"Have you seen that new drama?"
"No."
The TV clicked on.
[You, an illiterate fool, think you have the right to steal my man?!]
"Why are you watching this kind of soap opera?" Yǔ-péng frowned, lazily gesturing at the screen. "Can't you put on something with Peking opera singers? And seriously, why can't the love rival read?"
"Shut up. I can't hear." Mǐn-huá snapped, her eyes glued to the flickering screen.
The Mahong house felt stifling, the air heavy with stale tea and cigarette smoke. The clatter of dishes and faint shuffling sounds came from the backroom, where Fu Lanying is searching for A4 paper for his printer for their contract.
[Go ahead and cry! Cry all you want—you're nothing but a joke—]
Mǐn-huá's gaze wandered from the TV to the window, catching sight of a couple standing under the shade of a tree. Her throat tightened as she quickly looked away, but the image lingered, gnawing at her.
She needed something bigger than the sky—something she could hold in her arms, something that would truly be hers.
But after all these years, she had nothing. Eight years as his fiancée, wearing his ring, telling herself the pink news on Weibo was just gossip. Telling herself that the smiles and whispers between him and her—that other woman—meant nothing. Even now, with the engagement called off, her heart stubbornly refused to let go.
Hào Jié is like the sun, and Shǐ Gèng-xīn is Icarus, forever doomed to fly too close, knowing he would burn but unable to stop himself.
"Let's go," Mǐn-huá says, rolling her wheelchair back with the precision of a car reversing. Her brother stares at her, confused.
"But he isn't back yet. He hasn't even prepared the contract," he protests, quickly standing and hurrying after her.
"He can send it to us by QQ mail or just mail it physically," she replies coldly. "Besides, it's a waste of time waiting for hours just for him to find paper for his printer. Typing it up will take forever."
Her tone leaves no room for argument.
"Alright..." he murmurs, hesitant but unwilling to press further.
As Mǐn-huá wheels herself through the crowded street, her eyes dart around sharply, scanning for familiar faces.
Why would she let them have peace?
When she finally spots them, they're climbing into a Bentley and driving deeper into the slums. It's obvious where they're heading. Hào Jié's family is poor—he's probably going to ask for their blessing, showering them with gifts until they accept.
The Bentley isn't tinted enough to hide its contents. Gift boxes are stacked neatly in the backseat, their glossy wrapping catching the light. She recalls Hào Jié's recent Weibo post where she mentioned visiting her family.
Mǐn-huá decides not to follow them. She's not that messy. Stirring up trouble at Hào Jié's dilapidated house, likely with chickens wandering through the courtyard and meals being cooked outside on a worn wok, isn't worth her time.
She scoffs to herself, turning away. Let them have their moment of bliss in that crumbling excuse for a home.
"Where are we heading next?" Yǔ-péng asks, glancing at his sister as he moves to push her wheelchair, only to have his hand swatted away.
"The Li family banquet. Don't tell me you forgot it starts at six."
"Yeah, but it's only twelve! Shouldn't we—"
"You already ate, fatty," she cuts him off sharply, her tone laced with irritation.
"I wasn't going to..." He sighs, catching himself, already knowing she'd fat-shame him again. With a resigned glance, he calls for their driver to pick them up. Taking a cab or sharing a ride isn't safe these days, and walking would take far too long.
"You're not going to buy a dress?" he asks, noticing how eager she seems to leave.
"Dresses are overrated," she replies dismissively. "Before we head to the banquet, we're going to the nearest clothing shop to grab some suits."
"That— that doesn't— you're going to look like a man!" He stammers, staring at her in disbelief. "Just wear a dress instead! You already look masculine...don't ruin your femininity," he says with a sigh, shaking his head.
Mǐn-huá doesn't answer immediately. She can't bring herself to. She doesn't like wearing dresses anymore.
They only draw attention to the scars on her legs, the ones she's tried so hard to hide. The dress would expose the arms that's been ruined, and she already feels self-conscious about her face. She barely lets herself look in the mirror.
The only reason she's able to face the world is after watching endless Douyin videos, learning how to cover up what she can with layers of foundation.
The thought of being seen, of being judged, makes her stomach churn. The dress would make it all too obvious. But she can't say any of this aloud.
*
After leaving the clothing shop, Yǔ-péng glances at his sister, a hint of envy flickering in his eyes. She's too handsome, effortlessly so. The suit fits her perfectly, the sharp lines of the fabric ironed out, making her look even more striking. Despite the subtle tension in her features, the way she holds herself commands attention.
He can't help but feel a bit self-conscious. She's always had a way of standing out, even when she doesn't try.
"How about we switch? Purple doesn't look good on me," he says, a playful yet slightly defeated tone in his voice.
Mǐn-huá glances at him, her expression unreadable. "You really think I'm going to wear purple just because you feel awkward?" She leans back in her chair, tapping her fingers absentmindedly against the armrest.
Yǔ-péng shrugs, a little embarrassed but still teasing. "It's just that you... you look too good in everything. It's a little unfair."
"That's too damn bad. Now call Mr. Su so we can go," Mǐn-huá snaps, her patience thinning as she rolls her eyes, clearly uninterested in further conversation about her appearance.
Yǔ-péng sighs, catching her tone, and immediately pulls out his phone. "Fine, fine." His fingers hover over the screen for a moment, hesitating before he dials Mr. Su.
But their chauffeur is one step ahead, already driving over from his parking spot. He honks the horn as he pulls up, stepping out to open the door. Mǐn-huá is helped inside, her wheelchair carefully placed in the trunk. Yǔ-péng gets in last, his actions polite, like a true gentleman.
"So, are you sure we can't switch suits? Purple really brings out your eyes."
"Shut the f*ck up already. I can't hear my own thoughts."
"Okay..."
*
Meanwhile, at Hào Jié's family home, she sits at the small wooden table, nervously glancing around the cluttered room. The house is modest, with faded wallpaper peeling from the walls and the faint smell of incense lingering in the air.
"You really want to marry her?" Hào Jié's grandma asks, her voice trembling with emotion as tears form in her wrinkled eyes.
Shǐ Gèng-xīn forced a smile at the elderly woman, trying to hide his discomfort. Her yellowed teeth and cracked smile unsettled him, but it was the messy curls clinging to her scalp that caught his attention most.
He couldn't help but think of his ex-fiancée, Lài Mǐn-huá, whose mixed heritage had always felt out of place to him. It baffled him that Mrs. Lài's husband is African American—he had assumed the Lài family would never approve of such a match.
Shaking off the thoughts, Hào Jié tapped his shoulder gently. "Don't you two need to be somewhere? I don't want to delay your plans; it's getting late. Oh, have you tried my boiled fish?"
"Grandma, you always cook the best fish, but we really have to go," Hào Jié said, smiling, though the smile never reached her eyes. Ever since she'd been with Shǐ Gèng-xīn, she had eaten only the finest foods, like snow crab—not boiled fish with the eyeballs still intact. The thought of it disgusted her.
"You sure? You always loved it and asked for seconds," the elderly woman replied,Her voice trembling— it took hours for her to decide what to cook and she had hoped her granddaughter might at least take a plate home.