Wen Yin froze the moment she saw Shen Ziying’s face.
She hadn’t expected to run into her again, not after the Shen family’s collapse. Shen Ziying was supposed to be gone from their world — the highborn heiress reduced to a rumor. Yet here she was, standing in a cheap black trench coat that looked like it had been bought from a street stall. Wen Yin could see the fabric puckered and worn; once, Shen Ziying would never have been caught dead in something like that. Now she kept it on like a second skin.
“You’re so vicious, Wen Yin! I’m in this state because of you!” Shen Ziying spat, voice sharp. “You and Shao Yinan schemed against my family — don’t you think I don’t know?”
Shao Yinan’s expression hardened into a wire of cold. There was anger in him now, a deadly edge; anyone who threatened Wen Yin would find no softness from him.
Shen Ziying forced herself up from the ground. She’d always liked cleanliness, order, and now she didn’t care that dirt smeared her clothes. She sounded like a woman unmoored, voice raw with grievance. “Who else would have motive but Wen Yin? She’s the only one who hates us enough.”
Wen Yin and Shao exchanged a look: another unreasonable woman, another scene to defuse.
Shao’s stare drifted over Shen Ziying like winter air. He was quietly dangerous. Shen Ziying’s bravado faltered; the pressure in the air made her calves tremble. She couldn’t even form words properly.
“Saying it plainly,” Shao said low and cold, “your family’s problems came from internal financial holes — someone found them. We had no interest in the Shen family. Whoever pulled the strings is not us.”
Shen Ziying’s face hardened with disbelief, but Shao didn’t bother to argue further. Some people were beyond reason. For them, containment was more practical than explanation.
“You’re lying! Who else would single me out?” Shen Ziying shrieked, the sound thin and pitiful. Shao cut her off.
“Listen closely, and then leave,” he said. His voice had gone icy — he still remembered how close she’d come to hurting Wen Yin a moment ago. The thought tightened him.
“You’re a jinx, Wen Yin!” Shen Ziying turned on Wen, now that Shao offered no ammunition. “You killed your grandmother and now you’ve cursed your sister. You’re so cruel!”
At her words, two guards who’d been nearby stepped forward. They each grabbed an arm and hauled Shen Ziying up; she sagged between them, a wet dog waiting to be dragged away. But as they did, Wen Yin’s complexion went ashen, a memory flickering behind her eyes.
Shao’s jaw tightened. He signaled the guards to stop, then took one step forward. Shen Ziying, disoriented and half-sobering from the blow Shao had landed earlier, nearly collapsed in their hold. Wen Yin stood there, composed and cool, like frost on marble. The sight of her made Shen Ziying’s teeth ache with envy.
Why, she thought, did Wen Yin get to be so calm, so untouched? They had trodden on her, humiliated her — how could this be fair?
Wen Yin looked down at her with a cold precision that cut deeper than any knife. Without hesitation she raised her hand.
The slap landed without mercy.
“Shen Ziying,” Wen Yin said, unflinching. “You don’t get to talk about my grandmother.”
She didn’t just name the wound — she pressed on it. “You and your sister got what you brought on yourselves. Do you remember slapping me in the high school bathroom? Did you ever imagine I’d return the favor?”
Her words were needle-sharp, each syllable sinking into Shen Ziying’s chest like ice. The restraint that had held Shen Ziying taut for days snapped. She screamed, a sound full of pain and accusation.
“It’s all your fault! It’s all because of you that we’re ruined! Wen Yin, I hope you die!” she howled, and in her frenzy she grew frighteningly strong. The two guards struggled to hold her.
Wen Yin’s lips curved, a small, merciless smile. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “I plan on living. I want to watch you go to hell.”
The sentence hit Shen Ziying harder than the slap. Her eyes, bloodshot and frantic, were pulled away as the guards led her off.
Shao shot a wary glance toward Xiao Mo, who had appeared as if from nowhere. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
Wen Yin hooked her little finger around Xiao Mo’s as if to claim him, a tiny, affectionate gesture meant to needle Shao — and she knew it would. Shao’s face flickered with an emotion Wen Yin had learned to read: jealousy.
Xiao Mo looked awkward, caught off guard by the same coincidence that had brought him to the building. “I was just passing by,” he offered, voice thin — a flimsy excuse, but it was all he had.
Shao’s smile was laced with contempt. He didn’t like this man; he never had. “Funny,” he said. “Your office is miles away. Yet you happen to ‘pass by’ here?”
Xiao Mo’s eyes slid to Wen Yin, pleading silently for understanding. But Wen Yin’s gaze rose naturally to Shao — all her attention, all her warmth, directed at the man whose shadow she still walked beside.
“Shao, can we talk alone?” he asked, trying to shift the confrontation.
Shao’s face darkened. “Didn’t you leave an impression last time you met? Or do you want to make sure this one sticks?”
Wen Yin’s tone was dismissive, bordering on contempt. “I’m not going back to dig up an ex.” Her words were flat, as if stating an unarguable fact.
Shao’s voice dropped, softer and dangerous in a way meant only for her. “The way I treated Wen Zhi... I did it because she saved my life.”
Those words made Wen Yin stop. “Saved your life?” she repeated, tasting them like something foreign. Wen Zhi — her sister — had been a savior to Xiao Mo? The thought looped in her head, opening a new crack in the rubble of the afternoon.