Wen Yining first heard the name “Xi Yu” when she was fifteen.
That day, she had just finished ballet class. Her toes were aching, and her hair, which had been pinned up all day, had just been let down, drooping in curls over her shoulders.
Still in her leotard with a cardigan thrown over it, she sat down at the dining table. She was so exhausted she had no appetite, using her chopsticks to pick up individual grains of rice and chewing them one by one.
Father Wen suddenly put down his chopsticks, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. “The heir of the Xi family, Xi Yu—he is the man you will marry in the future.”
Wen Yining’s chopsticks faltered, and the grains of rice fell back into her bowl.
“Why?” She looked up, glancing at Father Wen and then at Mother Wen.
Mother Wen was busy placing food into Wen Nanxing’s bowl.
Wen Nanxing was three years older than Wen Yining and the only biological son of the Wen family. At that moment, he was shoveling food into his mouth with his head down, completely uninterested in the conversation.
Only after placing a piece of sweet and sour pork rib in his bowl did Mother Wen leisurely turn her head to look at Wen Yining.
“Because the Wen family only has you as a daughter,” Mother Wen said with a tone of matter-of-fact calmness. “Nanxing will take over the company in the future, but you know what his personality is like. The Wen family needs a backing. The Xi family is that backing.”
Wen Yining instinctively glanced at Wen Nanxing.
Her brother was currently biting into a rib, sauce staining the corners of his mouth. He grinned at her, seemingly unfazed by the implication that he was incompetent.
Mother Wen continued, her voice quiet but every word clear: “You came to the Wen family when you were three. We provided your food, your clothes, and your education. Yining, it’s time you showed some maturity.”
The dining table fell silent for a moment.
Wen Yining lowered her head, rested her chopsticks on the rim of her bowl, and whispered, “I understand.”
That year, she didn’t quite understand what a “political marriage” truly meant.
She only knew that from that day on, her life changed completely.
Previously, she had only attended ordinary hobby classes—piano was just for fun, and drawing was just doodling.
But after that day, her schedule was packed tight.
After school, it was ballet on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; piano on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On the weekends, it was tea ceremony in the mornings and etiquette in the afternoons, with time squeezed in for French and floral arrangement.
Mother Wen hired specialized tutors to teach her at home. Every lesson had to be recorded, and her progress was checked afterward.
“Your fingers need to be softer. When holding the teacup, don’t let your wrist collapse.” The tea ceremony teacher was a woman in her fifties who spoke softly but held extremely strict requirements.
Wen Yining practiced the same movement over and over until her arms were too sore to lift, and small red heat spots were scalded onto her wrists.
In ballet class, as she stood on her tiptoes at the barre, the teacher would tap her calves with a wooden stick. “Straighten up! Don’t bend your knees!” Sweat poured down her neck, soaking the collar of her leotard.
The piano teacher required her to practice for two hours every day. Her fingertips went numb, and her nails were trimmed so short that hitting the keys was painful.
Wen Nanxing once passed by the music room and leaned against the doorframe to watch her practice, saying with a grin, “Little sister, you’ve got it rough.”
Wen Yining ignored him.
Wen Nanxing added, “But once you marry into that family, I’ll have a solid backing. You’d better work hard and don’t slack off.”
Wen Yining didn’t say a word; she simply threw her sheet music at him.
The days passed one by one.
Wen Yining grew from fifteen to twenty-three, transforming from a middle schooler in a ponytail and uniform into a young lady of the Wen family who knew how to wear high heels, apply light makeup, and smile gracefully at banquets.
She became an excellent ballet dancer, her tea ceremony was fluid and graceful, and she passed her level ten piano exam.
Mother Wen was very satisfied with the results of her cultivation.
As for Wen Yining herself? She wasn’t sure.
At first, she thought all of this was for her own good—wasn’t it a good thing for a girl to learn some talents?
But gradually, she realized these talents were never for her benefit.
No one cared if she actually liked ballet, and no one asked if she was willing to perform a piano piece at a banquet.
She was like a meticulously pruned bonsai; every branch was fixed with iron wire, forced to grow in the direction others desired.
She was twenty-three now.
It was time to get married.
But a question kept surfacing in her mind.
Why?
Why did she have to marry a man she had barely met? Why did her life have to be dragged down by a wastrel like Wen Nanxing? Why had she spent so many years learning ballet, tea ceremony, and piano, only to serve as a presentable showpiece in front of the Xi family heir?
But she didn’t say it out loud.
Because she knew the answer: simply because she was the Wen family’s adopted daughter.
Simply because the Wen family had raised her for fifteen years, and every cent spent over those two decades had to be repaid.
Mother Wen had made it very clear, and more than once: “Yining, you must understand that you are not my biological child. I have no obligation to you. But the Wen family has given you everything; you must know how to be grateful.”
Grateful.
Wen Yining chewed on those words, feeling they were like a sugar-coated pill—bitter once swallowed.
Later, she began to learn how to go through the motions.
She still went to ballet, but her movements were no longer so forceful; she slacked off whenever possible. In tea ceremony, her posture while holding the cup remained standard, but her eyes were empty, like a pre-programmed machine. She practiced piano less and less, and when Mother Wen asked, she claimed she had too much homework.
What truly made her lose her patience were the endless banquets.
At sixteen, the first time she was pushed forward to greet Xi Yu, she was so nervous her palms sweated, and she stuttered a “Hello.” He didn’t even lift an eyelid.
At seventeen, the second time, she walked over holding a glass of champagne. Xi Yu was surrounded by a crowd, and she waited on her tiptoes for ages. In the end, it was the assistant beside Xi Yu who took the glass, saying, “Master Xi doesn’t drink champagne.” Wen Yining felt like a fool.
The third time she was seventeen, she switched to a glass of whiskey. This time, Xi Yu did take it, but he only gave her a single look, said nothing, and turned back to talk to others. Wen Yining stood there, the gazes of the people around her stinging like needles.
Before every banquet, Mother Wen would nag her with those same words and push her out to gain some visibility in front of Xi Yu.
“Xi Yu will be there tonight. Remember to say hello.”
“Do you see Xi Yu? Go over and offer a toast.”
“Why didn’t you talk to him again? Do you have any idea how much that daughter from the Chen family was hovering around him today?”
Wen Yining grew increasingly annoyed.
It wasn’t Xi Yu she was annoyed with.
Although she didn’t like him, her frustration came more from the feeling of being used as a tool.
She was like an actress repeatedly pushed onto a stage without lines or a script, while the lights hit her and everyone waited for her to put on a good show.
But she had no idea what she was supposed to act out.
And as for Xi Yu, how should she put it…
In her few limited interactions, Wen Yining had reached a conclusion: this man had absolutely no interest in women.
She had observed him more than once.
At banquets, socialites and heiresses dressed in their finest would flock around him—some winking, some pretending to accidentally brush against his arm, others approaching him with drinks.
Xi Yu’s reaction was always the same: polite but cold, civil but distant.
The way he looked at those women was no different from how he looked at the table next to them.
Once, Wen Yining even saw a stunningly beautiful woman in a red dress talk to him for five minutes, smiling like a flower and exuding charm. In the end, Xi Yu only gave a one-word response: “Mhm.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Standing in a corner with her juice, a bold theory popped into Wen Yining’s head.
She hadn’t told anyone about this theory, but every time she was told to approach Xi Yu, it would jump out in her mind, growing stronger and stronger.
This guy is totally gay.
Once that thought took root, it grew like crazy.
The more Wen Yining thought about it, the more sense it made.
Xi Yu was nearly twenty-six, yet he had never made any relationship public, and there wasn’t even any tabloid gossip.
There wasn’t a single woman he had been rumored with, but someone had once photographed him dining with a male friend, and gossip accounts had milked that photo for days.
Of course, the article was deleted very quickly—the Xi family’s PR team wasn’t to be trifled with.
But Wen Yining believed it.
She believed it wholeheartedly.
So, when she held two glasses of wine and approached Xi Yu for the third or fourth time, her mindset had completely shifted.
Before, she would have been nervous, embarrassed, and felt like a fool.
Now, she just found it hilarious.
A gay man—and you’re insisting I marry him? Isn’t this just a joke?