1967, Shanghai, the Chen Mansion.
On an intricately carved bed lay a young girl with delicate features and skin like creamy jade, resembling a porcelain doll carefully nurtured. Her brows were furrowed, her breathing grew rapid, and fine beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, as if trapped in a nightmare she could not awaken from.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
A rapid knock on the door sounded, followed by a woman’s slightly anxious voice:
“Miss, are you alright? Why aren’t you up for breakfast yet at this hour?”
The voice carried genuine concern, slipping through the slightly open door.
Chen Shuang suddenly opened her eyes, like a drowning person finally breaking the surface, clutching her chest and gasping. She scanned her surroundings with caution—this was not her apartment bedroom cluttered with design drafts and modern abstract paintings.
An elaborately carved rosewood bed with pale blue silk drapes hung above. On the European-style vanity, a gilded oval mirror reflected her panic-stricken face. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting shifting shadows on the polished teak floor. The air carried faint scents of sandalwood and old books, mingling with the subtle fragrance of magnolia in the early summer morning.
What’s going on? Where am I?
A flood of memories that didn’t belong to her poured into her mind like a dam breaking.
Chen Shuang, 21 years old, the sole legitimate heir of the Chen family in Shanghai. Her father, Chen Yixuan, an engineer returned from studying in France; her mother, Lin Wanyi, from a scholarly family. A week ago, they died in a mysterious car accident, leaving their only daughter in this grand French-style mansion.
Then another clearer memory appeared, with an almost “God’s-eye view”—this wasn’t her past, but a period novel she had skimmed on a business flight: Hong Kong Storms: Rebirth of the Pearl in Hand!
The world spun.
She, a 21st-century interior designer who had collapsed from exhaustion after three consecutive all-nighters, had transmigrated into this book!
Even more absurdly, she wasn’t the story’s radiant protagonist destined for glory, but the foolish supporting character—Chen Shuang—betrayed by her family, sold to a remote mountain village, and ultimately drowned.
The plot replayed rapidly in her mind: after her parents’ deaths, the original Chen Shuang was grief-stricken and tricked by her seemingly caring uncle Chen Yian’s family. She revealed the hidden location of the family inheritance and inadvertently signed over the property. Once the inheritance was looted, her aunt He Yulan sold her to a lonely old bachelor in a northwest valley under the guise of marriage. An attempted escape ended in her falling into a raging river, meeting her tragic end.
Meanwhile, the uncle’s family absconded to Hong Kong with the Chen fortune. The cousin Chen Min (the book’s heroine), while organizing the family’s treasures, accidentally cut her finger on a jade bracelet, inadvertently activating the spiritual spring space hidden within. Though she couldn’t enter it or heal with it, it could store and preserve items. Using this and her foresight, Chen Min thrived in Hong Kong, met a top-tier heir, and played out a “run with the ball” sweet romance, eventually securing her position as a wealthy young lady.
As for the original Chen Shuang’s fiancé, He Yanzhi… little was mentioned, only that he rose to a high position, dealt mercilessly with her corrupt uncle’s family after the reforms, sending them to the execution grounds, avenging the original Chen Shuang. He reportedly never married.
“Miss? Miss, say something, don’t scare Madam Zhou!” the voice outside grew more urgent.
Chen Shuang inhaled deeply, forcing herself to calm down. Being inside a book was a fact now; panic wouldn’t help. The priority was survival—and rewriting that damned plot!
“I’m fine, Madam Zhou,” she said, her voice hoarse from just waking but mimicking the tone of the original Chen Shuang. “I didn’t sleep well last night and had a nightmare. I’ll get up now and be down soon.”
“Ah, good, good!” Madam Zhou sighed in relief. “Breakfast has been kept warm. Don’t rush, take your time.”
The footsteps faded. Chen Shuang lifted the silk blanket and stepped barefoot onto the cool floor. She walked to the vanity and carefully examined the girl in the mirror.
Porcelain-white skin, delicately drawn brows and eyes, a perfect oval face, and almond-shaped eyes still glistening with lingering fright. A well-defined nose and pale pink lips. Beautiful—a refined beauty shaped by wealth and upbringing, untouched by the world, yet fragile and tender. At twenty-one, a flower in her prime, yet the book had her withering so easily.
She opened the heavy rosewood wardrobe, filled with clothes. Velvet qipaos embroidered with intricate flowers and birds, lace dresses exuding French elegance, silk robes soft as clouds… each exquisite, yet each seemed like a target in the coming storm.
Her fingers passed over the garments, finally resting on the bottom. There lay simple cotton qipaos, plain and unremarkable—probably her mother’s early acquisitions or servants’ practical wear. She picked a moon-white one, quickly changed, and braided her waist-length hair into a simple plait resting on her chest.
Her wrist felt empty. She remembered something and opened the lowest drawer of the vanity. Inside was a small purple sandalwood box. Opening it, a white jade bracelet lay on black velvet. The jade was warm and smooth to the touch—premium Hetian jade. This was one of the Chen family’s true heirlooms. The original Chen Shuang had never worn it, finding it old-fashioned compared to flashy gold-and-jewel jewelry.
Without hesitation, Chen Shuang slid it onto her wrist. The cool jade warmed quickly with her body heat. She knew that in the chaotic times to come, sometimes the most obvious hiding place was the safest.
Having prepared herself, she opened the door. The long corridor was carpeted thickly, muffling her steps. As she reached the staircase corner, muffled voices drifted up from the living room.
“…When will Shuangshuang come down? I specifically came to invite her for a meal and introduce some young people. Staying home all the time isn’t right,” said a warm, honeyed female voice.
It was her aunt, He Yulan.
Chen Shuang paused, peering down through the carved stair railing.
He Yulan wore a tailored indigo qipao, hair neatly tied in a bun, sitting elegantly on the velvet sofa. On her wrist was a jade bangle of decent quality—one of her mother Lin Wanyi’s seldom-worn pieces, taken last month under the pretense of “matching an outfit” and never returned.
Fragments of the original Chen Shuang’s memories surged: this ever-smiling, seemingly kind aunt would, three months later, personally push her onto a broken tractor bound for the northwest, accept the wrinkled 500 yuan from a human trafficker, all while wearing that flawless, feigned smile of concern.
A chill ran through Chen Shuang, though she dared not show it. She adjusted her breath, forcing a pale, exhausted expression befitting “a newly orphaned, frightened girl,” and slowly descended the stairs.
The wooden steps creaked softly.
He Yulan looked up, her smile instantly warmer and more eager. “Shuangshuang has come down? Let me see! Oh, such a pale face—didn’t sleep well again?”
She stood to meet Chen Shuang naturally, reaching for her hand. The gesture was intimate, yet her fingertips felt unusually cold.
“Aunt,” Chen Shuang slightly turned, as if casually avoiding her hand, speaking softly with just the right weak tone: “You’re here. I… my head hurts this morning; I might skip lunch.”
“Oh, headaches mean you need to get out and walk!” He Yulan paused mid-air, then withdrew her hand casually, smile unchanged. “Being alone in this empty mansion stirs memories and sorrow. Your uncle instructed me to care for you; we are family, never be distant.”
Her emphasis on “care” was particularly earnest.
Chen Shuang lowered her gaze, eyes falling on the warm white jade bangle, lashes hiding the cold beneath. Looking up, her eyes were slightly reddened.
“Aunt,” she said with a quivering voice, thick with nasal tone, “I… I dreamed of my parents last night.”
He Yulan’s smile stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“They stood in a white mist, faces unclear, repeating ‘stay strong… stay strong…’” Chen Shuang’s tears brimmed but didn’t fall. “I asked what to stay strong for, they only shook their heads and disappeared… Aunt, should I go to the temple, light incense, and pray more for them?”
This seemed effective. At the mention of the recently deceased brother and sister-in-law, He Yulan’s eyes flickered with faint distaste and avoidance—not guilt or grief, but instinctive avoidance of “bad luck.” She withdrew her hand, smile slightly faded, voice now perfunctory:
“Yes, you should light incense to show respect. But Shuangshuang, life must go on. Your parents’ spirits would want you to eat well, sleep well, and live happily.”
“I know.” Chen Shuang dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, as if wiping nonexistent tears, voice firming. “My parents often said labor is honorable; earning with your own hands brings peace. So… next week, I’ll ask at the street office about work I can do. I’m twenty-one, I can’t just stay home or rely on elders.”
She paused, looking at He Yulan sincerely. “Thank you for the rice and flour you sent last time; I haven’t finished it yet.”
He Yulan was genuinely stunned. The pampered Chen heiress voluntarily seeking work? Incredible.
And that “aid”… He Yulan’s heart skipped. She had indeed sent small amounts of grain before, but each visit to the mansion she’d “incidentally” added a few trinkets—an unremarkable painting, an ordinary teacup set, a small silver ornament. The original Chen Shuang, naive, had accepted it as care. But hearing Chen Shuang now…
He Yulan re-evaluated her niece. Still pale and fragile, yet her eyes held something different, unreadable.
“Shuangshuang, you’re young; finding work can wait…” He Yulan forced a laugh, trying to redirect the conversation. “Focus on your health first. I can visit in a few days, or have Minmin keep you company. She always mentions you.”
“Thank you, Aunt and Minmin,” Chen Shuang bowed slightly, polite but distant. “I need solitude for now. Once I secure work, I will visit uncle and aunt.”
He Yulan knew her plan failed. Her gentle smile vanished, leaving only polite civility: “Then… rest well. Tell me if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Aunt.”
After He Yulan left, Chen Shuang stood in the empty foyer, unmoving.
Sunlight through stained glass cast colorful yet cold patterns on the floor. The three-story French-style mansion was terrifyingly silent. The Persian carpet, Western paintings, grand piano… every item spoke of past luxury and taste, yet each could become evidence of “bourgeois decadence.”
Her father once hosted small art salons here; her mother’s piano had filled every dusk. This house was their love’s crystallization, a fortress for their daughter.
Now, the owner was gone, the sole heir trapped unknowingly. Every brick, every ornament, could become a stone against her.
“Miss,” Madam Zhou appeared with a cup of warm water, concern etched on her face, “do you really intend to find work at the street office?”
Chen Shuang took the cup, warmth seeping through the porcelain, easing her chill. She looked at Madam Zhou, who had cared for her since birth.
“Yes, Madam Zhou,” Chen Shuang said calmly. “Not just go, but start immediately.”
She paused, asking, “How long have you been with our family?”
“Since the year before you were born—22 years now,” Madam Zhou replied.
“Twenty-two years…” Chen Shuang’s tone slowed. “Madam Zhou, my parents are gone, this world… you’ve seen, is unstable. I’ll find you a safe place in the countryside and give you money to live comfortably, alright?”
“Miss!” Madam Zhou’s eyes reddened, voice choking. “Are you sending me away? Your mother begged me to care for you! I promised! I’ll stay wherever you are! Even… even eating rough meals, I’ll stay by your side!”
Looking into Madam Zhou’s unwavering loyalty, Chen Shuang felt a mix of emotions. In the original plot, Madam Zhou, after being unable to save the sold original Chen Shuang, eventually drowned herself in the Huangpu River on a rainy night.
This was a loyal servant, sincere—but sometimes loyalty alone is too fragile in the coming storm.
Yet now, seeing Madam Zhou’s tearful determination, Chen Shuang knew she couldn’t send her away.
She reached out, gently holding Madam Zhou’s trembling arm.
“Alright, Madam Zhou, we won’t separate,” Chen Shuang said softly, with resolute strength. “But we must survive—truly survive. From today, we have work to do.”
Madam Zhou wiped her tears and nodded firmly. “Miss, tell me what to do.”
Chen Shuang surveyed the exquisite yet perilous mansion, speaking slowly, word by word:
“The first thing we must do is make this house look… a little ‘poor.’”