It had taken a lot of effort to get Shao Yinan to behave. The two of them had only just stepped out of the lounge when a figure appeared around the stairwell corner, coming straight toward them.
Shao Yinan’s gaze flickered the moment he saw the man. Without showing it, he tightened his grip on Wen Yin’s hand.
Noticing the change, Wen Yin looked up at the approaching man.
The stranger’s features bore a strong resemblance to Shao Yinan—maybe seventy or eighty percent alike—but his whole bearing was steadier, sterner. His eyes swept over them like a compressing weight. There was a quiet, long-practiced authority about him, the kind that came from living at the top.
Shao Yinan let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and said, “Big brother.”
Shao Mingyang gave a slight nod, but his curiosity fixed on Wen Yin.
So this was the Wen family’s returned daughter—the true heiress everyone had been talking about? Rumor had been that she’d been raised in some rural backwater. How could someone raised in the countryside look so composed, so unruffled?
Wen Yin’s face betrayed nothing—no fear, no surprise—only a cool, distant smile. “Hello,” she said, a simple, polite greeting.
Shao Mingyang’s gaze tightened a fraction. The way Wen Yin met him—calm, unfazed—earned a measure of approval in his mind. He wasn’t wrong about this one.
“Hello, Miss Wen,” Shao Yinan supplied, sliding between them as if on cue. “This is my older brother, Shao Mingyang. This is my girlfriend, Wen Yin.”
Both men inclined their heads.
Shao Mingyang said little, though his eyes lingered on Shao Yinan for a moment. “Father and my second brother just arrived. They’re upstairs at the banquet looking for you.”
At that, an almost imperceptible flicker of contempt crossed Shao Yinan’s face. He suppressed it quickly, but Wen Yin felt the flinch. She curled her little finger around his—the smallest of gestures—a signal for him to keep his temper.
Shao Yinan understood and smoothed the expression from his face. The three of them walked down to the first floor together.
From the stairwell above, Shao Qi caught sight of Wen Yin arm-in-arm with his son and nearly choked on his breath. The woman simply wouldn’t leave them be. He snorted, turned, and walked away in a huff. Honestly, he thought, he had no patience for it.
A handsome youngster trailing beside him glanced back at the trio with interest, then followed Shao Qi.
Wen Yin had been placed on a corner sofa to rest while the other two went upstairs with Shao Mingyang. She leafed through a fashion magazine; the seat beside her dipped slightly as someone took a place.
She paid it little mind—her attention was on the glossy pages. New-season spreads, lines from every major luxury house; her mind cataloged them, mentally comparing them to the styles Shaohua was launching this quarter.
A soft, derisive snort beside her pulled her back. She looked up, puzzled.
The man was middle-aged; even with a map of wrinkles carved across his face, his youth had clearly been handsome.
When Wen Yin met his eyes, his scorn deepened. “What are you looking at?” he snapped.
Wen Yin tilted her head and shook it, expression unreadable. But internally she thought, Huh. For a short old man, he certainly has a temper.
“Nothing. Sorry,” she said.
That answer did something to him—like striking cotton instead of muscle. Shao Qi had expected the Wen family’s returned heiress to be earthborn and rude, a provincial girl with no manners. Instead, here she was: poised, graceful, even in the way she held her champagne glass, every movement an instinctive courtesy you’d expect in high society. There wasn’t a trace of rustic coarseness about her.
He frowned. No matter. The Wen family’s position still made them beneath the Shaos. He needed to nip whatever improper ideas the boy had in the bud.
“You’re a designer?” Shao Qi asked again, voice cold.
Wen Yin didn’t reply. She was wearing headphones and hadn’t heard him. The old man’s face went red with anger at being ignored. How dare this young woman not answer him?
He set his champagne down on the table so hard the glass clinked loudly. Wen Yin looked up at the sound and, seeing his furious, flaring expression, removed her earphones.
“Are you speaking to me?” she asked politely.
Shao Qi’s annoyance evaporated into a frustrated puff of air when he saw the headphones. He repeated himself, slightly calmer but still clipped. “Are you a designer?”
Wen Yin nodded. She was a naturally reserved person—not talkative. When someone asked a question, she answered.
“Yes. I’m a newcomer—just entered the industry.”
“You’re the rising star in design, Jingjin?” Shao Qi said, though he already knew the answer.
Wen Yin’s slight nod earned no further reaction from him. Shao Qi sat down beside her and sulked like an offended man.
Shao Yinan and Shao Mingyang returned to the seating area. From a distance, Shao Yinan saw Shao Qi sitting next to Wen Yin and felt a strange, prickling discomfort—this was a scene that didn’t belong. He stepped forward, as if to rescue it from some invisible wrongness.
“Yin,” he said without taking his eyes off Shao Qi, as if the older man weren’t even there. “Hungry? Want some dessert?”
Shao Qi’s eyes widened in outrage. What was that insolent son thinking? Shao Yinan was trying to provoke him.
Shao Mingyang dropped his champagne and came over at once, having noticed Shao Qi seated with them. Wen Yin inclined her head politely in greeting to Shao Mingyang.
Shao Yinan moved to take Wen Yin’s arm with the intention of leaving, but a booming voice cut through the air.
“Shao Yinan!”
“You couldn’t even say hello when you saw me?”
Wen Yin turned to see the man who had been arguing with her earlier—the one with the graying, carved-up face—calling out to Shao Yinan. He was scolding him with all the volume a patriarch could muster.
Shao Yinan’s expression remained indifferent; he didn’t bother to hide his coldness. He gave the man a clipped, perfunctory, “Father.”
Shao Mingyang pressed his lips together, holding back a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Wen Yin was surprised. So that was the man who’d been speaking to her—the current head of the Shao family. She inclined her head gracefully. “Hello,” she said.
Shao Qi snorted again—this time with disdain. Such a tepid greeting. Clearly, the Wen family hadn’t taught their daughter any proper form.
Shao Yinan shot him a hard look, quiet and hard enough to carry a threat. Shao Qi felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. The old man stood there, chest heaving, sundry colors passing over his face as outrage and wounded pride fought for dominance.