The guests all turned their heads at once, staring at the thick stack of invitation cards in Wen Yin’s hand. It was an absurd sight—so many envelopes piled together that even the production staff’s smiles slipped into awkwardness. No dating show had ever seen anything like it.
On the livestream, the comment feed had already exploded into a chorus of amusement and disbelief.
“I can’t believe it—Wen Yin’s the one who got all the invitations!”
“This actually proves she’s got real appeal.”
“Her face is priceless; I feel embarrassed for her.”
“Haha, the shade is obvious.”
“Damn, I wish I could be Wen Yin for one night and get multiple confessions.”
“Not surprising. After the last few episodes, Lu Ziqiu and Jiang Shihuai drifted away from Wen Zhi and circled Wen Yin. They would definitely confess. And Shao Yinan—no question about him.”
“Wait—why does the number of invites look off…?”
A few sharp-eyed viewers started scrubbing through the broadcast footage and counted. The revelation spread like wildfire.
“Oh my god—Wen Yin is holding four invitation cards.”
Wen Zhi hadn't noticed that small but telling detail. Instead, she scoffed through her nose.
“Fine,” she said, every syllable laced with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Some people just like picking up what I throw away. I’m not one to fight over scraps—I’m doing them a favor.”
Her look slid over to Wen Yin, half-smile, full venom. “But some people should stop thinking so highly of themselves.”
Before Wen Yin could reply, Li Xiangwei cut in on her behalf. Calm until now, Xiangwei’s voice was cool and clinical.
“Wen Zhi, why stoop to that? You’re sounding like somebody who’s lost her temper and her tongue.”
Xiangwei had always suspected Wen Zhi’s underhandedness. Over the weeks, Wen Zhi had masked her barbs in polite smiles and tiny sabotages. Now, in front of the whole audience, she’d dropped the mask and turned her poison loud and obvious.
“I can’t tell whether you don’t want them, or they don’t want you,” Xiangwei added, arching a brow. Her words landed like knives—precise and unyielding.
The remark hit Wen Zhi’s softest point. She bristled, teeth bared, but before she could retort, Wen Yin looked at her. The look was ice—deep and still, like a mountain capped with snow. It carried a steel edge that made Wen Zhi’s tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.
Wen Zhi took a step back; she was visibly unnerved. Wen Yin let out a small, cold laugh.
“Ms. Wen Zhi, you flatter me,” Wen Yin said, lips barely parting. “I’ve never thought to rummage through a dump for a man. Nor would I want one that someone else had already cast aside.”
Her voice was even, but the words cut clear.
“There’s an old saying—if a man won’t respect himself, he’s no better than a rotten head of cabbage.”
She let the image hang in the air, then fixed Wen Zhi with a slow, steady gaze.
“And a first-rate rotten cabbage, naturally, belongs with someone… of your caliber.”
Wen Yin had no patience for Wen Zhi’s theatrics. She’d been that patient person once—endless compromises, endless second-guessing. She wasn’t going back.
The chat loved it.
“Watching Wen Yin clap back is oddly satisfying.”
“Wen Zhi’s jealousy is radiating through the screen.”
“The sourness is practically smellable.”
“Haha—who’s broken their guard? I won’t say.”
“I can’t believe she’d be so passive-aggressive on live TV.”
Wen Zhi’s face went flushed. Wen Yin’s accusation stung because it landed exactly where it mattered.
“You—who are you calling rotten cabbage?” Wen Zhi snapped.
Wen Yin’s eyelids lifted slightly. She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that makes people colder.
“If you’re the one getting angry, then maybe I’m talking about you.” She drew the words out. “If you want invitations, then win them honestly. Don’t use cheap tricks to make someone else’s courage your own.”
Wen Zhi’s composure cracked. She stumbled back two steps and shook her head so hard her hair trembled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she cried, eyes brimming. “Even if you had a problem with my earlier comment, you don’t have to target me like this!” She adopted the practiced look of wounded innocence—tears, trembling voice—the whole performance.
If there hadn’t been cameras, Wen Yin might have applauded that acting. It was textbook melodrama.
“Don’t conflate snark with blunt honesty,” Wen Yin said without mercy. “You can’t claim to ‘just be direct’ while dripping poison at someone else. Who are you to talk about others’ faces of dignity?”
Their exchange crackled like electricity. Everyone around them fell silent—nobody wanted to get caught in the crossfire. It was obvious to anyone watching that Wen Yin had scored the upper hand; Wen Zhi was collapsing under the weight of exposure.
The hot streak in the chat didn’t cool off. Producers, eager to keep the moment from derailing the show but conscious of the spike in online attention, stepped in. They guided Wen Yin away and ushered her toward the date location.
When she got out of the car, a long path spread before her, its surface rimmed with pale stones. At the far end, someone stood with their back to her, still as a painting against the evening light.