Fireworks bloomed across the glass like scattered stars, and Shao Yinan’s low, hoarse voice whispered by Wen Yin’s ear.
“I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”
“Tonight may be a little rushed, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Yin—will you marry me?”
His tone was rough around the edges but soaked in tenderness, the same reverent cadence he’d used that night at her doorway when he’d asked, “May I kiss you?”
Wen Yin didn’t react at once. She lifted a hand, dazed—there, on her left finger, perched a large diamond ring. The fireworks’ reflections fractured over the stone like a thousand tiny lights, turning it into a multicolored jewel.
“So…when did you have this made?” As a professional designer, Wen Yin noticed details the way other people noticed faces. This was no ordinary ring she’d seen on the market. A platinum setting raised the central stone high above a bed of pavé diamonds; layer upon layer of tiny gems fanned out beneath it, forming a blossom of light. From distance it truly looked like a flower of diamonds.
Shao Yinan’s big, knuckled hand enfolded her slender one and, unable to contain the emotion, spoke her name again.
“Wen Yin.”
Her voice was clear and soft, the habitual purity softened by warmth. “I will.”
Because it was him, she could say it.
For a long moment their eyes held, his dark pupils shimmering like a pond disturbed by a single pebble. “So—may I kiss you?”
“Shao Yinan—” But the people on the top floor were few, and most faces were drawn toward the window and the show outside.
“Are those fireworks for Siran? Did the Qi family arrange them?” whispered one of the heiresses chatting with Qi Siran nearby; the group giggled and nudged each other. “Siran’s so lucky.” “Completely spoiled like a little princess.” “I’m so jealous…”
Qi Siran smiled and didn’t deny it, but when her gaze fell on the fireworks their shapes shifted and then stilled: the bursts resolved, impossibly, into the outline of a ring.
Wen Yin’s birthday was tonight, too.
Qi Siran’s smile froze; color drained from her face. Something absurd and bitter rose in her mind, and she felt as though her blood had congealed. She kept her expression in place only with effort.
When the fireworks died down, the two of them separated as if on cue. The lipstick on Wen Yin’s lips had smeared; she looked disheveled in that prettiest of ways. Shao Yinan’s expression darkened and then softened, and he pulled her into his arms.
In a dim corner, Wen Zhi stood like a statue. Her face had nearly convulsed; she couldn’t understand why Wen Yin was allowed such happiness. It was because of her—because of that little bitch—that she had lost the favor of Xiao Mo and the others. And now Wen Yin dared to act all sentimental and loved up?
Black thoughts sprouted in the corners of her mind until her hate almost spilled out.
She turned and pushed through a narrow corridor—and ran straight into the person she never wanted to see again.
Lu Ziqiu stood there as if he’d been waiting, his expression grim. The months apart had done something to him; he looked older, more composed. The soft fringe that used to fall over his forehead was combed back, and something hard dwelled behind his eyes.
Wen Zhi’s heartbeat stuttered. She tried to make herself invisible. After everything, she couldn’t possibly compare to any of the three men she’d once thought she could claim. Remembering all she’d endured bent her mind in on itself.
Lu Ziqiu didn’t look surprised. Wen Zhi’s entrance had been far from subtle under Qi Siran’s arrangement—an announcement to the circles that the Second Miss of the Wen family had returned. He’d seen it all, too.
Like a cornered rat, she stood in the shadows and watched Shao Yinan kneel, watched him propose to the girl who had once liked him. The sight tasted like ash. Lu Ziqiu’s gaze sharpened.
“Wen Zhi?” he said—her name falling from his mouth after a long time, laced with contempt.
She froze. She knew that look on his face: fury barely contained. She forced a smile and replied with a strained, practiced politeness. “Long time, Lu Shao.”
Her title changed again and again—there would be no more pretending when all the bloodied truths lay on the table.
“So it was all true,” Lu Ziqiu said without preamble. His eyes darkened.
Wen Zhi felt like prey under the stare of a wolf. She faltered, voice little more than a squeak, and tried to slip past him. But Lu Ziqiu stepped into her path.
When she tried to push by, he didn’t have the patience for subtlety. He grabbed her and slammed her against the cold wall, closing the distance with each step until there was nowhere left to run.
“You stole the gift I gave her. You smeared her name. You bullied her.” His mouth twisted into something like a smile—if smiles could cut. “Wen Zhi, when did you grow so scheming?”
The wall pressed into her back; the chill bit at her skin. Memories of prison scraped against her like a blade; she crumpled to the floor in a stifled cry. Lu Ziqiu watched the sight coolly, the same way he’d watched Wen Yin suffered before. His own heart had been mangled so many times that he no longer knew what he wanted—only that he wanted to make Wen Zhi’s life uncomfortable.
“I won’t let you live easy,” he said, voice low and cold.
“You’re crazy, Lu Ziqiu—you’re a lunatic,” Wen Zhi spat, but the words came out weak.
“No,” he said. “You’re the one who’s lost your mind.”
Only after he left did she find her legs. Her thighs tingled from the numbness of having been on the floor. She steadied herself on the wall, re-smoothed her makeup, pulled her hair into place until she looked like the bright, flashy woman she’d been moments before.
“Siran!” she cried, racing toward Qi Siran, breathless. She poured everything she had seen and felt into the confession, the fear, the outrage.
Qi Siran listened with an unreadable expression. Then she smiled, soft and small, and said, “It’s all right. I have a second surprise for Wen Yin.”