Shen Jinxin had completely cut off Mu Suihe’s source of money.
She hadn’t said she had no right to.
After all, everything Mu Suihe had—food, lodging, tuition—was paid for by the Shen Family.
She could eat breakfast and dinner at the Shen house with the servants—nothing lavish, but enough to fill her stomach.
At lunch in the university cafeteria, she would pull a steamed bun she’d slipped out of the kitchen that morning from her canvas bag and find a corner seat to sit down.
The cafeteria buzzed with noise. She lowered her head and took a bite of the bun.
Her cheeks puffed out as she chewed carefully.
The bun was a bit dry, but full of the fragrance of wheat.
She wasn’t a particularly picky girl—she was easy to feed.
She had actually tried working part-time on weekends too.
At bubble tea shops, bookstores—but whenever she stood at the doorway and saw the crowds inside, saw every passerby casting amazed or appraising glances at her, she felt inexplicably uncomfortable.
She didn’t like being stared at, didn’t like people whispering about her behind her back.
She preferred being alone in the music room, fingers resting on silk strings, immersed in emotions only she could hear.
Now, in the corner of the cafeteria, she nibbled on her bun while spacing out.
At the tables nearby, some people recognized her and whispered among themselves: “Isn’t that the orphan girl the Shen Family sponsors? Why is she sitting all alone over there, eating just a steamed bun?”
“She looks so pitiful. The Shen Family must be planning to give up on her.”
“They talk so nicely about sponsoring poor students, but who knows how they mistreat her behind closed doors.”
Mu Suihe lowered her head and took another small bite, chewing slowly.
Actually, the bun was quite tasty. She didn’t think of herself as pitiful.
Meng Wantang noticed this corner, carried her tray over, and sat down across from her, saying brightly, “How can you be eating just this?”
Mu Suihe looked up, and Meng Wantang’s radiant face was reflected in her eyes.
Meng Wantang’s heart skipped half a beat. Her skin was so delicate, her eyes so pure and gentle.
She screamed internally: This is so unfair.
No wonder the male leads in all those novels love delicate little white flowers—up close, it really makes your heart go soft. She liked it too, ahhh.
A surge of protectiveness rose up in her, and Meng Wantang pushed her tray toward Mu Suihe. “Have some of mine. I ordered too much today.”
Mu Suihe glanced at the abundant dishes on her tray and thanked her obediently, “Thank you, Miss Meng, but I’m full. It’s alright.”
“You can’t get by on just steamed buns!” Meng Wantang picked up a small piece of diced chicken and carefully fed it to her lips with her chopsticks, her tone like coaxing a child.
“Ah—open up—”
Mu Suihe looked at the girl across from her, whose kindness was almost excessive.
She hesitated a moment, then obediently opened her mouth and took the chicken in, her cheeks working like a little hamster eating earnestly.
Meng Wantang, up close, watched her fluttering lashes and soft pink lips, and another firework exploded in her heart.
So cute. So sweet.
She felt she was about to be cuteness-overloaded to death.
A few of Meng Wantang’s friends carried their trays over curiously, and the crowd kept growing.
Someone quietly tugged at Meng Wantang’s sleeve and whispered, “So pitiful.”
“Shen Jinxin really is a terrible person—two-faced, all she knows is bullying people.”
Shen Jinxin had appeared behind them at some point and slapped a hand down on the shoulder of the one complaining.
Meng Wantang stood up, shielding the table. “What do you want?”
The Shen Family wasn’t afraid of the Meng Family, and Shen Jinxin certainly wasn’t afraid of Meng Wantang.
She crossed her arms and sneered. “So gossiping about people behind their backs makes you righteous now?”
Meng Wantang didn’t back down an inch. “If you had a clear conscience, why would you be afraid of what people say?”
Shen Jinxin let out a scoff, pulled out her phone from her bag, tapped a few times, and held the screen up for everyone to see.
Transfer records. Ten thousand a month. The recipient: Mu Suihe.
She lifted her chin. “Are you blind, Meng Wantang? Which eye of yours saw me bully her?”
“Ten thousand a month, transferred to her card on time, and she sits here gnawing on a steamed bun. Who is she playing the pity card for? I don’t even need to spell out what she’s scheming.”
A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd.
The people who had just been sympathizing with Mu Suihe changed their expressions in an instant.
Some awkwardly swallowed their earlier comments; others now looked at Mu Suihe with disgust.
Mu Suihe stared at the transfer records Shen Jinxin was holding up.
They were fake. She couldn’t even scrape together fifty yuan from her own pocket.
Shen Jinxin looked smug.
The records were, of course, forged—but no one would bother to verify them, and Mu Suihe wouldn’t dare speak up.
So the fake became the truth.
Standing not far away, Song Shiqian—no one knew when he had arrived—was gripping the Hermès bag in his hand a little too tightly.
He pushed through the crowd to the table, looked at Mu Suihe still sitting in her seat, holding half a steamed bun, and asked, “Is what Jinxin said true?”
“She hasn’t been withholding your money. You’re playing the victim and framing her—isn’t that right?”
Mu Suihe looked at him, then at Shen Jinxin’s bright, beaming smile behind him.
She didn’t deny it.
Silence was as good as an admission.
Song Shiqian couldn’t describe what he was feeling.
Disappointment, maybe a little. And a dull, nameless heaviness.
He glanced down at the bag in his hand. It was a gift for her.
He had noticed she always carried a canvas bag to class, standing out awkwardly among the girls with designer bags in the classroom.
Worried she might feel bad about it, he had gone out specially to pick one out. It had taken him a long time.
Now it seemed there was no reason to give it anymore.
“Shiqian.” Shen Jinxin came over and slipped her arm through his naturally, tilting her face up at him with a smile.
“I didn’t eat enough just now. Let’s go out and eat.”
She cast a casual glance at the shopping bag, and her eyes lit up. “What’s that in your hand, Shiqian?”
Song Shiqian shoved the bag carelessly into her hands, his voice a little vague. “A gift for you.”
Shen Jinxin opened it, it was the season’s newest bag—and beamed with delight, tugging his arm as they headed out.
Even after they were far away, Shen Jinxin’s voice drifted back: “Shiqian, you’re the best.”
Song Shiqian didn’t look back at Mu Suihe even once.
The murmurs around them grew louder. “So it was all an act. What a schemer.”
“I thought something was off in class that day. Sure enough—the dog that bites doesn’t bark.”
“And I actually felt sorry for her just now. I must be blind.”
Mu Suihe lowered her head and kept eating the half steamed bun in her hand.
Meng Wantang was still standing there.
Watching Mu Suihe eat with her head bowed, she suddenly didn’t know what to say.
She quietly picked up her tray and stood, took two steps, then stopped.
She turned back to look at Mu Suihe. “Steamed buns have no nutrition. If you have money, eat something better.”
Mu Suihe’s lips moved, but she didn’t look up. She just took another bite of the dry, tasteless bun.
She ate slowly, chewing each mouthful many times.
Shen Jinxin framing her—it was nothing new. She was used to it.
That Song Shiqian misunderstood her was to be expected.
But the disappointment in Meng Wantang’s bright eyes made her feel a little sad.
The savory taste of the diced chicken still lingered in her mouth, making the otherwise decent steamed bun taste somewhat bitter.
Someone stopped in front of her, a tall figure nearly engulfing her delicate frame.
Lu Yuzhi looked down at her and spoke. “Mu Suihe.”
She didn’t look up.
The man lost his patience, reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her up from the chair in one motion.
She stumbled, and a tear rolled down—plop—landing squarely on the back of his hand.
Lu Yuzhi froze.
The tear was warm, yet it felt scalding to him, burning from the back of his hand all the way into his heart.
It made even someone as cold as him flinch.
He had come to lecture her, but when that tear fell, an unfamiliar emotion surged up, and whatever he’d meant to say was suddenly forgotten.
He wasn’t good at comforting people, especially a girl so young.
All he could manage was a stiff, dry question: “Why are you crying?”