Shao Yinan’s hand paused for a moment when he heard Wen Yin’s words. Then, carefully and deliberately, he rested both palms on her waist, steady and sure.
“Yin.”
His low voice sounded from above her head just as she happened to tilt her face up. She met a pair of dark, fathomless eyes—those peach-blossom black irises that always seemed to hold more than they revealed.
He looked at her with a strangely earnest expression. “I didn’t expect you’d change the subject so quickly.”
The sentence was blunt, almost naïve, and threaded through it was a tentative caution—an unspoken test. Wen Yin couldn’t help smiling at the small, nervous vulnerability displayed so plainly on his face.
“I feel like you’re more nervous about this than I am,” she teased.
Seeing her relaxed, even smiling, Shao Yinan let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Lately, watching Wen Yin so absorbed in work had made him oddly relieved. Busy people forget things; busy people put their pain on the back burner. He’d been terrified the night she’d looked utterly broken—he’d never seen that side of her. Even on that dating show, facing those three men who betrayed her and ran after their old flames, Wen Yin hadn’t shed a single tear. But this—this had cut deep.
After that night he’d stayed up with her, talked to her, held her. For weeks afterward he’d been careful not to bring the subject up again, not wanting to stir a wound he thought she might not be ready to reopen. He hadn’t realized how obvious his restraint had been; Wen Yin had noticed the way he always held back, and it moved her. She knew he loved her, and she understood why he’d tried to shield her—he didn’t want to tell her until things were clearer because he feared she couldn’t bear it.
His protectiveness made her want to be stronger, to stop giving him reasons to worry. The busyness that had taken over her life wasn’t an avoidance tactic; it had purpose. She was trying to help her grandfather, and in doing so she was healing herself. Day by day the rawness eased. The longer she thought about it, the more she knew running from the truth wouldn’t solve anything. Recently she’d finally decided she had to face it.
Shao Yinan reached out and pinched the tip of her nose. “I thought you’d recoil from this.”
Wen Yin tilted her head, then looked up at him with that sly smile that could disarm. “Recoil? At the idea that my birth parents are from one of the country’s top families? I’d probably wake up laughing if someone told me that in my sleep.”
Her flippancy loosened the tension between them. Shao Yinan chuckled; the rigid atmosphere softened.
“So you talked to Mrs. Qi?” he asked. He didn’t need her answer to guess she had—otherwise she wouldn’t have agreed to the Qi family’s recognition banquet.
Wen Yin’s thoughts drifted back to their meeting. Mrs. Qi had chosen a discreet private room and had been waiting when Wen Yin arrived. The moment Wen Yin sat down, Mrs. Qi’s eyes reddened. She gave Wen Yin a small, embarrassed smile and, when she realized she’d lost her composure, dabbed hurriedly at the corner of her eyes.
“Excuse me, I—I’m sorry,” she muttered, voice low.
Even after all this time, Wen Yin could see how worn Mrs. Qi looked. The makeup was immaculate, but there were dark rings beneath her eyes and a hollowness at the temples. She hardly seemed to have slept. For a moment any resentment Wen Yin might have felt dissolved into concern.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Wen Yin said quietly.
Mrs. Qi met her gaze and, seeing the worry in Wen Yin’s eyes, forced a lighter smile. “Why don’t you get whatever you feel like eating? We can dine and talk.”
They were in a low-key, tucked-away tea shop—just the kind of place that took care over its pastries. Wen Yin had heard their desserts praised; she suspected Mrs. Qi had chosen the venue with intention.
Scanning the menu, Wen Yin’s mind flashed back to the day she first met her father—his curt, hurried manner had been the very definition of careless. She’d been dazed and exhausted, sitting in a hospital corridor, worrying about her grandmother’s medical bills, when a sharply dressed man in an expensive suit had appeared. Even though she came from humble means, she could tell at a glance the suit had cost far more than anything she’d seen. He’d glanced at her with obvious contempt and irritation, issued a few clipped instructions to an assistant, and left the assistant to explain the situation before walking away as if he could no longer bear the sight of them. That had been the day she’d learned about her origins—brusque, unsentimental, completely devoid of warmth.
Standing opposite Mrs. Qi now, whose manner was the polar opposite, Wen Yin felt an odd ache in her throat. She wasn’t a frightened teenager anymore—she could take care of herself—but the way Mrs. Qi had steadied herself and chosen gentleness over indifference felt, somehow, like the right way to begin a reconciliation.
They ordered a few pastries and the room fell quiet. Mrs. Qi kept studying Wen Yin, searching for the words she’d rehearsed but found she couldn’t bring out—seeing Wen Yin in person had scattered them. She picked up her teacup, sipped, and tried to smooth the tremor from her voice.
She had expected reproach. She had expected anger, maybe a torrent of blame for not searching sooner—years of suffering traced, in her mind, back to the day she’d failed to be the mother she should have been. The pang of guilt over that failure had never left her.
“Mrs. Qi,” Wen Yin said.