When she recognized the visitor, Wen Yin rose and nodded toward the assistant behind her to pour tea.
A small smile curved her lips. “Madam Qi.”
She inclined her head with the calm, measured grace of a well-bred young lady. Madam Qi’s eyes shone with unmistakable satisfaction.
She had already looked into Wen Yin’s past. Before returning to the Wen household, Wen Yin had been raised quietly by her grandmother in the countryside. Within a year of her being brought back, her grandmother had passed away. Rumors had painted the girl the Wen family reclaimed as coarse and uncouth. Linked with the stories of Wen Zhi and Shen Ziying ganging up on her, there had to be something off — or so Madam Qi had convinced herself.
Seeing Wen Yin now, all the scenarios that had lived in Madam Qi’s imagination seemed to solidify. A stranger had taken the comfortable life that Wen Zhi had enjoyed for over a decade; the arrival of Wen Yin had naturally put Wen Zhi on edge. Jealousy had driven Wen Zhi and the others to push Wen Yin into the shadows. If that anonymous exposure hadn’t happened, Wen Yin might still be suffering in silence.
Noticing Madam Qi’s distant look, Wen Yin called softly, “Madam Qi?”
Her voice was cool but gentle, with a small undertone of warmth. The older woman blinked and returned from her reverie — unaware that the recording, the video that had gone public, had been released by the very woman sitting before her. Wen Yin was not someone to be toyed with. Cross her and she would not swallow the insult; she paid back every slight without fail.
Madam Qi kept her curiosity to herself and smiled, pleasant and composed. “I heard Ah Yin’s studio is doing well. I wanted to have a look.”
Wen Yin’s expression flickered with something complex. This woman before her was everything a wealthy matron should be: polished, poised, smiling with practiced warmth. For an instant, Wen Yin thought of her own mother — that same childlike innocence painted on a face that had once made Wen Yin shiver.
“Hope I didn’t interrupt your work,” Madam Qi said, her smile soft. When Wen Yin went still for a moment, she wondered if the girl was just tired.
“No,” Wen Yin answered. “I’m glad you came, Madam Qi.”
She genuinely felt no ill will toward Madam Qi. If she had one personal dislike, it was for Qi Siran — the heir of the Qi family — but she kept that to herself.
“I brought a gift today.” Madam Qi produced a prettily wrapped wooden box from her bag and opened it in front of Wen Yin. Inside lay an exquisitely carved hairpin. Wen Yin’s designer’s eye took in the craftsmanship at once: fine jade, masterful carving, the work of an expert hand.
She almost reflexively wanted to refuse. “Thank you for the kindness, Madam Qi, but I can’t accept this.” She pushed the box back toward the woman. The refusal was clear.
Madam Qi seemed to have expected the reaction. The skin around her eyes, kept smooth with careful maintenance, lifted into a small, satisfied smile. “Consider it a token for our cooperation.”
Wen Yin froze. “You were the one who wanted to invest that day?”
Her voice betrayed a sliver of uncertainty that she hid quickly — Wen Yin was naturally composed, seldom giving herself away. Madam Qi nodded, her gaze drifting for a heartbeat to a place Wen Yin couldn’t see. That tiny pause only deepened Wen Yin’s confusion. The Qi family was vast and powerful; why would they bother with her fledgling design studio? It had only begun to stabilize after that large collaboration last week. An investment from a household like the Qis should have been unlikely.
Wen Yin pressed her lips together and made up her mind. “Thank you, Madam Qi, but I truly can’t accept it.”
She imagined that one hairpin could buy a hundred pieces from Caiyi — perhaps even the whole studio. So she declined.
Madam Qi didn’t press. Her eyes briefly revealed a flash of satisfaction before she smiled serenely and let the matter drop.
Later, over dinner, Shao Yinan was serving Wen Yin from the dishes. They hadn’t gone home but chose a quiet Sichuan restaurant instead. Shao had booked a private room and timed the meal so it was all set when Wen Yin arrived.
Wen Yin nodded and blew out a breath, her lips slightly flushed. The food was boldly spiced — she experienced for the first time the sting of Sichuan heat that brought tears to her eyes. Shao reached out and used his fingertip to wipe the chili oil from her mouth, then set a glass of warm water beside her.
The brief contact — cool fingers against feverish lips — made Wen Yin want, for a beat, to close the distance between them. His touch was refreshing, oddly comforting, easing some of the spice.
Across from her, Shao’s expression darkened. The sight of her lips, the warmth of the moment, kindled something in him that felt dangerously like hunger. He felt his control flicker; she was like kindling against a long-smoldering flame. He inhaled slowly, forcing down the restless heat.
At least not now, he decided. Some things, he thought, must be handled carefully — and urgently.
Wen Yin, oblivious to his private turmoil, explained, “That hairpin… it could buy a hundred pieces from Caiyi. I didn’t take it.”
Shao raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
The question stopped her. She propped her chin on her chopsticks, brow creasing as she considered. “Maybe… Madam Qi was strange today.” Wen Yin chose that answer because it felt true. The woman had contrived—reaching for her hair on several occasions, her gaze lingering too long. Wen Yin trusted her instincts.
Shao’s face hardened. “Strange how?”
Wen Yin replayed the afternoon in her mind. Madam Qi had made small moves toward casual touch, had looked at her hair more than once. Wen Yin’s instincts told her there was more under the surface.
Shao set down his chopsticks and went still, his expression unreadable. “Eat,” he said finally, softer now. He reached across the table and gently brushed the hair back from Wen Yin’s cheek as if claiming that small piece of her.
“Leave the rest to me.”