Wen Yin's gaze flickered and then settled on Shao Yinan.
"Mrs. Qi?" she said, surprised at how quickly he had moved.
The Qi family was one of those elite households where digging up information wasn't supposed to be easy. Yet Shao Yinan seemed to have come up with something—if only something small.
Under the dim light, the girl's eyes sparkled like a black obsidian gem, irresistible. Shao Yinan watched her, throat moving as he swallowed. Darkness and unreadable depths swirled in his pupils.
"Just surface stuff," he said, tracing the pale round tip of her finger as he held her hand. It was a deliberate distraction, a way to keep his attention from wandering.
Wen Yin watched him quietly, waiting for him to continue.
"Mrs. Qi and Qi Siran aren't as close as they appear," Shao Yinan said slowly, each word measured. His tone carried a faint surprise.
Wen Yin's mind drifted back to Mrs. Qi's birthday dinner—an event that seemed to belong to another season of her life. She could barely recall details, only the way Mrs. Qi had looked at Qi Siran with that indulgent affection, and how the family head had shown a rare, small smile of contentment. What was wrong with that?
Shao Yinan seemed to read her confusion.
"I asked around among the Qi household staff," he continued. "They said the two aren't particularly close. At least, not as intimate as people think."
Wen Yin raised an eyebrow and then gave his hand a light tug. "Never mind," she said, smiling. "Mrs. Qi hasn't shown me any hostility. There's no need to dig deeper. Besides, other people's family matters are none of our business."
She played with their interlaced fingers like a child, the warm lamplight casting her profile in soft, angelic relief. The usual coolness in her face had softened into something shy and girlish.
Shao Yinan's eyes darkened without him meaning to. His foxlike charm made her more adorable by the second, and a shadowy, possessive thought crept up inside him—an urge to hide her away. But reason—stubborn and sensible—cut through the impulse: Ayin wouldn't like that.
At that thought he calmed, the sudden tenderness ebbing into a quiet peace.
Later, a light breeze drifted through. His fringe fell over his brow, hiding eyes that still brimmed with affection. He kept his voice low, the words catching in the night air as they reached Wen Yin.
"Okay," he said.
They arrived home just after nine. Maybe because he had been away so often lately, Shao Yinan had, against habit, not gone to the office. Wen Yin fussed on the bed for a while, then dragged him into her room with an air of conspiratorial secrecy.
Her room felt cozy—unfinished design sketches tacked to the wall, and a projector taking up most of the white space opposite the bed.
"So you brought me in here just to see this?" he asked, arms folded, standing in the doorway.
Wen Yin wiggled a finger at him, all mischievous calm. "Of course not."
He couldn't help smiling at that little pose. "Then what, Ayin? What are you up to?"
She shot him an exasperated look. "Shao Yinan, cut it out. You don't need me to explain the plan to you."
He laughed softly and stepped forward, gathering her into his arms. Her pale earlobe hovered right in front of his mouth. He bent his head before he remembered he was a gentleman and instead nibbled it gently.
Her ear flushed immediately, and the blush spread down her neck like spilled wine. The sensual intimacy of the gesture was so unlike the mild-mannered gentleman he often appeared to be that even stoic Wen Yin read a new, dangerous meaning behind it.
She shoved him away in a fluster. "You— you—"
Words failed her. The room fell into a brief, amused silence before he let out a low chuckle, the sound intimate and close, as if he were whispering it in her ear.
"What are you so nervous about, Ayin?" he teased, smiling with gentle intent.
To Wen Yin he might as well have turned into a wolf. She felt like a small rabbit cornered—because, embarrassingly, she was.
She averted her eyes for the first time and bolted to the projector. "Pick a movie," she breathed, voice thin as a mosquito.
He moved toward her, and she cringed. "You—you—don't come any closer—"
He only laughed again. "What's with the dramatics?"
She picked a comedy at random and climbed onto the bed, hugging a stuffed toy to her chest so only her eyes peered over it. She blinked steadily at the screen, but felt the bed dip beside her—the space claiming him. His scent drifted closer; every tension in her tightened.
He scooped her into his arms, trying to suppress a grin. "What are you afraid of, Ayin?"
His voice, low and warm against her ear, unraveled whatever composure she had left. She clung to the toy and tried, absurdly, to hide her ears in it. The tactic failed spectacularly: he kissed her until she could hardly breathe.
Halfway through the movie, Wen Yin's lashes shimmered with unshed tears. She shot him a reproachful look. "We're watching the film."
Shao Yinan's smile deepened. He held her quiet as the onscreen plot slid into its familiar, syrupy emotional beats. Wen Yin stifled a yawn and reached for her phone. She opened Weibo, and the top trending headline leapt out at her:
Trending: "Heartbeat Murmur" Looks Like It's Backfiring
Shao Yinan glanced at the screen. "Heartbeat Murmur?" he mused. The name rang a bell.
Wen Yin clicked it without comment. The very first result was a video by a no-name shop-review vlogger, speaking fast and pointedly into her camera.
"From what I can tell," the vlogger was saying, "Heartbeat Murmur's recommendation of this place is just all show. They probably took money under the table. I can't stand this kind of disguised advertising—it's dishonest, and people deserve to know."
Wen Yin watched the clip, her fingers tightening around the phone. Shao Yinan watched the screen too, his expression unreadable.