Wen Yin smiled without meaning it, the corners of her mouth polite but her eyes cold as ice when they found Wen Zhi.
That single look was enough to make Wen Zhi feel suffocated. Her pulse skittered; irritation flared hot and impatient. Damn it—Wen Yin was trying to bully her with a look again.
She breathed through it, forcing herself to steady. This time she would not be cowed the way she had before. Wen Yin hadn’t risen to where she was alone—there was Shao Yinan behind her. With that thought, Wen Zhi stopped swaying on her heels. Confidence steadied in her features.
“Sis, I don’t get you,” Wen Zhi said sweetly, the words gilded with a practiced contrition. “Ever since that argument, I’ve been apologizing every day—sincerely, from the heart.” Her smile had a peculiar edge to it. “I only hope, one day, you’ll accept my apology.” She drew out the last syllable and held Wen Yin’s gaze as if trying to read a crack in the ice.
“Since we ran into each other today, why not let everyone be the witnesses—have you forgiven me yet?”
She wasn’t content to make it a private plea; she wanted an audience, a chorus to affirm her victory. Wen Yin merely traced the rim of her champagne flute with one finger and did not so much as glance toward her.
“Sis, I don’t have the right to forgive you on behalf of anyone,” Wen Yin said flatly. Her face was closed off; she had no desire to be dragged into this petty drama.
To everyone watching, Wen Zhi looked like a wronged little wife—pathetic, tear-brimmed eyes threatening to spill. It was her usual act; Wen Yin saw straight through it. Time had not been gentle to Wen Zhi’s looks—what once worked no longer fit the face she wore now. Her performance came off as painfully out of place.
Wen Zhi stepped forward and clutched Wen Yin’s arm. Wen Yin didn’t even flinch as the distance between them shrank. There was a different light in Wen Zhi’s eyes when she turned her back to the crowd: a dangerous, festering hatred that no one else could see. Her grip tightened.
“Then—does that mean our feud can be put to rest?” she asked, voice trembling with manufactured vulnerability. “Can you forgive me, sister?”
It was the same question repeated, again and again, as if asking could force a lighter weight onto her chest. She’d heard the whispers that haunted Shanghai’s wealthy circles; she’d been adored one day and a pariah the next—a so-called “pretend heiress” of the Wen family reduced to the bottom rung of gossip. The sting of that fall was a thing she could not swallow quietly. Who could?
Wen Yin understood little of those bruising dynamics—the mercilessness of online rumor and how a careless phrase could shred someone’s will. But Wen Zhi had conveniently forgotten that she’d been the ringleader of the online storms that once battered Wen Yin. Now she pleaded shamelessly for absolution. The irony made Wen Yin’s mouth curl.
She allowed Wen Zhi’s grip to flare into annoyance and then leaned in, not in fear, but curiosity. Wen Yin’s gaze, those slightly upturned doe-eyes hardened into a storm. She watched Wen Zhi without blinking, eyes gathering a dark tide of emotion Wen Zhi couldn’t read.
Cold. So cold it felt like a physical thing. Wen Zhi shivered and loosened her hold—only to be drawn back by Wen Yin’s hand. Around them, the spectators still thought Wen Zhi was in control. They had no idea the power had shifted entirely.
“Want me to forgive you?” Wen Yin asked softly. Her voice was clear, almost musical, but threaded with an undercurrent of ice.
She smiled then, the smile that dropped like a blade. “Then you’ll have to go through everything I went through. Every single thing. Only after you experience it all can we talk about forgiveness.”
It landed on Wen Zhi like a shove off a cliff. Her eyes narrowed. So that was it: Wen Yin wanted her to taste her own medicine, to have her dignity trodden underfoot the same way. Wen Zhi’s jaw trembled.
“You’re cruel,” she hissed, teeth bared.
Wen Yin let go and shoved her away, cool and precise. “We’re even,” she said. “Your heart isn’t any purer than mine.”
The words inflamed Wen Zhi’s resentment. She flashed a brittle smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Fine. Then don’t blame me for what I do next.”
For the first time, Wen Zhi made her antagonism open, deliberate. She had stepped out from under the guise of contrition and planted herself opposite Wen Yin, unashamed.
Wen Yin laughed softly—an amused, almost affectionate sound that made Wen Zhi’s skin crawl. “I won’t blame you, little sister. I remember everything. I keep it all inside.”
The ordinary cadence of the sentence should have been nothing, but it landed like snow folded over coal—quiet and suffocating. Wen Zhi felt something cold and precise sink under her ribs. Wen Yin rocked her champagne glass idly; the liquid caught the light like a promise.
“Our game is only beginning,” Wen Yin said cheerfully. “However you want to play, I’ll play along—right to the end.”
She moved closer. Wen Zhi took a step back as if startled by the fervor. What did “to the end” mean? Was Wen Yin insane?
Wen Yin leaned so close her breath ghosted Wen Zhi’s ear. She spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear. “But if you lose—don’t come crawling to me with tears.”
The words were airy, but Wen Zhi heard them like a devilsong. She stared, unbelieving, and then turned and left.
Around them, the crowd erupted into low, fascinated murmurs. No one had expected that—an old grudge, a history. The rumor mill would feast on this. If Wen Zhi had been the accused before, now the narrative had shifted.
Wen Yin settled back on the corner sofa and waited, the champagne glass balanced perfectly in her hand. Shao Yinan arrived a little late—work had held him up—and found the scene in progress. He’d heard the snippets of gossip as he approached.
He crouched beside Wen Yin. “Are you all right?” he asked, concern plain in his voice.
He looked over at Wen Zhi, and the concern hardened into something darker. Some loose threads needed to be tidied, he thought—things that couldn’t be left to fester.