She looked down at the sentence she had sent, then glanced at the previous chat history above, noting the original owner’s typical style of communication.
The difference in style was so stark, it was as if the same WeChat account was being controlled by two different souls.
And in fact, that was exactly the case.
A cold sweat broke out on Chu Yiran’s forehead.
She quickly typed to salvage the situation: “No one taught me, I just watched a movie and felt inspired.”
The other side fell silent again.
After a while, Shen Yu sent a message: “You never used to watch movies.”
Chu Yiran’s lips twitched.
She scrolled through the original owner’s chat history and, sure enough, found a message from three weeks ago: the original owner had said, “I hate watching movies the most, I can’t sit still at all.”
She had been caught.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for several seconds as her mind raced to find a way to fix this.
Typing was no longer an option.
The difference in style was too easy to spot, and every word she typed felt off compared to the original owner’s natural tone. The more she explained, the more she would expose herself.
In the chat history, the original owner occasionally sent voice messages—soft, sweet, and slightly coquettish.
Although Chu Yiran wasn’t the original owner, she was now using the original owner’s voice.
The vocal tone was innate. As long as she imitated the original owner’s intonation and rhythm, voice messages would be much safer than text.
She cleared her throat and pressed the voice message button.
“Don’t be mad, brother.”
She deliberately softened her voice, slowed her pace, and let her tone rise slightly at the end.
“I was just so bored in the hospital. A nurse recommended a movie to me, and when I saw that line, it felt like it was describing my feelings, so I sent it to you.”
She paused briefly before adding another line.
“If you don’t like it, I won’t say things like that anymore. I know you don’t like it when I sound all literary.”
After sending the voice message, she quickly followed up with a text message in the original owner’s style: “Alright, alright, I’ll stop being so sentimental. What did you eat today? Did you miss me?”
After sending this combination of messages, Chu Yiran pressed her phone against her chest, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might leap out of her throat.
Her phone vibrated.
Summoning her courage, she opened it.
Shen Yu had replied with a voice message.
Chu Yiran hesitated for a few seconds before tapping to listen.
His voice was as cold and low as ever, but this time, there was a subtle hint of softening in its tone.
“Don’t copy things from the internet next time. I could tell at a glance that it wasn’t something you’d say.”
“Your voice is still your voice. It sounds better than your typing.”
“Just send voice messages directly from now on.”
Chu Yiran blinked.
What did that mean?
Had her coquettish voice message fooled him?
Or was it that Shen Yu had always cared more about the voice than the text?
After thinking it over, she suspected it was the latter.
After all, the original owner’s text messages—things like “You’re amazing, brother, mwah”—would probably feel fake to any normal man after a while.
But voice messages were different.
Voice messages carried breath, pauses, and emotional fluctuations.
These elements were much harder to fake than text, which was why Shen Yu trusted voice messages more.
After mulling it over, Chu Yiran opened her notes app and wrote down a line:
“When chatting with S from now on, use voice messages whenever possible. Avoid typing.”
“Imitate the original owner’s tone, slow down the pace, use rising intonation more often, and add appropriate sighs and pauses.”
She thought for another moment and added another note:
“Never copy anything from the internet again.”
Then she sent a voice message back to Shen Yu: “Alright, I’ll send you voice messages from now on. Does that make you think I’m more obedient?”
After a while, he replied with two words.
“Not bad.”
Chu Yiran put down her phone and let out a long sigh.
This hurdle had been narrowly overcome.
But she knew very well that this false relationship, maintained purely by rhetoric, was accumulating risks with each passing day.
Shen Yu was no fool. His sensitivity to unusual information had already exceeded Chu Yiran’s expectations.
She rolled over onto the sofa, burying her face in a cushion.
Then her phone rang again.
It wasn’t S, but a work group message from Lin Yuan.
“Everyone, please note: President Sun has organized for the entire administration department to visit the summit venue tomorrow for a site inspection. We depart at 9 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
Chu Yiran sighed.
A site inspection was a site inspection—at least it was simpler than dealing with Shen Yu.
Early the next morning, Chu Yiran followed the entire administration department and boarded the company’s arranged shuttle bus.
Their destination was the Hecheng International Convention and Exhibition Center, one of the candidate venues for the summit.
Sun Wanqing sat in the front passenger seat, making phone calls the entire way. Her voice was kept low, and only a few fragmented words could be made out.
Chu Yiran sat by the window in the last row, with Lin Yuan beside her.
“What time did you sleep last night?” Lin Yuan noticed the slight dark circles under her eyes.
“Eleven.”
“That’s not too bad. I thought you were working overtime until dawn again.”
“No, I had other things to deal with last night.” Chu Yiran replied vaguely, offering no details.
The bus departed and arrived at the convention center forty minutes later.
The entire venue was vast, divided into three main areas: the main hall, breakout rooms, and a lounge area.
Sun Wanqing led the team, inspecting each section starting from the entry flow—the guest check-in area, the main stage, guest lounges, media access routes, and the dining zone. At each stop, she paused to explain specific layout requirements.
Chu Yiran followed along with the group, taking notes in her notebook and occasionally snapping photos of the site.
It was clear that Sun Wanqing had extremely high standards for the summit. Every detail was scrutinized—the angle of the lighting, the spacing between chairs, the size of the projection screen.
When they reached the dining area, Sun Wanqing paused to review the layout plan provided by the venue.
“The number of food stations is insufficient. For a scale of three hundred people, we need at least twelve buffet stations. Only eight are planned here.”
The venue representative quickly explained, “President Sun, we can allocate additional stations from another area.”
“If we do that, the flow will become chaotic. Guests exiting the main hall would have to take a long detour to reach the dining area. That’s not reasonable.”
Sun Wanqing’s voice was calm, but each word carried an undeniable decisiveness.
She handed the layout plan to Chu Yiran behind her. “Take note: the dining area plan needs to be scrapped and redone. Have the supplier provide a new layout by this afternoon.”
“Understood.” Chu Yiran took the plan and meticulously recorded each of Sun Wanqing’s revision requests in her notebook.
The site inspection lasted over two hours.
By the time it ended, it was almost noon. Sun Wanqing instructed everyone to handle lunch on their own and return to the office by 1:30 p.m.
Chu Yiran and Lin Yuan found a noodle shop near the convention center and each ordered a bowl of beef noodles.
“Was President Sun a bit more approachable than usual today?” Chu Yiran asked between bites of noodles.
Lin Yuan picked up a piece of beef, chewed it thoughtfully, and considered the question.
“It’s not that she’s easy to talk to, it’s just that she’s in a decent mood today.”
“What determines whether she’s in a good or bad mood?”