The secretary watched Mr. Shao’s face go cold inch by inch, and with every fraction of frost that settled there his own heart sank a little deeper.
Everyone in the office knew how much Shao Yinan cared about Wen Yin. He treated her like something fragile and precious, and anyone who dared aim knives at her did so at their own peril. The secretary silently cursed whoever had the nerve to go after her — a private, incandescent little oath against the troublemaker.
“Mr. Shao?” someone ventured.
Shao’s gaze was on the phone screen. When Wen Yin’s face finally filled the display, a fraction of a smile ghosted across his features — barely there, like sunlight at the edge of a cloud. Hearing the voice behind him, he realized he hadn’t left at all.
“Anything else?” His tone slid back into its usual calm.
The secretary straightened, deferential. “About Sister-in-law—do you want us to take care of it?”
Shao’s eyes lingered on the screen for a beat longer before he answered, casual and sure. “No. I’ll handle it personally.”
When the door clicked shut, the secretary let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Back in his office, colleagues swarmed, abuzz.
“Did you see the livestream on that short-video app? It blew up again!”
A good portion of the staff were shippers of Shao Yinan and Wen Yin; seeing Wen Yin unfairly smeared set their blood boiling.
“They’re just trying to ride her coattails now that she’s trending,” one muttered.
“And what did he say?” someone asked, nudging Secretary Li — the one who’d just been in the GM’s office.
Li’s expression stayed composed, but his eyes gleamed. He cleared his throat twice, savoring the little piece of scandal knowledge he held, and lifted his chin a fraction.
“Don’t worry about it. Mr. Shao said he’d handle it himself.” He emphasized the last two words so deliberately that everyone exchanged the same satisfied, knowing look. Of course — when it came to protecting his woman, no one did it better than their boss.
Across the building, Shao Yinan watched Wen Yin on his screen. The moment she appeared in the livestream, he already understood: she intended to fight this on her own terms. A faint tenderness brushed his knuckles as he rested a finger against the glass where her face glowed. It was only in moments like this — private and spare — that anything like softness ever touched him.
The chat erupted the instant Wen Yin spoke.
“No way — is that really Wen Yin on the line?” one comment shouted.
“Why is she logging on in person? What’s going on?” another demanded.
In the past two days the rumor mill — and a few colluding streamers — had built Wen Yin into a caricature: someone who bullied the weak and hid behind shadowy, untouchable connections. That was why so many of the messages were venomous.
“I hated her from the start. Now she’s gone into short-video land and it’s even worse.”
“Does anyone else find her gross?”
“Wasn’t she always the kind of person you’d instinctively distrust?”
Wen Yin smiled, easy and luminous. She’d come from the entertainment world and knew how to command a camera, but tonight there were no beautifying filters, no performance. She sat in simple loungewear, hair loose, a soft domestic light around her. Without the lacquered glam of a reality show makeover, she felt unexpectedly close, almost ordinary — and that made her presence all the more disarming.
A trickle of old fans found their way into the stream.
“So glad you’re live. I’ve been waiting!”
“We’re always behind you. We believe in you.”
“Those rumors are disgusting. Ignore them!”
On the other end of the conversation, the male streamer — a popular food vlogger who’d been stoking the speculation — was visibly rattled. He usually relied on filters and a pleasing persona; tonight the unretouched Wen Yin made him look oddly amateurish by contrast. He forced a smile and tried to keep the tone light.
“Just chatting with everyone. Nothing serious,” he said, glancing side to side like someone who expected trouble to jump him at any moment.
“Really?” Wen Yin’s smile didn’t waver. She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear and asked, blunt but measured, “So you think there’s something… or someone... behind me?”
The streamer’s grin faltered. His plan had been to insinuate, to whisper and let the audience fill in the blanks. He had not expected Wen Yin to name the allegation so cleanly and make him answer for it on the spot.
The chat kept scrolling.
“I heard it’s not true!”
“How would you know? You never can tell what people are like under the surface.”
“Well, this is the kind of person who’d have her own sister put behind bars. What else would she do?”
Wen Yin’s lips curved, but there was ice in the smile now. “Seems like a lot of you know a lot about my sister,” she said, almost teasing.
Across the screen, a hand clenched into a fist. Wen Zhi — Wen Yin’s younger sister, who had been watching from the other side of the app — tightened her jaw until her teeth pressed together. How dare Wen Yin bring that up? The insult was a punch in the gut. Anger flared hot and ugly; everything should be blamed on her, they thought — why not make her fall too? Wen Zhi wanted to see Wen Yin tumble, the kind of hate that wished another soul down into hell.
Wen Yin continued, the words slow and crystalline. “My sister… made a mistake.”
She let that sit, then added, softer but unmistakable, “And mistakes should be punished, shouldn’t they?”
She looked straight at the male streamer through the phone's glass with an intensity that made him shift in his seat. There was implication in that look — a needle of meaning aimed right at him — and the color drained from his face. Whatever his intentions had been, whatever he had helped spread, Wen Yin had put the accusation plainly in the middle of the room. The chat froze and the streamer felt it: the weight of every viewer’s gaze pressing down, waiting for him to name what he had been too cowardly to say before.