Shen Zhaoyi had no appetite. The phone in her pocket kept vibrating, but she ignored it. When she lowered her gaze and glanced at her watch, the First Madam, Jiang Liuxun, seized the chance to comment:
“Is the food not to your taste? Zhaoyi, why have you lost so much weight?”
Everyone turned to look at her. Shen Zhaoyi dabbed her fingers with a napkin and said calmly:
“No, it’s just too hot these days. I can’t eat much.”
Jiang Liuxun’s nephew, Jiang Hao, pretended to joke:
“Zhaoyi’s gotten used to fine delicacies, no wonder she can’t eat plain food anymore. A friend even told me she was spotted at Jinyu Manor the other day—looking all high and mighty.”
The atmosphere shifted subtly. Just a few days ago, Lu Yanzhou’s welcome banquet had been hosted at Jinyu Manor. That exclusive restaurant in the capital had been booked for two entire days.
Shen Renxin demanded sharply:
“What were you doing at Jinyu Manor?”
Shen Zhaoyi didn’t flinch. She lied with composure:
“I was helping Lan Yu park his car.”
Shen Renxin’s murky gaze lingered on her, but when she turned and met his eyes steadily, he had no choice but to believe. Everyone knew that when she was a child, she had once saved a schoolmate of noble birth during a swimming accident.
Second House’s nephew, Zheng Hao, chuckled:
“Then Zhaoyi had better cling tightly to that rope. Climbing on your own won’t do. Only if the Shen family prospers can you stand firmly, right?”
Shen Zhaoyi said nothing. Shen Renxin spoke first:
“What’s there to expect of her? People just use her to run errands, nothing more. How would they ever give her real face? A young lady helping someone park cars—she’s not even as good as the mistresses those rich brats keep outside. Not even a plaything.”
Saying such words before everyone made the others snicker. Song Miao was furious, her face flushed red, but Shen Zhaoyi didn’t feel humiliated at all.
Harsh as it sounded, technically Shen Renxin wasn’t wrong. Shen Zhaoyi had always been self-aware. She never dared be too optimistic about whether that circle would truly accept her. Status and class were a gulf as wide as heaven and earth.
Still, she thought, compared to this place, it was much better out there. Whether those young men saw her as a true friend or not, at least they saw her as a person.
Shen Zhaoyi nodded in agreement, neither humble nor arrogant:
“That’s right. I’m just a gofer, I don’t have a say in anything.”
Not to mention she would never do anything for the Shen family—she wouldn’t even use those connections for her own business. That was a strict boundary she upheld.
Shen Zhaoyi, from head to toe, from gaze to smile, was never pure. But this one intention of hers was pure. She had to guard it with all her strength.
Everyone had been waiting for her to lose face, but since she looked indifferent, they lost interest. The topic shifted to the marriage prospects of the Third House’s eldest daughter.
The clock pointed barely to eight. It was still a long way until she could leave.
Shen Zhaoyi slipped into a side hall for air. She never took work calls at the old mansion. Bored, she stood by the window and watched the rain.
The typhoon blew violently but dragged on without leaving cleanly, trailing its tail. Night rain lashed against the wide sycamore trees with a rustling sound; crabapple petals scattered across the courtyard. Raindrops splattered against the flagstones, rising into a fine mist.
Shen Zhaoyi pushed a few damp strands of hair behind her ear, but her mind was far from calm.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a reflection—the copper mirror under the veranda revealed a figure.
“Zhaoyi.”
The voice was gentle, but carried undeniable weight.
It was Jiang Liu, holding an oil-paper umbrella. Her sleeves fluttered in the night wind.
“Your father lost his temper and spoke too harshly. Don’t take it to heart.”
Shen Zhaoyi turned, lowered her gaze, lips curving into a faint smile.
“Madam is too serious. I’m not that delicate.”
Jiang Liu studied her for a moment, eyes deep, probing.
“Zhaoyi, you must understand—after all, the Shen family is your root. Instead of chasing illusory ties outside, you should secure a place here. If you truly have the will, I’ll speak for you.”
Her words were soft, yet like hidden currents.
Shen Zhaoyi sneered inwardly. She could easily hear the real intent—this was no comfort, but testing and pulling her in. Outwardly, she stayed composed.
“Your kindness, Madam, I understand.”
Before her words even faded, footsteps came from the other side of the corridor.
Zheng Hao lifted the curtain, leaning lazily against the doorframe.
“My, Madam really does care for Zhaoyi, doesn’t she? But Zhaoyi ought to repay such kindness. Otherwise, raising a thankless wolf would be a shame.”
Shen Zhaoyi raised her eyes, calm yet as sharp as needles.
“You’re right. But even a wolf, no matter how despicable, won’t lower its head to grovel like a house dog.”
The air froze instantly.
Jiang Liu’s gaze flickered, then quickly smoothed over as if nothing had been said.
“The night wind is strong. Don’t stay too long.”
She turned and left.
Zheng Hao gave a cold snort and followed.
The rain grew fiercer, wind howling. Shen Zhaoyi lowered her eyes, her heart a still pool.
She thought of cutting fruit with a knife, when suddenly a hand clapped her shoulder from behind. Shen Zhaoyi reacted instantly, jerking aside, knife raised toward the intruder.
The man hastily pulled back his hand, raising both palms in surrender, grinning with his gums showing:
“Ah Yi, it’s me.”
Shen Zhaoyi stepped forward half a pace, knife still in hand, slicing the air with a few sharp gestures.
“So what if it’s you? Step back.”
She didn’t need to look—she could tell from the rancid smell which disgusting fly it was.
Second Uncle Zheng Quan still smiled, pointing at the knife in her hand.
“Put that down first. I just haven’t seen you in a while, wanted to chat.”
Shen Zhaoyi ignored him. Zheng Quan added,
“Peace in the family brings prosperity. If your father sees this, he’ll scold you again.”
“Let him see.”
The stairwell light fell on her face. Without a smile, her features carried a faint chill. Shen Zhaoyi tilted her head slightly:
“You think you can send me back to Xiaogang Mountain again?”
Zheng Quan’s smile faltered. He licked his teeth.
Xiaogang Mountain was the capital’s psychiatric asylum, housing people with special identities: officials’ mistresses and illegitimate children, high-level political prisoners, deranged celebrities. Shen Zhaoyi had been locked there for five years, starting at the age of ten.
She thrust the knife an inch closer, pointing it directly at his brow, tapping lightly as she said in an even voice:
“You can’t do it anymore. But I can always cut your fingers off again.”
The blade was far too close. Zheng Quan’s greedy, clouded eyes finally flinched.
When Shen Zhaoyi had first been taken back to the Shen family at ten, she’d been locked in a room during a nap by Zheng Quan. He touched the child’s feet, tried to strip off her socks. But Shen Zhaoyi had been unnervingly sharp and wary—almost instantly she’d kicked down hard on his wrist.
Zheng Quan cried out in pain, slapped her, grabbed her hair. But little Shen Zhaoyi, vicious and taciturn, didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the scissors on her desk and snipped at his fingers.
She had never been a fragile young miss. She was a wild child raised with no discipline, surviving by tooth and claw—a feral dog bristling with thorns. Zheng Quan bled all over her spikes.
When servants rushed over, alarmed by his screams echoing through the hall, Shen Zhaoyi was close to piercing his palm through, and already aiming for his eyes.
The incident caused an uproar. The doctor who treated him said his right hand might be permanently disabled. Madam Zheng Xin of the Second House kicked Shen Zhaoyi on the spot, even slapped Song Qing, and then wept, raged, threatened suicide—demanding Shen Renxin give her brother justice.
Everyone in the family looked at Shen Zhaoyi as if she were a monster. What normal child was that cruel, nearly killing someone?
Shen Renxin was furious. He ordered the family doctor to inject her with sedatives and produced a psychiatric diagnosis. Then he had her confined in Xiaogang Mountain.
Now, Shen Zhaoyi withdrew the knife, not sparing Zheng Quan a glance, and continued cutting fruit.
“You know me. Barefooted, I don’t fear those with shoes. I say what I mean, and I’ll do it.”
Zheng Quan had never gained the upper hand with her before, and now even less. He looked greedily at her beautiful profile—there was something irresistibly alluring in her mix of softness and defiance. But he also feared her madness. Because he knew—she really would drive that knife into his eye.
