Their struggle ended without a clear victor. In the end Wen Zhi stomped off, cheeks flushed with indignation.
She had finally seen through it: Mrs. Qi must have been hiding something about Qi Siran—about the real heiress—so she came to take it out on Wen Zhi. Once Wen Zhi understood that, she allowed herself a cool, contemptuous smile. Just a pretender trying her luck—what did she have to do with Wen Zhi? If anything, the fake daughters in top families were the bigger jokes. And from the looks of it, Mrs. Qi’s favor didn’t even fall on that girl; what was Qi Siran trying to show off for in front of her, anyway?
—
Wen Yin was surprised to find Wen Zeyu in the studio.
He hadn’t been coming by much lately; she hadn’t expected him to drop in at all.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “I haven’t been around the studio much; I left things to Jiu Jiu. Work’s been crazy.”
He’d come because it had been too long since they’d seen one another. Wen Yin, still a little out of breath from hurrying over, watched him with a small, guilty smile. He reached out and ruffled her hair, helplessness softening his voice.
“I told you I could come find you. Why did you make the trip here?”
“You came all this way to see me. I couldn’t let you come for nothing,” she said, linking her arm through his.
Seeing him there—gentle and poised—stirred an ache in her chest. There was another reason she’d wanted to talk to him: it was time he knew what had been going on.
“Dinner’s on me tonight. What do you want to eat?” she asked with a teasing little flap of her hand.
He smiled, indulgent as ever. “Whatever you want. Pick.”
Wen Yin puckered her lips, thinking. Her eyes brightened with an idea. “Hotpot?”
Wen Zeyu laughed and tapped her head. “You’re such a little glutton. Didn’t Shao Yinan ever let you go hungry?”
The name narrowed his gaze for the briefest moment; the tone carried a warning. Wen Yin rolled her eyes and shook her head quickly, protective of Shao Yinan even as she tried to soothe her brother.
“He does take me out to eat a lot,” she said. Wen Zeyu snorted through his nose.
“Once you marry someone, he’s like water spilled—gone.” His voice was full of mock outrage, but the slant of his eyes at her was unmistakable: jealous.
Wen Yin laughed and squeezed his arm, placating him with a smile. “If you bring it up, I actually have good news. We’re planning the wedding now. When the date’s set, I’ll deliver the invitation to you in person.”
He knew how hard the two of them had fought for their relationship. And Shao Yinan was the sort of man who could protect her. Wen Zeyu felt a reluctant swell of blessing and loss: the chubby little bundle of a sister he’d watched grow up had been taken, in a way, by life. He could only smile and wish them well.
“If you two have set a date, then I can only wish you happiness,” he said, then drove them to Wen Yin’s favorite hotpot place. They picked a private room and waited for the courses, talking the easy conversation of siblings who’d missed each other. Wen Yin had been consumed with matters concerning their grandfather lately; she’d been neglectful of everyone else. Now, with Wen Zeyu sitting across from her, there were things she needed to say.
The subject drifted back to the wedding. After a beat of consideration, Wen Zeyu asked, “Have you told Dad about the wedding?”
At the mention of their father, Wen Yin fell quiet. Her knowledge that he wasn’t her biological dad had explained a lot of the old favoritism; it had thinned whatever filial attachment she’d had.
She wanted to tell Wen Zeyu—wanted to tell someone—but the words felt like lumps in her throat. He watched her with concern and, thinking the silence was just anger at their father, tried to reason with her.
“Regardless, he is your father. He should be at your wedding. I know you resent what he did in the past, but he’s changed.” He hesitated, then added, “Lately he’s been asking about you more, and he’s stopped supporting Wen Zhi financially. Now Wen Zhi is surviving on the tens of thousands I send her each month.”
He sounded almost embarrassed by the information, as if he were reporting gossip. “I’m not trying to persuade you. I just want your wedding to feel complete.”
When Wen Yin still didn’t answer, he lowered his head, awkward. If he had faced that same despair as a young man, he admitted, he might have hated the man who caused it. Blood ties didn’t automatically mean forgiveness. He was prepared to leave the choice to Wen Yin. If she didn’t want to forgive, she didn’t have to.
“Yin,” he said more gently, “I don’t mean anything by it. If you don’t want him there, we won’t invite him.”
Her eyes grew wet at that. After thinking for a long moment, she finally voiced the thought that had been eating at her for months—words she had rehearsed and shelved more than once.
“Brother... what if I’m not Dad’s biological daughter...?”
Her voice dropped until it was almost swallowed by the quiet room. The sentence landed with a weight that made the clink of cutlery sound very distant.
Wen Zeyu’s pupils shrank. He forced a bitter little smile and said, “Don’t joke about that. How could you not be his biological daughter? You’re the real heiress we fought so hard to find—”
His sentence died the moment Wen Yin slid a sheet of paper across the table. He stopped mid-sentence, the smile frozen on his face as his eyes fell to the paper and everything in the room seemed to hold its breath.