After scrubbing the chat logs and photos clean, Mao Jing gave Wang Ping a thorough earful. The two then posted clarifications on the campus forums and “confession walls.”
Truth, however, often travels slower than lies. Some students remained skeptical—believing that if she were truly innocent, there wouldn’t have been such an intimate, ambiguous proximity. These arrogant, willful youths were firm believers in a black-and-white world of their own making. Even with Mao Jing and Wang Ping’s widespread efforts to set the record straight, the whispers surrounding Yi Chi continued to spread like wildfire.
“They moved pretty fast,” Sheng Mian noted, scrolling through her phone. The toxic posts about Yi Chi had been deleted, replaced by Mao Jing and Wang Ping’s public retractions.
“Still, a lot of people might not believe the truth. Most people just prefer the gossip,” Sheng Mian said, offering a supportive squeeze to Yi Chi’s shoulder.
“It’s okay.” Yi Chi gave a knowing smile and suddenly pulled Sheng Mian into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Sheng Mian,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Surprised by the strength of the hug, Sheng Mian gently patted Yi Chi’s back. Yi Chi’s eyes were red; her lips parted several times as if to speak, but no sound came out. Sheng Mian waited in patient silence.
Finally, Yi Chi spoke with an eerie calmness. “Actually, that Alpha wasn’t a blind date. ‘Blind date’ was just an excuse.” She paused to catch her breath. “My family wanted me to please him so our family business could get some favors.”
She let out a bitter, self-mocking laugh. “Essentially, my family sold me.”
Sheng Mian looked at Yi Chi. Her nose was red, and tears clung to her long, trembling lashes. Her hands gripped the wooden bench so tightly her fingernails turned white.
Sheng Mian firmly pried Yi Chi’s right hand away from the bench and held it in her own. “Your family forced this on you. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
A fresh stream of tears fell. For the first time, Yi Chi allowed herself to cry unreservedly. “I don’t know what to do anymore. They, they raised me for eighteen years, and this is how they want me to repay them.” She covered her eyes, sobbing.
“It was their legal and moral duty to raise you after bringing you into this world. You know what you need to do, but you’re afraid—afraid that the tiny bit of affection you think you see will vanish.”
Sheng Mian continued, “If you give in, do you really think they’ll stop there? They don’t care about your feelings. Doing this won’t win back their love. In their souls, they will always love themselves and money more than you.”
Yi Chi asked herself: If I sell myself, will I truly get the parental love I’ve never felt?
The answer from deep within was instantaneous: No. Never.
Looking back at her life, her parents had never intervened, but they had never cared either. She had never heard the simple questions other parents asked: “How was school today?” or “How are your studies going?” She felt like a jellyfish in an aquarium—seemingly free, yet imprisoned in a small space. People paid to watch her while her body lacked freedom and her soul lacked nourishment.
She remembered the fifth grade, running home with two perfect test scores, heart racing with the hope that her parents would finally praise her. That little girl had proudly held up those bright, perfect papers, eyes gleaming as she watched them. And their reaction?
Her mother had barely glanced at them, muttered a flat “I see,” and went back to her business. Her father had been too busy shouting into a phone about a deal. From that day on, Yi Chi never ran to them with her grades again.
Sheng Mian knew Yi Chi understood, even if it hurt to let go. She wrapped her arms around Yi Chi, enveloping her. “Only by loving yourself can you understand love and learn how to receive it. Once you take the wrong path, there’s no turning back.”
By the time they returned to the classroom, Yi Chi’s tears had stopped, though her eyes remained red. Qin Heng was fidgeting in his seat, unable to get comfortable. He had seen the forum posts. Afraid that speaking would startle her, he tore a jagged strip of paper from a worksheet.
Yi Chi opened the note. In his wild, sweeping handwriting, it read: “I believe in you, Deskmate! You might be quiet, but I know you’ve got your head on straight. Everyone goes through misunderstandings, but the people who know you will always have your back. If anyone dares say a word against you, I’ll be the first to handle them.”
When the final bell rang, Qin Heng unusually didn’t call a cab early. The four of them packed their bags in a silent, unified rhythm.
” Are we leaving?” Shen Zhilin suddenly asked, looking at the other three.
“Don’t you usually bike home early?” Qin Heng was surprised that Zhilin was leaving so late and had proactively suggested they walk together.
Zhilin remained silent, but Sheng Mian understood the gesture. “Let’s go, let’s go!” she chirped.
As the four of them walked down the stairs bathed in the glow of the setting sun, Yi Chi felt a sense of relaxation she had never known. The light was ahead; a few thorns wouldn’t keep these youths down.
The oppressive, suffocating atmosphere was waiting just behind the front door.
“We’re having dinner with CEO Wang this weekend,” Chen Lian said, watering her plants without looking up.
“I’m not going,” Yi Chi said calmly.
Chen Lian finally looked at her, though her voice remained deceptively pleasant. “Stop being so childish. It’s just a meal.”
“I said I’m not going!” Yi Chi’s voice rose.
Clang! Chen Lian threw the watering can onto the floor. In the sudden silence, she hissed, “Is a meal going to kill you?”
Yi Chi let out a harsh laugh. “First a meal, then drinks, then what? Sleep with him?”
In Chen Lian’s memory, Yi Chi had never talked back so sharply. A sense of losing control surged through her. She tried desperately to pull back the fraying kite string. “I am your mother! Are you really refusing to listen to me?”
“But I am my own person first. I have the right to refuse things I hate.”
The “string” finally snapped. Chen Lian stepped forward. “We gave you life and raised you! And this is how you talk to us? You unfilial brat!”
As that heavy accusation landed, Yi Chi looked her in the eye. “If I have to be your puppet, I’d rather never have been born!”
A sharp, heavy slap landed on Yi Chi’s face. A long fingernail grazed her skin, and beads of blood began to seep from the scratch. A burning, throbbing pain flared across her cheek.
As her fair face swelled, Chen Lian glared at her with a look reserved for an enemy. Looking at the mother she had once idolized and loved now staring at her with such hatred, Yi Chi wiped her tears. Her voice was cold and flat.
“The college entrance exam is coming up. I’ll work my way through university myself. And I will make sure to pay you back for every cent you spent raising me these eighteen years.”
Chen Lian’s blood boiled with a sudden, sharp fury. Her index finger, tipped with a claw of crimson polish, shook as she pointed at Yi Chi. Her voice was a ragged hiss. “You, you.”
Her eyes burned with the rage of the betrayed and the profound terror of losing control. Had she raised her daughter for eighteen years just to be offered a reimbursement of expenses?
Yi Chi felt a wave of hollow grief. How had it taken her so many years to realize her parents simply didn’t love her? It was so painfully obvious.
At one in the morning, the sound of the front door opening and the heavy, stumbling footsteps of a drunkard echoed through the foyer. Yi Jianzhong fumbled for the light switch and reeled toward the upstairs bedroom. He shoved the door open so hard it bounced back off the wall. Chen Lian jolted awake, staring resentfully at the man reeking of alcohol.
She watched with cold indifference as Jianzhong collapsed heavily onto the bed. She gave him a sharp shove. “Jianzhong. Jianzhong!”
He waved a heavy right hand in the air, mumbling, “Whadda you want?”
Chen Lian couldn’t resist slapping his protruding belly, her tone venomous. “Our daughter’s wings have grown strong. She’s stopped listening to her own parents.”
Jianzhong’s words were thick and slurred. “Just give ‘er more ‘maternal love.’ Omegas are easy to coax. Once her heart softens, she’ll.” He let out a drunken snicker. “She’ll listen again.”
Chen Lian fell into a deep silence. Suddenly, her lips curled into a smile that looked like something out of a nightmare. He was right. They shared a bond of blood—a cord that could never be cut, a knot that could never be untied.
As she helped him out of his suit jacket and shoes, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. She pulled it out to find a text. It was suggestive, cooing: “Jianzhong-ge, you were so rough tonight, it really hurt, can you be a little gentler next time?”
Chen Lian closed the phone and acted as if she had seen nothing. She pulled the duvet up and threw it over Jianzhong, not caring if the heavy fabric smothered him.
Mao Jing felt that “Ye-ge” had been acting very strangely over the last two days. He was constantly lost in thought. Mao Jing panicked, was the boss planning to abandon their delinquent ways and turn over a new leaf?
Cheng Liye’s long, lean legs were stretched out past his desk. He leaned back, left hand in his pocket, right hand spinning a pen across his knuckles. His brow was knitted, his gaze distant.
“Ye-ge. Ye-ge!” Mao Jing called, but Cheng Liye remained in his daze.
Mao Jing leaned in and bellowed into his ear, “YE-GE!!!”
Cheng Liye nearly jumped out of his skin. He clutched his ear and barked a curse. “Holy crap! You trying to kill me?”
“I’ve called you three times. What are you thinking about so intensely?”
Liye rubbed his ear, a look of genuine confusion crossing his face. “Tell me, if someone loses their memory, do they really forget everything?”
Mao Jing rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I saw something online once. It said for people with amnesia, the most important person or event in their mind is usually the last thing they remember.”
Aha! Mao Jing thought. No wonder he’s been acting like a lost soul. He’s thinking about Sheng Mian!
Cheng Liye arched an eyebrow, his tone hinting at a spark of excitement. “Really?”
Mao Jing nodded like a woodpecker. He watched as a shy, faint smile tugged at the corner of Liye’s mouth. The look of relief on his face seemed to say: I knew it.
Throughout the day, Sheng Mian noticed that Cheng Liye’s appearance frequency was abnormally high. He kept passing by the back door; whenever their eyes met unexpectedly, he would immediately jerk his gaze away.
“Cheng Liye seems quite bored today,” Shen Zhilin noted dryly.
Even Zhilin had noticed. Sheng Mian nodded vigorously. “You noticed too, right? It’s so weird. Are the restrooms on that side of the building all broken or something?” She let out a little giggle. “He’s going back and forth so much, he must have a weak bladder.”
She looked up only to find Zhilin watching her with a heavy, unreadable gaze. “What is—”
Her question was cut short by the entrance of their homeroom teacher.
“I assume you all played your hearts out during the sports meet last week. Well, the fun is over. Midterms are this week. Two days of exams. Get your heads back in the game.”
Sheng Mian spent the next two days buried in her “Mistake Notebook.” There was too much to review, it felt endless.
By the final period on Wednesday, everyone began clearing their desks and moving their books into the hallway. Sheng Mian lugged a small plastic crate filled to the brim with books and notes. “Where are you guys putting your stuff? I’ll join you.”
“Qin Heng grabbed a spot over there,” Yi Chi pointed. “Do you have anything else? I’ll help you carry it.”
“Just my backpack.”
As Sheng Mian set her things down, she saw Shen Zhilin scanning the crowded hallway, book stack in hand. Every windowsill and floor space along the walls was taken.
Sheng Mian waved her over. “Shen Zhilin! There’s space right here.”
“A new Escape Room just opened nearby,” Qin Heng suggested with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Want to go after the exams?”
Yi Chi nodded. “I’m fine with anything.”
Sheng Mian looked at Shen Zhilin. “Do you have to work on Saturday?”
Zhilin didn’t want to ruin the group’s mood. “As long as we finish by seven, I can go.”
“Perfect,” Qin Heng declared. “Saturday at noon. We’ll grab lunch first, then hit the Escape Room in the afternoon.”