The pale, delicate planes of Wen Yin’s face looked only more alluring half-hidden among a dozen deep-red roses. Her lips, the soft color of petals, seemed to tremble with the same fragile beauty—an image mirrored in Shao Yinan’s dark, beguiling eyes.
She couldn’t quite remember how she’d ended up in his arms on the drive home. All she could recall was him pressing her into the car with a ferocity that felt like a wolf starved for centuries, kissing her until the air around them thinned. Under the dim light, her lips flushed a deeper red, glossy with the afterglow of heat. His breathing grew heavier, his head buried against the fine hollow of her neck. He held her tight and kept saying her name, over and over.
“Yin…”
“I’m here.”
“I love you.”
For a moment Wen Yin’s long, pale fingers hesitated in the air before she reached up and curled around his shoulders, returning the invitation of his lips. When their mouths met, she heard the low, sweet sound of her own voice: “Me too.”
The new project was moving smoothly; by that night Shao Qi had already learned the truth—Wen Yin was N.A. He was furious, but he had no choice but to swallow it. N.A.’s name carried weight, and having her on board could only benefit Shaohua. Resentment lodged in his throat, and for a long while he stayed away from the company.
The designers working with Wen Yin worshipped her. With an international talent at their side, who wouldn’t be excited? She remained exacting and unflinching in her critiques—each comment a scalpel that cut to the heart of a piece. Doubters were quickly convinced. Whether as the woman they all knew or under her alias, Wen Yin proved near-perfect.
Somebody let the secret slip. Once the news that N.A. and Wen Yin were the same person got out, it ricocheted through the design world. Her profile shot up overnight; everyone wanted to see what she would create next. The tag #WenYinN.A# trended, and Weibo filled with breathless reactions:
“Help! I think I just started stanning someone huge!”
“She’s been hiding so many alt accounts—no wonder she always looked amazing on that dating show!”
“Called it—her design talent was obvious from the start!”
“She rose to fame in under six months. Goals!”
“I suddenly have a reason to study hard again!”
Most of the commenters were Wen Yin’s fans, who had followed her into the design world after she stepped away from entertainment. They tracked each of her new pieces as if she were still on stage, delighted to see she’d been living a full life.
Two months passed and the design drafts were complete. Wen Yin left the office that evening on schedule; it was New Year’s Eve, and she and Shao Yinan had plans. She hadn’t even reached the building exit before she saw the familiar car and that silhouette—tall and straight as a pine.
Shao Yinan was in a black coat that made him look even more remote and forbidding, his face an elegant mask of indifference that sent a thousand fangirls into a tizzy. In these months he had shaken things up at Shaohua, steering the company into internet-driven ventures and piling up achievements no one had expected. Even Shao Mingyang couldn’t have done as much in as little time.
He kept his chin tilted down, long fingers flying across his phone as if wrapping up one last task. Then he noticed her, and the hardness of his expression softened like a winter sky breaking. He looked at her, and the chill around him thinned.
“Yin.”
He said it as if no one else existed. She wore a black velvet gown, a ruby pendant against her throat, but even that glimmer paled beside her face. Shao Yinan took her bag with an easy, practiced motion and drew her into his arms; one large hand covered both her hands. Warmth radiated through his skin to hers, and she couldn’t help the hint of a smile.
A passerby captured the scene and posted the photo to Weibo. The fan forum “Only Heart” exploded.
“Someone just caught Shao Yinan picking Yin up after work!! I’m dead.”
“After she quit the industry everyone thought he’d retreated from public life too. Perfect match!”
“Where’s the wedding announcement?!”
“New Year’s Eve date spotted. I’m crying.”
Shao Yinan went home early to prepare. He stayed at Wen Yin’s place sometimes, and over time had made himself at home—his clothes in the guest room, his toiletries on the shelf, half of her study already quietly claimed. That night he’d made hotpot, steam rolling off the pot so thick it fogged the windows. Wen Yin’s lips glowed the kind of red that comes from spice; he handed her a glass of orange juice and teased, “How come I never knew you were so bad with spicy food?”
She poutingly shot him a playful glare. He chuckled, low and amused.
They settled on the couch after dinner. Wen Yin unusually put aside her sketches and picked a film they both liked. The clock hands inched toward midnight. Exhaustion from the past weeks dragged at her eyelids; the apartment’s heater made everything pleasantly drowsy. She found a comfortable nest in his arms and was nearly asleep.
Outside the large windows, fireworks bloomed over the city, streaks of color against the night, but Wen Yin didn’t notice. Shao Yinan felt the rhythm of her breath slow and lengthen; he smiled, a little helpless.
“Yin, happy New Year,” he murmured near her ear.
She burrowed closer like a small, contented animal, her sleeping face peaceful. Her lips, still tinged from the hotpot, were glossy and soft. In a sleepy mumble she replied, indistinct but warm, “Happy New Year, Shao Yinan.”