The cinema room door clicked softly behind her, sealing the quiet away.
An Ning walked down the hall, the muted glow of the sconces guiding her steps toward the dinning area.
The cottage really was a marvel.
From the outside, it was all quaint charm—ivy-clad walls and rustic stone, the kind of place you'd expect to find in a countryside postcard.
But inside? The place gleamed with understated luxury: polished wood floors, sleek lighting, every detail chosen to look effortless on the camera.
She couldn't help but give the production team credit.
No wonder_Heartbeat Cottage_had taken the internet by storm.
With a set this extravagant, the audience was already halfway in love before the cast opened their mouths.
Still, a faint pang tugged at her.
An Ning missed her own ocean-view penthouse—the one she had designed down to the last detail.
Her career, her home, her place in that world. All gone.
Would she ever find a way back?
"Host."
The little melon popped into view, wobbling solemnly. "Not just your career, your home and your place….your body is also gone in that world."
An Ning froze. "What do you mean —"
"Did you forget? You were involved in an accident." The little melon's voice was unusually gentle, almost pitying.
The screech of tires. The shattering of glass. The cries that followed.
The memory of the crash slammed into her—raw, merciless, inescapable.
Her fingers curled faintly at her side.
So she didn't bring me here just to clean up this mess…
This is my second chance.
"She was a good person." An Ning murmured.
"She was," the little melon agreed softly.
By then, her steps had carried her to the dinning room.
Unlike the abundant spread she had been in the kitchen, tonight's dinner was far simpler—plates of pasta arranged evenly around a polished round table, steam curling faintly in the air.
The effort showed.
The noodles were slightly uneven, the sauce a little watery, but the arrangement look tidy enough under the studio lights.
An Ning's gaze swept over the table, she didn't give away anything from her expression.
Compared to her own standards, it was nothing remarkable.
But for the audience, framed by the cameras at every angle, it would pass as heartwarming domesticity.
One by one, the others began filing in.
Chairs scraped lightly against the polished floor as they took their seats around the circular table.
Wu Shiyun strolled in first, still immaculate in her glittering dress.
She lowered herself into a chair with effortless poise, crossing one leg over the other as though she were dining at a five-star restaurant instead of on homemade pasta.
Zhao Guangyao arrived next, his smile practiced and polite, the kind that always played well on the camera.
Without hesitation, he pulled out the seat right next to Wu Shiyun.
The choice was deliberate—too deliberate.
Wu Shiyun arched a brow but didn't say anything.
Han Yichen and Sun Qiaolian followed close behind.
Sun Qiaolian carried a glass bowl of salad carefully in her hands, the bright greens and reds catching light.
Han Yichen reached out immediately, steadying the bowl with one hand as if afraid she might stumble.
Together, they set it down at the center of the table.
The moment his fingers slipped away, his expression shifted ever so slightly—calm on the surface, but his brows drew faintly together, the corners of his lips tightening.
It was subtle, the kind of fleeting displeasure that wouldn't register unless you were watching closely.
Sun Qiaolian, however, noticed.
Her lips tugged too tight for a heartbeat before she forced them into something gentler, as if to patch over the crack.
Chen Yiming arrived a moment later, his steps steady, his expression unreadable as always.
Without a word, he drew out the chair beside An Ning and sat down, adjusting his sleeves with a simple, practical motion.
Then came Shen Xiyu.
He strolled in unhurriedly, posture relaxed, face calm beneath the studio lights. Nothing about him hinted at sickness; if anything, he looked more refreshed than the rest of them.
Wu Shiyun blinked, surprise flickering across her eyes. Still, she leaned slightly forward, her tone soft with concern.
"Xiyu-ge," she asked, the words almost tentative. "Are you…feeling better now?"
For a split second, Shen Xiyu's eyes brushed over Sun Qiaolian.
Her face paled visibly.
It was quick, almost imperceptible—but not quick enough.
Han Yichen's gaze sharpened, catching the way her face stiffened before she forced her expression back into soft gentleness.
"I'm fine," Shen Xiyu said smoothly, sliding into the empty chair. "I've taken some medicines, I guess I just needed some rest."
The lie flowed like honey. Believable, sweet enough to silence suspicious.
[Wait…did Xiyu-ge just glance at Qiaolian? 👀]
[No way I'm imagining things…right??]
[Bro that eye contact was real, don't gaslight me 😭]
[OMG CP vibes!! Qiaolian × Xiyu, I'm shipping it!! 💕]
[Nahhh y'all blind, her face literally went pale. That's not sugar, that's sus 😬]
[Half of you delulu, half of you detectives 🤣]
At the table, Han Yichen's expression never shifted. His smile stayed as gentle, his posture relaxed, his hand steady as he adjusted the bowl in front of him.
But beneath the veneer, his fingers curled faintly against his knee—subtle, controlled, the only crack in his polished composure.
These little actions didn't escape An Ning's notice.
Her gaze lingered just long enough to catch the tightening of Han Yichen's knuckles, the way Sun Qiaolian's lashes dipped half a beat too late.
The little melon bobbed faintly in her vision, its crown tilting in glee.
"Host, host! Did you see that? Ohhhh, this is juicy—Han Yichen's caught it too! The cracks are showing already!"
An Ning lowered her eyes to her glass, the faintest trace of a smile curving her lips.
Interesting. The perfect facade wasn't quite so perfect after all.
"Sorry to kept you guys waiting,"
The voice was smooth, lilting with confidence.
Heads turned.
Jiang Shuyue stepped into the dinning room, heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
Her outfit was sharp, perfectly tailored, every line accentuating her elegance.
She moved with the kind of ease that came from long years in spotlight—though she wasn't the star, she carried as though she owned the stage.
Her smile warm. Effortless. But her eyes gleamed with quiet sharpness as they swept over the table—pasta, salad, and the tension coiled beneath polite expressions.
"This seat is directly under the aircon. I really can't take the chill—" Jiang Shuyue's tone smooth, polite on the surface.
Her gaze swept the table once before landing squarely on Sun Qiaolian.
"Qiaolian," her lips curved faintly, "would you switch seats with me?"
The words were phrased as a request. The delivery made it sound like anything but.
Sun Qiaolian's fingers tightened faintly against the edge of her plate.
Her smile wavered, the edges stiffening before she caught herself.
"…Of course," Sun Qiaolian murmured, her voice soft as ever. But the pause had already said enough.
[OHHH she targeted Qiaolian right away 👀]
[Not her making it sound 'casual' but only asking ONE person 😭]
[Lian-lian better be careful, this manager sis knows how to play the game 💅]
[Switch seats? More like switch positions in the spotlight 😬]
[Bro she just went for Qiaolian, no warm-up 😭]
[Manager sis didn't come to play, she came to SLAY 💅]
[Uh oh… knives are out. Can Lian-lian survive this round?? 👀]
[Manager sis said 'move' and Qiaolian _moved_ 😭]
You'll never know how it hurts until the knife is already in you.
Watching from the side, An Ning almost felt the edge slide between Sun Qiaolian's ribs—polite words hiding blade.
She tilted her glass, the water catching the light. The knife that once aimed at her had now been redirected—straight at Sun Qiaolian.