Strangely… her chest felt tight.
Wen Yan scrolled up, flipping through the few back-and-forth messages. Soon, he reached the top, where it was all just her messages.
He exhaled.
Wen Yan knew exactly what he was thinking. Once he started, once he tasted even a bit of sweetness, he wouldn’t be able to stop—he’d want more, immediately.
His defenses had crumbled just like that.
He exited the chat page, but then opened the photo he had “stolen” from Grandpa’s phone. In it, the woman was smiling—not fully genuine, and not at him, just for her grandfather.
Yet Wen Yan couldn’t tear his eyes away for a long while.
If he admitted that his genetic attraction, his pheromones, and the matching score—his feelings—were real, then how was that different from what he felt for his father?
Perhaps because the novel was nearing its conclusion, in the last few days, Qiu Zheng’s inspiration surged, and her creative passion reached an unprecedented high. She slept only five hours a day, spending the rest at her computer.
When she finally hit “complete,” she closed her eyes immediately, deciding to sleep fully first.
When she opened them again, the room was pitch dark.
It was already night.
Stretching lazily, she didn’t even turn on the lights. She grabbed her phone—her completed novel had far more comments than usual. The longest was from her hardcore fan, “Stars in the Sky Don’t Speak,” who had written an endlessly long review, filling in reply after reply in nested comments.
Qiu Zheng read each word carefully, feeling touched and satisfied.
Finally, she switched off her social media and noticed Wen Yan had sent her messages—more than one. Even before opening them, she saw the red [13] indicating unread messages.
Clicking in, she found… a pile of photos.
Cars.
Various cars. Qiu Zheng didn’t recognize most of them, but their expensive aura was unmistakable; just looking, she could almost smell the money.
Wen Yan: Your car’s been running for a long time, right? These are my cars that I barely use. See if you like any.
Wen Yan: You can drive one for now.
The timestamps showed the messages had been sent three days ago.
Lately, Qiu Zheng had been too focused on writing to notice his messages. Now that she did, she felt she should reply out of courtesy.
She typed quickly: “No need, thank you.”
Her place was tiny—parking such a car would be way too conspicuous.
Just as she was about to send it, she noticed the time: 2 a.m.
She stopped. Too late. What if she woke him up? Better to wait until tomorrow.
Several days passed. She completely forgot about it. When she unconsciously opened the chat again, she paused for a moment.
Oh, she hadn’t replied?
Right, she hadn’t—only responded in thought.
She quickly typed an explanation: “I saw your messages too late before, thought you were asleep, so I didn’t reply.”
As for why she hadn’t replied afterward… everyone has times of sleepwalking through life, she reasoned.
She typed her previous thought again.
Professor Wen, usually busy, replied instantly.
“None of them appeal to you?”
Qiu Zheng didn’t even get a chance to respond before he sent again:
“If none appeal to you, there’s a car show soon. Want to go see?”
Qiu Zheng: No, I rarely go out, I won’t need it.
Wen Yan: Okay.
Thinking it a fleeting kind gesture, she let it go.
After a while, another message arrived:
Wen Yan: Not “drive temporarily,” it’s yours.
By this time, Qiu Zheng had opened a game she hadn’t touched during her entire serialization. She was engrossed. The message popped up; she barely saw it and swiped it away.
Only after finishing the game did she check again.
Something felt… off. She scrolled through the messages again. As a romance writer, her instincts detected a faint trace of flattery and subtle flirtation.
But she quickly smacked her forehead.
Getting obsessed over anything would only poison her.
Qiu Zheng knew better than anyone: everything Wen Yan showed as “good” was just an illusion.
Right from the beginning, Wen Yan had made it clear:
It had started when Qiu Zheng had tried to make small talk to him, saying, “The lab must be busy, right?”
She had only wanted to ease the awkward, cold atmosphere. But the moment she spoke, Wen Yan looked over.
“Miss Qiu, this isn’t something you should ask,” he said. “I hope our boundaries can be clear. My matters are not for you to pry into. Likewise, I’m not interested in yours. You only need to show up at the times we agreed upon.”
“I will give you complete freedom.”
Qiu Zheng’s expression at that time had been stiff—stiff enough that Wen Yan was even more certain of his judgment.
He put down his knife and fork, his calm eyes fixed on her.
“Perhaps you’ve noticed my… special attention to you. I cannot deny it, just as I cannot deny the influence of the matching score. But Miss Qiu, do you think the attention from a matching score is true care?”
“If we disregard the matching score, and judge by personal charm, talent, personality, experience, etc.—do you think you…” He paused, as if searching for a less offensive way to say it, “…do you think you’re from the same world as me?”
He almost outright said: “You’re not worthy of me.”
“Of course, Miss Qiu, you’re not without merit. By my judgment, you’re reasonably intelligent, so I hope you won’t entertain foolish thoughts.”
Qiu Zheng was stunned.
Not even a “bro,” and he just dropped that AOE on her directly?
Under his roof, she had to lower her head. She sipped water: “Mr. Wen, don’t worry, I don’t mean that.”
“Good.”
Though he said that, after the meal, even during his sensitive period, he did nothing, parting ways with her immediately.
His car left in a flash. She only caught a glimpse of the tail—his back looked like a white swan fleeing from a toad.
Such enviable confidence.
Qiu Zheng’s teeth itched in frustration.
She couldn’t tell if it was because of his words or the steak she couldn’t stomach. Her bloated stomach kept her awake most of the night.
Strangely, she felt irritable.
Finally, she flipped upright in bed, dissatisfied: “Why didn’t I say more?”
“It’s no different from being utterly powerless,” she muttered.
Recalling Wen Yan’s words again and again, she grew angrier. She set the small teddy on her bedside as a target, glaring at it like Wen Yan might. The scene replayed in her mind.
“Personal charm? What personal charm? Be a person first, then talk about charm.”
“Personality? Who has a worse personality than you?”
“Experience? I’ve time-traveled and you’re comparing experiences? I’d scare you if I told you!”
“Not from the same world? Laughable. You claim your world is noble and elite, leave no one else but yourself, then you’d be happy, right?”
“Chattering your mouth every day, don’t you worry about being poisoned by it?”
“Idiot.”
While cursing, she punched and rotated her fists in frustration. After a few rounds of her “weakling combo,” she finally felt a little relieved and lay back.
Staring at the ceiling, she sighed.
Actually, Wen Yan’s warning wasn’t entirely bad.
After writing domineering CEOs for years, suddenly a real CEO appeared in her life—perfect looks, family, mind. Their intimacy unfolded like a drama.
Sometimes, he even gave the illusion that he liked her.
Qiu Zheng was in danger. More than attraction, it was a delusion born from her long loneliness in this world.
Perhaps over time, the faint spark might turn into true affection, but clearly, it had been extinguished before it could grow.
It became a “cyber record” she didn’t want to mention later.
In short, Wen Yan would never truly like her. Any sign of favor was only because of the matching score—the very thing she despised.
If she imagined otherwise, she’d truly be the toad in this scenario.
Wen Yan stared at the screen.
He waited a long time, but no reply came.
What was she doing? Why wasn’t she replying?
This question lingered uncontrollably in his mind. Realizing it, a wave of unspoken embarrassment rose—an alpha’s instinctive pride.
Compared to his own urgency, her side was indifferent; the Qiu Zheng in his phone was even colder than in reality.
At this rate, it was no longer just about resisting the matching score. He had feared that a matched partner’s intentions might overwhelm him. That hadn’t happened—but now progress was still being made.
But embarrassment was fleeting. Soon, he regretted it. He should have just said he was giving the car to her, not “drive temporarily.” By Qiu Zheng’s nature, she’d have found it a hassle anyway.
He wasn’t attached to the car.
Even giving it away wouldn’t make him feel regret or pain—he just wanted to preserve some boundaries. Now the boundaries were preserved… but he couldn’t even give it.
No, Wen Yan immediately denied himself. Boundaries had to be maintained.
If… if she replied this time, he would have to respond coldly.