Xia Wei clearly heard the sound of her own heartbeat “thump, thump,” as if it were about to burst out of her chest—that look was too sharp.
Song Qiao was the first to withdraw her gaze, her expression slightly cold as she looked at the two people in front of her.
Now that Song Qiao knew she was peeking, Xia Wei actually felt less nervous and boldly looked in through the crack of the door.
The two stood before the desk; Xia Wei couldn’t see their faces, but she could see the high ponytail’s hand hanging by her side, clutching the hem of her shirt, her knuckles turning white. The bespectacled one stood next to her, the two standing very close—so close their shoulders were almost touching.
Song Qiao finally spoke, her voice not loud, but through that crack in the door, every single word was crystal clear.
“The main visual for the Starlight Project—how many rounds of revision feedback have you been given from start to finish?”
No one answered.
“I asked you how many times.” Song Qiao’s voice remained soft, but she bit down heavily on the word “asked,” as if reminding them this wasn’t a question they could skip.
“…Three times,” the bespectacled one said in a very soft voice.
“The first time, when I gave my feedback, what did I say was the deadline?”
“Three days later.”
“When did you hand it in?”
Silence.
“Speak.” Song Qiao stopped her tapping fingers, and the office fell silent for a brief moment.
“A week later,” the bespectacled girl replied even softer, barely audible.
“What about the second time?” Song Qiao’s tone carried no fluctuations, like checking off a checklist, “What did I say was the deadline?”
“Two days later.”
“And then?”
“…”
No one answered. Because they didn’t dare—they had bypassed Song Qiao entirely and sent it straight to the client.
Song Qiao didn’t speak; she just looked at them, that silence more suffocating than any interrogation.
“And today?” Song Qiao’s voice suddenly softened, so soft Xia Wei almost didn’t catch it, “This morning when I asked you about the draft, you said you were still revising.”
She paused.
“How many days has it been revising?”
No one answered.
“Two days,” Song Qiao answered for them, “Two days, you’ve been revising for two days.”
She stood up, her chair sliding back slightly with a very light sound. Xia Wei saw her shadow shift through the door crack, walking over to the window and turning her back to them.
“Do you know who set the promotion timeline for the Starlight Project?”
The two glanced at each other, not daring to speak.
“I did,” Song Qiao turned around, her voice very flat, as if speaking of something unrelated to herself, “Every single milestone, I’ve checked myself. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I know that once something goes wrong with this project, the one taking the blame won’t be you—it’ll be me.”
She walked back to the desk and picked up the folder lying there.
“For the first two rounds of revisions, you dragged your feet, and I said nothing. For the third round, this morning you said ‘still revising,’ and I gave you the entire morning.”
She opened the folder, which contained the printed revision feedback—not the general “not high-end enough, revise again” style found in emails, but every single point written out clearly, with reference cases noted beside them.
“Have you looked at the contents of this folder?”
The bespectacled one kept her head down without speaking. The high ponytail’s fingers twisted together, her knuckles whitening.
“I’m asking you, have you looked or not?” Song Qiao’s voice was still low, but every word felt wrapped in ice shards, chilling to the bone.
“L… looked,” the bespectacled one finally spoke, her voice trembling.
“Then why didn’t you revise it?”
Silence.
“Was it because you didn’t know how to revise, or because you didn’t want to?”
The bespectacled girl abruptly raised her head, her lips moving as if wanting to say something, but meeting Song Qiao’s gaze, she swallowed it back down.
“I’ll answer for you.” Song Qiao closed the folder, braced her hands on the desk, leaned forward slightly, her gaze icy: “It’s not that you didn’t know how to revise; you didn’t want to. Or rather—you were waiting.”
The office was so quiet the sound of the air conditioner’s fan could be heard.
“Waiting for what?” Song Qiao looked at them, her gaze shifting from one face to the other and back again, “Waiting until I didn’t have time to replace you? Waiting for the client to blow up? Waiting for this project to crash and burn?”
The high ponytail’s eyes reddened, but she bit her lip and didn’t cry.
“Whose waiting are you helping along?” Song Qiao’s voice suddenly dropped low, so soft it sounded like sharing a secret, “What kind of benefits did the Business Department give you?”
Hearing this outside, Xia Wei’s heart gave a sudden heavy jolt—this was what Xie Xiaoqing meant by: you’ll find out soon enough.
The high ponytail’s body visibly stiffened, and the bespectacled girl gripped the high ponytail’s hand tightly, their fingers twisting together.
Song Qiao’s gaze fell on their intertwined fingers, her expression unreadable.
“Director Song, we…” the high ponytail began, her voice already carrying a sob.
“I don’t want explanations,” Song Qiao interrupted, her voice returning to that flat tone, “What you’ve done, I don’t need you to tell me. I’ll ask you one question, think it over before you answer.”
She looked at them, her gaze calm.
“Do you want to stay in the PR and Production Department, or do you want to go to the Business Department?”
This question was crueler than any interrogation.
The bespectacled and high ponytail girls froze simultaneously. Outside, Xia Wei froze too.
This wasn’t a threat; it was a multiple-choice question, and they knew the answer better than anyone—staying in the PR and Production Department meant they no longer had the qualifications; going to the Business Department meant admitting they had done things they shouldn’t have.
Song Qiao didn’t rush them. She sat down, picked up the cup of water on her desk that had already turned cold, and took a sip. Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t put the cup down.
“You can think about it slowly,” she said, her tone as casual as discussing something trivial, “Though someone will be sitting at your desks tomorrow.”
The high ponytail finally let out tears, keeping her head down, her shoulders trembling.
The bespectacled one held her hand, her nails digging into the back of her hand, but the high ponytail didn’t seem to feel the pain.
“Director Song, we…” the bespectacled one’s voice was hoarse, “we didn’t mean to.”
Song Qiao raised her eyes to look at her. There was no anger in that gaze, no disappointment—only a very faint… fatigue.
“I know,” she said.
These three words pronounced the end of this conversation, and also the end of their working careers in the PR and Production Department.
The high ponytail broke down sobbing, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as tears streamed from between her fingers. The bespectacled girl’s eyes reddened too, but she didn’t cry, merely biting her lip fiercely.
Song Qiao looked at them without speaking, nor did she hand them a tissue. She just watched like that, as if waiting for an answer she had anticipated long ago.
After a long time—a minute, maybe less—the bespectacled one spoke.
“We’ll… go to the Business Department.”
Song Qiao nodded, that movement very light, as if saying “I know.”
“Alright then.” She stood up, pulled open a drawer, took out two pieces of paper, and placed them on the desk.
“Transfer applications, just sign them. I’ve already given a heads-up to the Business Department; you can report directly to them tomorrow.”
The high ponytail froze, looking up at Song Qiao with tears still hanging on her face: “You… you prepared this ahead of time?”
Song Qiao didn’t answer the question. She placed a pen on the paper and pushed it forward.
“Sign.”
The high ponytail looked at those two sheets of paper, her hands shaking.
The bespectacled one picked up the pen first and signed her name. Her handwriting was very steady, completely contrasting with her trembling hands. After signing, she handed the pen to the high ponytail.
The high ponytail took the pen and lowered her head to sign.
The tip of the pen scratched across the paper, producing a very faint rustling sound.
Song Qiao gathered up the two pieces of paper and put them into the drawer.
“You don’t have to do today’s work. Pack your things and head back early to rest.”
Having said that, she picked up the folder on her desk, turned, and walked toward the window, turning her back to them.
The two stood in place without moving.
Song Qiao didn’t look back, her voice floating over from the window, very light, as if filtered through something: “What happened with the two of you—I won’t tell anyone.”
The high ponytail’s tears fell again.
The bespectacled one took a deep breath, pulled the high ponytail’s hand, and softly said, “Let’s go.”
The two turned to walk out. When they reached the door, the high ponytail stopped and glanced back at Song Qiao’s retreating figure.
“Director Song… I’m sorry.”
Song Qiao didn’t turn around, nor did she speak.
Biting her lip, the high ponytail was pulled out of the office by the bespectacled girl.
The moment the door closed, Xia Wei saw Song Qiao’s shoulders drop slightly—very lightly, very quickly. If she hadn’t been staring intently, she wouldn’t have noticed at all.
Inside the door, Song Qiao picked up that cup of ice-cold water on her desk, took a sip, and frowned slightly, but she didn’t pour it out, simply placing the cup back on the desk with its opening facing inward.
Sitting at her workstation, Xia Wei rested her fingers on the keyboard, unable to type a single word.
Not just her; even Xie Xiaoqing’s gaze drifted intermittently toward those two.
They were packing up their personal belongings. Actually, there wasn’t much stuff; a single bag was enough to hold it all.
“Traitors.”
Someone muttered softly. The high ponytail finally couldn’t hold back a whimper. The bespectacled girl reached out to wrap an arm around her shoulder while carrying both of their bags with her other hand, walking out…
Taking in the righteous indignation of the other colleagues, Xia Wei realized the PR and Production Department wasn’t efficient simply because of Song Qiao’s oppression; perhaps there was also a strong sense of team spirit.
“Stop looking, back to work.” Xie Xiaoqing’s workstation was right beside Xia Wei’s.
Xia Wei smiled apologetically, cast her gaze back to the computer screen, and unconsciously tapped her fingers on the keyboard.
She recalled what Song Qiao had said just now—”It’s not that you didn’t know how to revise; you didn’t want to. Or rather, you were waiting.”
Waiting for what? Waiting until Song Qiao didn’t have time to replace people, waiting for the Starlight Project to run into trouble…
Xia Wei opened the company homepage, searched for information related to the Business Department, followed the positions upward, and finally pieced together an answer.
It wasn’t just internal friction within the department, but a struggle between departments—all pointing toward a single position: the Group Vice President.
And Song Qiao was both a player in the game and an onlooker. She had known from day one, known from the very first delayed draft, yet she had said nothing.
She didn’t confront the Business Department, didn’t expose it in the meeting, and didn’t say a single bad word in front of anyone.
She simply waited—waited for them to finish what they were supposed to do, waited for them to walk step-by-step to that point, watching them make their choice: stay or leave, take your pick.
Xia Wei lowered her head, opened her memo notebook to a blank page, her fingers slightly trembling.
She wrote a line:
Regarding betrayal, she isn’t unaware; she is waiting for you to know that she knows.
After writing, she looked at the line, felt it was wrong, and crossed it out.
She wrote again:
She will give you a chance, more than once.
If you don’t grasp it, she won’t curse you, let alone obstruct you, nor will she ever say a single bad thing about you in front of anyone.
She will only remember it, and then one day, in a way where you can find absolutely no fault, she will place the choice right into your hands—letting you choose for yourself, letting you walk out yourself.
And the scariest part is, after you walk out, you can’t even find it in you to hate her.
Xia Wei closed her notebook and took a deep breath.
She glanced at Song Qiao’s office.
The door was closed, and behind the frosted glass, a silhouette could faintly be seen standing by the window, motionless.
She withdrew her gaze, opened her software, and began working on a spreadsheet.
Her fingers tapped on the keyboard, but her mind was filled with the scene just now—when Song Qiao said “I know,” that flash of fatigue in her eyes.
It wasn’t fatigue toward the high ponytail and the bespectacled girl; it was that kind of… fatigue of having been stabbed in the back by her own people, yet having to pretend it didn’t hurt.
She suddenly thought of what Fang Tian had said last night: “You think she’s hard to deal with, but don’t you think—once you get busy, you won’t have time to think about all those messy things.”
Fang Tian was right. She really didn’t have time to think about her ex-girlfriend anymore.
But right now, all she could think about was Song Qiao.
Was that a good thing?
Xia Wei shook her head and dragged her attention back to the screen. Halfway through the spreadsheet, the internal communication software blinked.
Song Qiao: Today’s work is done, you can leave.
Xia Wei stared at the line of text for a few seconds and replied with a “Got it.”
Hesitating, she typed another line: “Director Song, you should rest early too.”
Send.
After about a minute, the other side replied with a single character:
“Mm.”
Just one character.
No “Got it,” no “Thank you,” no “You too,” but Xia Wei stared at that “Mm” for a long time, feeling like it was an awkward, prickly person’s way of awkwardly expressing gratitude.
She closed the dialog box and went back to the spreadsheet.
Reaching the last row, she paused and glanced toward the director’s office direction.
The lights were still on, casting a strip of white light through the crack in the door.
She lowered her head and added another line to her memo notebook:
That “Mm” was probably the closest thing to a “Thank you” she was capable of uttering.
Song Qiao surprisingly got off work on time today as well.
Xia Wei returned home early, and Zhou Ci had already prepared dinner waiting for her.
“How was it today, Weiwei?” Zhou Ci asked softly at the dining table.
“Pretty good, didn’t have to work overtime today.”
“Are the colleagues easy to get along with?”
Xia Wei’s mind immediately conjured up Song Qiao’s proud and prickly demeanor: “Pretty good, not hard to get along with.”
“That’s good.” Zhou Ci didn’t continue dwelling on Xia Wei’s work, shifting the topic instead, “So, do you want to go meet someone this weekend?”
Xia Wei looked up at Zhou Ci with a puzzled expression: “Meet who?”
“That nice young lady I mentioned last time.”
“Not meeting.”
Xia Wei didn’t want to start a new relationship so quickly; she hadn’t completely walked out of the past yet, and that wouldn’t be fair to herself or the other person.
“You child…” Zhou Ci frowned, wanting to scold Xia Wei a bit, when a flash of inspiration hit her, and she probed tentatively, “Did you start seeing someone on your own?”
“Mom…” Xia Wei drew out her tone.
Seeing this, Zhou Ci immediately said, “Alright, alright, I won’t say anymore, won’t say anymore. Eat, eat.”
The next day at work, Xia Wei ordered coffee ahead of time on her phone, picked it straight up at the shop, and headed upstairs.
When she arrived, a few people were scattered sparsely around the office.
Song Qiao hadn’t arrived yet, and her office door was closed. Xia Wei’s gaze fell on the two adjacent empty workstations, her lips pressed together as she pulled out her chair and sat down.
Colleagues filed in one after another. Xie Xiaoqing also dragged her large bag in, carrying breakfast in her hand.
“Morning, Sister Xiaoqing,” Xia Wei greeted energetically.
Xie Xiaoqing squinted at Xia Wei: “Morning, Xiaowei. I really envy you young people; your energy levels are just great.”
“Went to bed early last night.” Xia Wei smiled, then asked, “Has Director Song not arrived yet?”
The subtext was: Where did Director Song go?
“Oh, not here yet? Probably soon, it’s not time yet anyway,” Xie Xiaoqing said, setting down her bag, pulling out her chair, and sitting down while propping herself up on the desk like an elderly person.
Just as Xia Wei was about to speak, a “clack-clack” sound echoed from behind—Song Qiao had arrived.
“Director Song, your coffee.” Without thinking much, Xia Wei stood up immediately. As she handed over the coffee, she suddenly remembered what the “rules and strange talks” had written: When delivering things, don’t hand them directly into her hands; put them on the desk.
Yet before Xia Wei could react, Song Qiao had already taken it: “Thank you.”
“Snap out of it, she’s already gone inside, and you’re still staring… Were you captured by Director Song’s beauty too?” Xie Xiaoqing wore an ambiguous expression.
Xia Wei’s cheeks flushed slightly as she shook her head and replied, “No, I was just thinking about how the notebook you gave me said not to hand things directly to Director Song.”
“…”
Xie Xiaoqing didn’t speak, wearing a look-if-I-believe-you expression as she reached out to pat Xia Wei’s shoulder: “Relax, relax, everyone goes through this. Ask anyone who first joined the PR and Production Department if they weren’t mesmerized by Director Song’s beauty at some point.”
“But you need to remember one thing: the reason the female devil is a female devil is because she really knows how to torture people,” Xie Xiaoqing lowered her voice to say.
Xia Wei was pressed back into her seat, still feeling a bit dazed. She genuinely hadn’t been staring blankly at Song Qiao’s face; she was wondering how much truth there was to the contents of the “rules and strange talks.”
Soon enough, however, Xia Wei had no time to ponder such things. Xie Xiaoqing had taken on work from the visual side, and some tasks naturally fell onto Xia Wei’s shoulders.
The entire day passed exceptionally productively.
Near the end of the workday, Xia Wei had already packed her things, waiting to go home for dinner. Yet wait as she might, she received no message from Song Qiao.
What’s this? Not letting her go back today?
People in the office gradually thinned out, and Xia Wei ultimately had to message Zhou Ci: Mom, I’m working overtime tonight, won’t be back for dinner.
“Drive me to The Puli.” Holding her bag, Song Qiao tossed the car keys to Xia Wei and strode quickly toward the elevator bank.