Wen Yin gave a half-hearted nod, not quite following. A change in management was just that—a shuffle of positions—and had nothing to do with her.
Her phone buzzed. When she saw who had messaged her, her expression tightened in a way Shao Yinan noticed at once. He leaned over, catching sight of the WeChat thread. They exchanged a look; something unspoken passed between them, and both fell quiet. Neither seemed inclined to speak.
The message was simple, almost trivial, but it left Wen Yin with a small headache.
Mrs. Qi: Ah Yin, I recently bought several new qipaos in the new Chinese style and would love your opinion on the outfits.
Mrs. Qi: When are you free? Let’s have afternoon tea together.
Wen Yin frowned. Why would Mrs. Qi—an influential matron in one of the city’s top families—ask for her styling advice? A tiny, intrusive image popped into her head: a girl in a red dress, and that syrupy, childish voice calling, “Yinan gege.” The memory left a strange aftertaste.
Shao Yinan frowned too. He had spent years in the entertainment industry and had almost no dealings with the Qi family. The ease in Mrs. Qi’s tone—her warmth—didn’t make sense.
“If you don’t want to go,” he said, “just decline. Shaohua’s been busy lately anyway.”
His suggestion was a convenient, official-sounding excuse. With him around, Wen Yin had an easy out.
But at the same time something inside her nudged her in the opposite direction, irrational and persistent. She found herself wanting to see Mrs. Qi again.
“All right. I’ll go.”
She typed the reply and sent it quickly. Mrs. Qi answered almost immediately, and they settled on a time. Then Mrs. Qi added, almost as an afterthought, “We’re also hosting a jewelry exhibition.”
Wen Yin paused over the word jewelry. She clicked through the event announcement and felt a flicker of déjà vu, like a shadow passing through her mind. The more she read, the stranger the familiarity felt.
“Famous, collectible pieces,” Shao murmured, rubbing his chin. “Could be interesting.”
If Wen Yin was going, he didn’t object. When she looked at him, a question in her eyes—did he have an invitation too?—he held her gaze lazily, propping his chin on his hand in that infuriating, languid way of his. His dark eyes, half-lidded, had always been disarmingly charismatic. The look carried a faint, teasing electricity.
“If you want to go, I suppose I’ll suffer through it and accompany my little girlfriend,” he drawled, stretching the last words, the voice low and easy.
Heat rose to Wen Yin’s cheeks. She ducked her head into her bowl, pretending to be absorbed in her food to hide the blush.
The Qi estate’s scale took her breath away the moment she stepped over its threshold. Everything about the place was luxurious to the point of excess—exactly the sort of opulence you expected from one of the city’s first families, but more polished, more precise than she’d imagined.
Mrs. Qi, directing the staff in the courtyard, noticed her immediately. Today she wore an immaculate composure and a soft smile, though Wen Yin could detect something like effort behind it. Her ensemble—elegant, restrained—framed her like some practiced portrait.
“Mrs. Qi,” Wen Yin greeted politely.
Mrs. Qi’s smile widened, faintly affectionate. She reached for Wen Yin in a quick, maternal motion. Wen Yin flinched inwardly—she hated being touched by strangers—but she did not pull away. Mrs. Qi must have felt the stiffness, because the smile flickered into something sharper, a hint of bitterness that she quickly smoothed over.
“These are the new pieces for the season,” Mrs. Qi said as she guided her in. In the large drawing room, qipaos were displayed like art—each one paired with shoes and handbags, primed to be judged. A servant poured tea; the scent rose warm and green.
“This is fresh,” Mrs. Qi said, handing Wen Yin a cup. “Taste it. I just brewed it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Qi.” Wen Yin sipped, polite and composed. She hadn’t forgotten why she was there, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries she began to assess fabric and cut with an attentive designer’s eye.
“Mom, do you have guests?” a voice called from above. Wen Yin looked up.
Qi Siran descended the stairs, gliding in a white dress that made her look like a fragile doll. Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders; there was a certain aristocratic hauteur about her posture. Yet when she reached the landing, Mrs. Qi’s voice softened into a reproach that carried tenderness beneath it.
“Weren’t you supposed to rest in your room?” Mrs. Qi asked lightly. “You still haven’t finished your nap; why come down?”
Qi Siran lowered her eyes almost shyly. Her long lashes cast a shadow over a pale, thin face. Wen Yin noticed, for the first time, how sickly the girl looked—no rouge on her lips, the skin pallid and delicate as porcelain.
“We worry about her health, you know that,” Mrs. Qi said, almost explaining to Wen Yin why she was fussing. “She’s always been delicate.”
They handed a shawl to Qi Siran. Mrs. Qi, as if to spare Wen Yin any curiosity, gave a little introduction. “This is Wen Yin—designer at Shaohua. Wen Yin, this is my daughter, Qi Siran.”
Wen Yin inclined her head. Family matters were private; she didn’t press.
Before she could leave the room to continue her notes, Qi Siran’s voice cut through—small but clear, audible to everyone.
“I know you. You’re Yinan gege’s girlfriend.”
There was an odd, deliberate tilt to her mouth. Despite the depth behind the words, her eyes were wide and innocent, as unspoiled as a child’s. She looked at Wen Yin with an expression that was both knowing and naïvely pure, like someone who had been given a secret and found it delicious.
Wen Yin felt the room tilt for a second. The name—Shao Yinan—sounded both intimate and public in Qi Siran’s mouth. She returned the gaze, betrayed by none of the questions spinning through her mind. The servants around them kept their distance, moving as though the air itself were to be treated carefully here.