Morning light spilled softly across the wooden floor of Jiù Mèng Xuān. The air smelled faintly of old paper and sandalwood. Lin Qing Yun arrived earlier than usual, a thermos of tea in hand, her calm steps echoing through the quiet hall.
The storm from last week had passed — the scandal linking her to Xu Wei Ran faded, leaving only faint ripples. Luminar's employees had gone back to work; even the gossip-hungry Weibo pages had moved on to the next celebrity scandal.
At the long restoration table, Qing Yun unrolled an old scroll — fragments of a Ming-era text about virtue and endurance. The irony wasn't lost on her.
Master Shen looked up from his own desk, his white eyebrows lifting slightly. "You came early."
She smiled, soft and serene. "It's quieter before the world wakes up."
He nodded, taking the tea from her hand. "Noise passes. Work endures."
Qing Yun's fingers brushed against the edge of the scroll. "That's why I like this place."
Across the city, in a high-rise office that smelled of expensive perfume and new leather, Jiang Yi Rong sat by her window with a glass of Bordeaux. Her assistant laid down a brown folder, its corners worn and creased.
"Everything you asked for," the assistant said.
Yi Rong flipped it open.
Inside were photocopies of hospital records, police reports, debt files — all stamped with the same name: Lin Hui Zhen, Qing Yun's mother.
A rape case. Medical bills. Notes about "unfit behavior" and "alcohol dependency."
A trail of poverty and humiliation wrapped in bureaucratic paper.
Yi Rong's fingers traced the page as if petting a snake. "Perfect," she murmured.
"Should we leak it directly?" the assistant asked.
Yi Rong smiled faintly. "No, no. Make it elegant. A feature piece. 'From tragedy to triumph.' Everyone loves a fallen angel — until they remember she's still dirty underneath."
That evening, a "special report" appeared on a financial gossip blog known for exposing the private lives of the elite.
The Hidden Past of Lin Qing Yun — The Woman Beside Gu Ze Yan
Born into chaos, daughter of Lin Hui Zhen, a woman once accused of debt and scandal, Lin Qing Yun climbed her way from a broken home to the arm of China's most desired CEO. Was it ambition or fate?
Attached were blurred photos of her mother's ID, a medical note, and a debt collector's scribbled ledger.
It wasn't journalism. It was a wound reopened for sport.
Within hours, the comment section erupted.
"So she's that woman's daughter?"
"No wonder she hides behind that pure act."
"Like mother, like daughter — all scheming for men."
"Gu Ze Yan's taste sure dropped."
Other users tried to fight back, drowned quickly by the noise.
"Her mother was assaulted, not a criminal. You people are disgusting."
"Even if it's true, what does that have to do with her?"
But empathy was slower to spread than cruelty.
By afternoon, paparazzi began to lurk near Jiù Mèng Xuān, hoping for photos of "the fallen heiress."
At Luminar headquarters, the news hit like a slap.
Shen Qiao stormed into Ze Yan's office, eyes blazing, phone in hand. "They went for her family this time."
Ze Yan took the phone, scrolled once, then twice. The veins along his wrist tightened.
"She's never spoken about them," Shen Qiao said quietly. "Not even to me."
His voice dropped an octave, steel beneath calm. "Find out who funded this outlet."
"We're already tracing the domain."
Ze Yan rose, reaching for his jacket. "I'm going to her."
"She's probably in class right now—"
"Then I'll wait."
At Jiù Mèng Xuān, afternoon sunlight pooled on the old wooden floor. Qing Yun finished stitching the edge of a torn scroll, her concentration steady. When her phone finally vibrated, she wiped her hands and checked it.
Dozens of missed calls.
Hundreds of unread messages.
And at the top of her feed — that headline.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Her face didn't change. Only her hand, holding the phone, stilled slightly.
Then she exhaled, eyes lowering. "So this is your next move, Miss Jiang."
Master Shen looked up. "Something wrong?"
"Just ghosts," she said lightly. "Ones that never learned to rest."
He studied her for a long moment. "Even the dirtiest ink fades," he said gently. "The paper remains."
Qing Yun's smile returned — faint, but real. "Then I'll just keep restoring the paper."
Evening fell.
Her phone rang again — Ze Yan. She picked up.
"You saw it?" His voice was low, clipped, struggling to stay even.
"I did."
"Do you want me to erase it?"
"No."
A pause. "Why not?"
"Because if you erase it, people will say it's true."
Another pause, heavier.
"You're too calm."
"Someone has to be," she replied softly. "If I let her see me flinch, she'll think she won."
"I don't want you to fight alone."
"I'm not," she said simply. "You're here."
Silence stretched, full of something fragile and warm.
Ze Yan exhaled. "Then let's show them we don't break that easily."
"Agreed."
That night, in her penthouse, Yi Rong scrolled through the same article — the one she had ordered into existence.
Comments poured in, cruel and self-righteous.
Her assistant lingered by the doorway. "Gu Ze Yan's PR team is suppressing posts. They'll be gone by morning."
Yi Rong swirled the wine in her glass, smiling faintly. "Let them delete. The more they hide it, the more people will want to see."
She stopped scrolling at a photo — Qing Yun's face in an old charity event, serene and untouchable even in pixel form.
Her lips curved. "You can't stay clean forever, darling. Everyone bleeds eventually."
Her phone buzzed — a text from a private number:
[Ze Yan left Luminar at midnight. Looked shaken.]
Yi Rong's smile sharpened. "Good. It's working."
She turned off the screen and looked out the window, where the city lights rippled like embers.
"Let's see how long his trust lasts," she whispered.