The early morning sunlight filtered in through the French windows. Pei Ran opened her eyes, feeling a severe, throbbing pain in the back of her head, as if she had been hit hard with a heavy object. She instinctively reached up to rub her head, but the moment her fingers touched her skin, she suddenly froze.
This was not her hand.
Her own skin was rough, covered in a thick layer of calluses from years of hard manual labor, unlike the hands she was looking at now, which were smooth and delicate.
She sat up abruptly. The silk duvet slid down her body, revealing a wine-red silk nightgown beneath it. The thin shoulder straps hung loosely on her shoulders, and the low-cut neckline plainly exposed a patch of porcelain-white skin under her collarbones in the morning light.
Pei Ran’s heart began to beat wildly. She immediately rolled out of bed and walked over to the mirror above the sink.
The woman in the mirror looked to be around twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with facial features so delicate they hardly seemed real. Beneath fine, slender eyebrows were a pair of large, almond-shaped eyes. Her lips were thin and distinct, naturally carrying a faint touch of cold indifference. A head of jet-black long hair scattered over her shoulders, making that face appear even paler, and even more breathtaking.
This was not her face.
Pei Ran stared at the reflection in the mirror that did not belong to her, her head aching as though stabbed by countless needles. The instant the pain hit, a flood of information rushed into her consciousness like a tidal wave.
Her name was Pei Ran, and she was a quick-transmigration missioner. The target she needed to conquer was none other than the self-made business genius of this 1980s-era novel titled Capital Clouds, Zhou Yang.
She was also her ex-wife.
Capital Clouds was a novel set against the backdrop of the 1980s. The female protagonist, Zhou Yang, climbed her way up step by step from a bankrupt small factory owner to become a prominent tycoon in Beijing high society. Pei Ran, on the other hand, was the snobbish, wicked female supporting character who had abandoned her wife and child to run off with a wealthy benefactor when Zhou Yang was at her lowest point. Flattering the powerful and bullying the weak, she was one of the most detestable characters in the entire book, and naturally met the most tragic end. After her youth and beauty faded, she was cast aside by her benefactor, only to turn back and pester her ex-wife, ultimately ending up deserted by all.
Pei Ran shook her head forcefully, trying to clear her chaotic thoughts.
Her mission was to make Zhou Yang fall in love with Pei Ran. But the current point in time was clearly after Zhou Yang had already achieved fame and success!
Could it be that she had transmigrated into the wrong time, completely skipping Zhou Yang’s bankruptcy phase and entering the next stage directly?!
Right now, she was not only “past her prime,” but she had also been abandoned by her benefactor, frantically scheming to pester her ex-wife into remarriage.
What kind of hellish starting point was this?
She looked down at her hands. Her ten fingers were long and white, looking well-maintained and not like those of someone who had suffered hardships. She looked up again at the face in the mirror; there were no fine lines, the skin was firm and smooth, clearly the face of a woman under thirty.
It didn’t seem quite as “past her prime” as the book described…
Her brain worked at high speed as she tried to piece together more details from the fragmented information.
In what year did they get married? In what year did they divorce? And in what year did Zhou Yang make her comeback…
These timelines crossed and overlapped in her mind like a tangled ball of yarn.
Just then, a sharp electronic ringtone broke her train of thought. Two words flashed on the phone screen: Nian Nian.
Pei Ran stared at the two words for three seconds, quickly searching her mind for the information corresponding to that name.
Nian Nian… Zhou Nian.
She was the daughter of Pei Ran and Zhou Yang.
There wasn’t much description of this child in the original book; most of the time, she was merely a tool used by Pei Ran to threaten Zhou Yang, a pitiful little girl treated as a bargaining chip by her own mother.
Pei Ran hesitated for a moment before answering the call.
Her heart skipped a beat. It was a little girl’s voice, soft and sweet, carrying a cautious, pleasing tone: “Mommy, can you come pick me up today?”
The moment she heard Zhou Nian’s voice, Pei Ran felt as though something was blocking her throat, and a strange, warm sensation flooded her heart.
“Mommy?” The little girl on the other end called out to her again. This time, there was a trace of uncertainty and a poorly concealed sense of grievance in her voice. “Mommy, are you going to be busy again…”
“I’m here,” Pei Ran heard herself say.
The little girl seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and a bit of joy returned to her voice. “Mommy, you said before that you were going to take me to the amusement park today. Is that real? Nian Nian wants to ride the carousel…”
Pei Ran clenched her phone tightly. She clearly had no memories related to this “daughter” in her mind, yet the moment she heard that voice, the sourness and softness welling up inside her chest were undeniably real.
“I remember.” Pei Ran’s voice was as light as a flower petal falling onto the surface of water. “Mommy remembers. Nian Nian, wait for Mommy. Mommy will come pick you up in a little while.”
A small, suppressed cheer came from the other end of the line. “Mommy, Nian Nian will be waiting for you.”
The call ended.
Pei Ran stood in front of the French windows holding the phone. As she watched the name “Nian Nian” slowly fade on the screen, she suddenly realized a problem she hadn’t had time to think through carefully.
Among the memories that had flooded her brain, almost all of them concerned “Zhou Yang,” while memories regarding “Pei Ran” herself were scarce.
She remembered she was a missioner, and she remembered she had a conquest mission to complete, but she couldn’t remember what the people around “Pei Ran” looked like, couldn’t remember her ex-wife Zhou Yang, and certainly couldn’t remember her daughter Zhou Nian…
Those memories were like a piece of paper soaked in water, completely blurred and unreadable.
Yet the moment she picked up the phone, her body had reacted faster than her consciousness.
Her love for her daughter was an instinct ingrained into the very blood and bones of this body.
Pei Ran closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the panic on that beautiful face in the mirror had vanished. She took a deep breath, turned toward the walk-in closet, and began rummaging through it for suitable clothes to wear out.
Her hands moved quickly across the clothes rack, suddenly coming to a halt.
Hanging in the deepest corner of the rack was a gray overcoat. Its style was simple and its color dull, completely out of place among the surrounding exquisitely decorated, brightly colored clothes.
Pei Ran held the sleeve of the coat. Suddenly, a scene flashed through her mind: a gray coat was casually tossed onto the sofa, and a woman’s voice said with disgust and disdain, “You used to have some money at least. Wearing cheap roadside junk like this, aren’t you ashamed?”
That was “Pei Ran’s” own voice.
This coat wasn’t hers either; it belonged to Zhou Yang.
Pei Ran let out a bitter laugh. It seemed their relationship had indeed been terrible.
Losing her mood to pick clothes, Pei Ran casually threw on an off-white trench coat over her shoulders, turned around, and walked out of the closet.
As she passed through the living room, her eyes casually swept over the newspaper on the coffee table. The date on the newspaper stood out clearly: October 17, 1988.
This date clicked tightly into place with a piece of information in her mind: Zhou Yang’s company, “Yanghua Enterprises,” had completed an acquisition case that shook the capital half a month ago, officially transforming her from a ruined factory owner on the brink of bankruptcy into an indispensable new mogul in Beijing’s business circles.
Her ex-wife had achieved fame and success, while she, the wicked female supporting character, was now infamous and ruined. At a time like this, how was she supposed to go back and cling to her ex-wife’s favors?
In the original novel, Pei Ran had burned all her bridges. During the divorce, she had run off with all of Zhou Yang’s money and abandoned the child, impatiently throwing herself into the arms of her new benefactor.
If she were Zhou Yang, she would probably hate herself to the core.
Now that the other party was flying high, she was going back to beg for reconciliation? If Zhou Yang didn’t tell her to “get lost,” it would mean Zhou Yang lacked backbone.
Pei Ran scratched her hair, picked up the car keys and bag from the entryway console, pushed open the door, and stepped out.
The hallway was long, carpeted in heavy dark gray that completely absorbed the sound of footsteps. When she reached the elevator entrance, she realized a woman was standing there.
The person was wearing a dark gray suit jacket, her black hair neatly tied back, revealing sharp, sculpted facial features. A sharp glance shot toward her, carrying a cold aura that warned others to keep their distance.
The moment their eyes met, fireworks seemed to explode in Pei Ran’s head.
Zhou Yang.
She was the female lead of the original novel, the rising business mogul of Beijing, and her ex-wife.
Zhou Yang merely cast a glance at her before retracting her gaze and stepping out of the elevator.
As the two brushed past each other, Pei Ran caught a faint scent of cold cedar perfume, crisp like a winter breeze.
She subconsciously turned her head back. Zhou Yang had already walked to the door of the apartment where Pei Ran lived. She retrieved a key from her coat and inserted it into the lock, the entire movement fluid and practiced, as if she had done it countless times.
Zhou Yang walked inside without closing the door.
Pei Ran stood at the elevator entrance, trapped in a dilemma.
The hallway was so quiet that the faint sounds coming from inside the apartment could be heard. Then came the clack of a lighter.
“Get in here.”
Pei Ran’s heart thumped violently.
That voice was neither a command nor an invitation. Zhou Yang was certain that she would be standing there, certain that she would hear it, and certain that she would step inside.
Bracing herself, Pei Ran walked back toward the apartment.
Zhou Yang was standing in front of the living room’s French windows, holding an unlit cigarette between her fingers. In the backlight, her silhouette looked like a painting, cold, rigid, and distant.
“Zhao Wanqing left for Hong Kong last week,” Zhou Yang said unhurriedly, as if talking about something trivial. “She said this place needs to be cleared out before the end of the month.”
Pei Ran’s mind spun rapidly.
Zhao Wanqing was the Beijing high-society tycoon who had kept Pei Ran in the original book.
There indeed was such a plotline in the original story: Zhao Wanqing dumped Pei Ran, reclaimed the apartment and the car, and froze all her cards. Overnight, Pei Ran went from a golden canary to a homeless stray.
Zhou Yang turned around, her gaze falling onto Pei Ran, still carrying that wave-less composure.
“When we divorced, you said you would never appear in front of me again in this lifetime.”
She tossed the unlit cigarette into the trash bin, her thin lips parting slightly as her voice sounded as cold and thin as early winter frost:
“Speak. How much money do you want this time?”