The moment that news push hit their feeds, gossip-hungry netizens froze.
What is going on?
Wen Zhi—what does she have to do with Shaohua?
The comments section exploded.
These past few days the entertainment world’s been nothing but fireworks.
Can anyone from the inside explain how Wen Zhi managed to piss off Shaohua?
I heard she wrecked Shaohua’s new piece. My friend is an assistant to Shaohua’s designer—this allegedly messed up their launch!
Shaohua’s official account soon posted a statement, laying out the incident in cold, corporate terms: Wen Zhi, driven by selfish motives, had sneaked into Shaohua’s show and sabotaged designer Jinjin’s work, causing direct harm to the brand.
Jinjin?
So she wrecked Wen Yin’s collection?
Why is Wen Zhi popping up everywhere? I thought Wen Yin wouldn’t even bother competing with her.
I don’t get it, but I’m shook.
The chatter on Weibo kept smoldering.
In the holding room at the police station, Wen Zhi’s face had gone ashen. She hadn’t expected Xiao Mo to fail at handling things. What a useless man. Red hatred burned in her eyes, but fear sat next to it—raw, cold fear. For the next two or three years, she was likely to spend behind bars.
Mr. Wen woke up with a patch of white hair overnight. He had always known the Wen family couldn’t go toe-to-toe with the Shao family, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Wen Ze, however, showed no expression. From the moment he learned his sister had been bullying Wen Yin at school, she had ceased to be his sister. Everything moved along, inexorable.
After several successful showcases, Wen Yin’s name had finally broken through in the design world. Mention Jinjin now and every fashion insider knew the rising star at the center of the buzz. Her recent Lu embroidery had single-handedly breathed new life into an old craft, giving traditional artisans a moment to catch their breath.
Wen Yin’s name trended like a torch; the flame burned right through Xiao Mo’s chest. In a single instant his gaze turned hard and deep. At last he understood why Jiang Shihuai—and others—felt so drawn to her. Wen Yin did nothing more than stand, and she was already a thing of beauty that quickened the pulse.
Xiao Mo’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. He pressed his lips together.
After work that day, Wen Yin waited in the underground parking garage for Shao Yinan’s car. Footsteps echoed behind her—deliberate, the kind that meant someone had chosen to follow. She lowered her eyes without looking back. Who could it be? Wen Zhi was already in custody. Who else would play such petty games?
The footsteps shifted onto another lane, as if the follower had realized she’d noticed. Beneath a black baseball cap, a pair of eyes glittered with hatred—predatory, ready to spring. The figure hunched in the shadows like a coiled leopard.
Wen Yin kept her face neutral and glanced at her phone again, but her peripheral vision kept sweeping the dim garage. Footsteps crept closer.
She was about to speak when suddenly a hand yanked her aside. “Watch out!”
The cold seizing her wrist told her immediately this wasn’t someone she knew. A wave of disgust rose in her—she hated the touch of strange men. Being with Shao Yinan had long since dulled that reflex; the sudden return of it made her stomach flip.
Wen Yin looked up and saw the hat‑clad attacker rush forward. “I want you dead!” a savage voice hissed from behind him.
She dodged just in time, the memory of the last life flashing behind her eyes—the same all‑black outfit, the same cap, the same viciousness. The man’s mask came off and his face contorted as he lunged and muttered incoherently.
“You think you can compete with Zhi‑Zhi?”
“What do you think you are?!”
Wen Yin’s glance flicked to Xiao Mo, who had instinctively reached for her. His expression was cold, controlled. The attacker regained his feet and lunged again. Xiao Mo’s hand shot out to pull Wen Yin away—but it was too late.
She was yanked into a warm, familiar embrace instead. Shao Yinan had arrived. His face darkened with sudden violence; in one smooth, fierce motion he spun and delivered a clean, crushing kick that knocked the man flat.
Xiao Mo’s reaching hand fell back awkwardly. He noticed, with a prickle of shame, the red crescents his grip had left on Wen Yin’s wrist—his strength had left a mark. Shao Yinan, having dealt with the immediate threat, turned to Wen Yin with tension threading his normally laced‑low voice. “Are you okay?”
Wen Yin blinked and shook her head once, then glanced at her wrist. Shao reached into his coat for a disinfectant wipe; the cool dampness on her skin brought her back. He cleaned the faint abrasions where Xiao Mo’s fingers had gripped her. Something inside Wen Yin softened—here, with Shao, she could always be cared for.
“I’m fine,” she said quietly. “Who is he?”
The man on the floor groaned, winded and stumbling. Shao’s kick had not been light. Mask and cap still hid most of his face; only his eyes showed, bright with hatred. He coughed, tried to form words, then—breathing raggedly—tore off the mask in a frustrated, desperate movement.
The face beneath was oddly familiar and yet foreign all at once. For a moment the world tilted.
“It’s you?” he gasped.