her fans, but she handed control over to her team—and the team did little. The “blind fan” label stuck.
In the streams, people had grown used to ignoring Wen Zhi’s crazier posts and focused on the real question: who was holding the rose behind that half-obscured light?
A bright, airy room had been dressed like a princess’s boudoir—every hue leaning toward pink. In the center, a girl in a red dress sat at a table, the color making her stand out like a splinter of vermilion. Even so, there was something unwell about her—her lips pale, only a touch of lipstick bringing them back to life; her skin pinched almost translucent, veins visible beneath the surface. Her makeup had been artfully done, but her eyes were hollow, distant. She gave off an air that discouraged closeness.
Her face wore a serious, almost severe expression. She cleared her throat occasionally, but her gaze never left the tablet before her. The screen showed the latest episode of Love, Take Heart—the live feed from the men’s venue. A rolling wall of comments partially blocked the silhouette of a man cloaked in shadow and holding a rose.
“Tch—” she clicked off the comments with a flick of impatience. Before she could catch the shot again, the camera cut to another man. Interest drained from her; she turned her eyes aside and murmured, soft and flat as if testing the name.
“Shao Yinan…”
Elsewhere—
An elegant, beautiful woman fussed with the jade pendant at her throat, eyes complicated as they watched a different feed. She had the female contestants’ stream up—Wen Yin’s. On screen, Wen Yin looked like she had stepped out of a painting. Her familiar doe-brown eyes lifted in a small, expressive way; her face was flushed with health. She was absorbed in the tablet on her lap, occasionally tracing lines with a pen as if sketching.
The thin light from the window sketched patterns across her face—a living, moving landscape that was arresting even when she sat utterly still. The woman at the computer pursed her lips, then scanned the chattering comments.
“Ahhh—her face could kill me!” one comment read. “I can’t believe she looks this good without makeup!” “Is Wen Yin drawing something?” “Can you tell us anything about the next collection?” “Found it! She’s just worked with Qili—her designs were in last week’s show!”
When the comment about Qili popped up, the chatroom exploded. Wen Yin had collaborated with Qili? That studio’s director was notorious for being picky; its design eye was famously ruthless. Wen Yin had worked there and—moreover—she’d just been hired as a designer at Shaohua.
The onlookers went quiet. Those who’d mocked Wen Yin as directionless had nothing to say. Her own fans were suddenly silent, too, stunned into disbelief. Who would’ve guessed she’d cross into fashion and emerge as a sought-after designer?
The older woman snatched up her phone and typed “Jinjin” into Weibo. She scrolled fast, eyes narrowing as more links confirmed what she’d seen.
The day slipped away like that. It wasn’t until a production assistant knocked that Wen Yin realized she’d been holed up in her room for hours. The five male guests hadn’t returned to the show’s house all day. She checked her watch by reflex.
“It’s only six o’clock,” she said, puzzled. Her brows knitted, that bright, clear gaze clouded with curiosity. Weren’t the guys supposed to confess at night? Had Xiang Wei’s insider tip been wrong?
She opened the door and peered out. A staffer smiled apologetically.
“No, Ms. Wen,” the assistant said. “The director wanted us to let you know to get ready. At six-thirty they’ll distribute the invitation letters in sequence.”
That explained it. Wen Yin thought a moment, then went to her wardrobe and began to choose an outfit.
Downstairs, she felt a cool look land on her like a physical thing—sharp, accusing. No need to look up to know whose glare it was.
Wen Zhi stood there, chest tight with resentment. Her face lit with an unreadable expression, but the message was clear: she was furious.
A message from Xiao Mo had just come through on someone’s phone—worded bluntly, as only gossip could be. Shaohua had refused her.