Madam Qi sank into the chair, staring at the paper before her. One number stood out, bold and uncompromising—
99.9 percent.
So the child really was her daughter.
A hollow feeling seized her and she slumped back, helpless. How could she face Wen Yin now? The results only proved Wen Yin was of the Qi bloodline; the truth of what had happened all those years ago still lay buried. Every time she thought of Qi Siran—headstrong, rebellious—her temples throbbed with pain. If Wen Yin were brought into the Qi household now, conflict between the two women was inevitable. After all, Qi Siran’s jealousy whenever Wen Yin appeared was obvious; rivals in love reacted that way.
It was a thorny situation.
Madam Qi pressed her lips together. They had let Wen Yin drift alone for years without looking for her. She couldn’t think of any plausible excuse to face Wen Yin with. For a moment fear rose in her chest. When she had doubted Wen Yin, she had been prepared to create contact, to pull her closer. Now—when the test proved she was truly her child—she found herself afraid to approach her.
A bitter smile ghosted across her mouth. Would the girl even want to accept her? Everything that had happened in that delivery room years ago—Madam Qi swore she would uncover the whole truth. She would not let Wen Yin waste away outside the family for decades.
A copy of the same report ended up on another desk.
Shao Yinan glanced at the secretary, who, sensing the mood, slipped out. No one knew what Madam Qi was investigating, but whatever it was looked serious. Shao lifted the file and slowly unfolded it. The moment his eyes landed on the findings, he stiffened.
He had weathered many storms, but he hadn’t expected this. Reflexively he pressed the paper flat against the desk. Beneath the white sheet lay that startling conclusion: Madam Qi and Wen Yin were related by blood.
He had entertained the thought before, but never had he imagined it would be true. If the Qi family only had one heiress, Qi Siran, then where had Wen Yin come from? Yet suddenly that question felt secondary.
Shao rubbed his forehead, resigned. He couldn’t imagine what Wen Yin’s face would look like when she learned this. He sat back in his chair, expression dark as a brewing storm—his eyes unreadable.
Time passed, the office door clicked. He tucked the folder and the report into the drawer without thinking. Outside of Wen Yin, who else would stride into his office so unbidden?
She poked her head in, carrying a neat little box. “Secretary Li said you were still here. Hope I’m not interrupting.”
Seeing her, a dozen emotions crossed Shao’s face before he let a tight smile form. He waved her in. “Not at all.”
Wen Yin moved in with the ease of someone who belonged there: put the box on the coffee table, settled onto the sofa, made herself comfortable. Everything she did was so familiar, as if she were in her own living room.
“What time are you getting off today?” she asked. “I saved the last slice of tiramisu. Want some?”
She hugged a cushion to her chest, only her dark, clear eyes visible above it. The look in those eyes struck him like a tug to the heart.
“You look pale,” she said after a moment, stepping closer. Her small, pale hand reached out and pressed to his forehead. “No fever…?”
Shao lowered his gaze. “I’m fine.” His voice was cool, measured, but there was something off about it—an edge she couldn’t quite place.
“Have you seen Wen Zeru lately?” she asked.
He hesitated, then wrapped an arm around her and drew her in, speaking slowly as if tasting each word. “Alin, have you—do you believe the story of your origins?”
The question landed like a stone. Wen Yin froze.
“What do you mean?” she asked. She had never cared much for the matter of her birth. Out in the world she was simply Wen Yin to some, a Wen family heiress to others. More than that, she was Jinjin—known online as N.A.—a popular food blogger. She didn’t confine herself to one title; if anything, being the “true daughter” of the Wens was the most ordinary of all her identities.
“My father told me I was the Wen family’s real daughter,” she said finally, voice calm. “That’s why I came back.”
She remembered those days with painful clarity. Grandma had fallen gravely ill. Wen Yin was still a minor with no means. She had watched her grandmother weaken day by day in the hospital and had felt utterly powerless. It had been the darkest time of her life—until a pair of expensive leather shoes appeared at the end of the corridor. Her father had come then, told her the truth of who she was, left money to cover her grandmother’s treatment, and brought her into the Wen household.
But in the end—grandma still…
Her voice broke and the dark eyes brimmed with tears.