“How come I never knew you were so interested in my affairs?”
“You even did some snooping on me?”
They’d just turned the corner when Wen Yin appeared, walking straight toward them.
She wore a figure-hugging slip dress that emphasized every graceful line of her body. Her makeup tonight—soft, precise—gave her an almost intoxicating edge. Wen Yin had only meant to slip away to the restroom; she hadn’t expected to overhear that conversation.
“So what right do you think you have to meddle in my life?” she asked.
Jiang Shihuai, Xiao Mo, and Lu Ziqiu still looked stunned—caught between guilt and awkwardness. Each of them owed her something, in ways both obvious and buried: they’d been misled by Wen Zhi and, believing the worst, had treated Wen Yin like something to be scorned. Lu Ziqiu even had the absurd thought of a line from a romance novel—the whole desperate, frantic “win-her-back” trope—playing itself out in real life.
“Nothing,” Xiao Mo said finally, throat bobbing as he looked away. Wen Yin’s question was a good one. What business did they have policing her life—exes, ex‑exes, something in between? After everything, none of them could simply let her go. She was their white moonlight; add to that whatever had happened, and she’d become impossible to forget.
“We just don’t want you to go through that again,” one of them offered.
Wen Yin crossed her arms and regarded them coolly. “I can handle my own problems,” she said. “But I won’t have my life peered into by anyone.”
She sounded calm, but there was steel under it. Apology or guilt stated through snooping felt wrong to her—whoever had been investigated in secret would feel violated. “We’re done,” she continued. “After tonight, we’re nothing more than parallel lines.”
Those words left no wiggle room. She would live her life on her own terms; she didn’t need rescuers. Then she turned and left, not a trace of regret on her back. The three men stood there, rooted to the spot.
A long moment later a bitter smile spread across Xiao Mo’s face. “Too late,” he muttered. The wrongness of it tasted like defeat. Belated affection, he thought sourly, was worth less than nothing.
At the front of the hall, Shao Yinan didn’t know any of this. He was checking his phone, sending a message to Wen Yin.
[Shao Yinan: Want anything to eat? I can bring something back for you.]
[Wen Yin: Not really hungry. I’ll eat when we get home.]
He put his phone away after that and was just beginning a conversation with one of the project leads when a nagging worry creased his brow. He knew Wen Yin’s habits—she never took that long in the restroom. Excusing himself, he strode toward the facilities.
Inside, Wen Yin sat on the closed toilet lid, feeling absurdly defeated. First the lock jammed; then, in the bustle of the reception, there wasn’t a soul in the women’s restroom to ask for help. Her phone had no signal. She told herself Shao would notice soon enough and come find her.
A few minutes later she heard faint footsteps and the sound of a faucet being turned. Relief warmed her—finally someone was near. She called out, voice steady and audible enough to carry beyond the stall.
“Hello? Can someone call the staff? The lock’s broken.”
The water in the basin stopped abruptly. The person outside had heard her.
Wen Yin raised her voice slightly. “This restroom’s lock is stuck. Could you—please—get someone to help?”
Silence answered. Then, without warning, a bucket of icy water tipped down from above.
She’d seen the bucket hovering at the stall’s shadowed ceiling at the last second and darted—but in that tiny enclosure there was nowhere to avoid being splashed. The expensive dress she was wearing was soaked through, clinging to her. Her hair flattened to her scalp in slick strands.
“Qi Siran,” she said flatly, the name colder than her drenched skin. She recognized the shoes under the gap beneath the door—this was no random prank. She’d seen that season’s new pair on his feet tonight.
“Enjoy every minute,” a smug male voice said.
“Enjoy what?” someone else snapped back, incredulous.
Wen Yin smoothed her skirt as best she could. There was no hiding how wet she was, but she kept her tone even. Caught in the act, Qi Siran’s voice shook—a guilty stammer. For once he didn’t have the arrogance to talk his way out.
She instinctively reached for Shao’s hand—and he, moving with single-minded purpose, brusquely brushed her fingers away and barked, “Open the door!”
The staff understood immediately: a door that wouldn’t lock at a big event was an embarrassment, and they moved quickly to fix it. Someone pried at the latch like a crowbar. Moments later the lock gave.
When the door swung open, the staff turned their faces away at the sight of Wen Yin’s disheveled, dripping form. Shao didn’t hesitate. He stripped off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders, then scooped her up and carried her out like a prize.
“I’m just a little wet—my legs are fine,” Wen Yin murmured, nestling into his arms in a way that was almost obedient.
“And yet you act as if this is nothing,” she added, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a small, unguarded smile.
Shao’s usual calm sharpened into a rare edge of anger. “Do you think a chill won’t catch you?” he demanded, tightening his hold. The wet fabric pressed cold against his chest, but his body warmed in the contact, the urgency in his movements blurring into something fierce and protective.
For now, at least, the chaos of the reception fell away.