The microphone squeals, sharp enough to slice through laughter and crystal clinks. The ballroom falls into expectant silence. Jiang Yifan steps into the spotlight as if it's his stage, tuxedo gleaming, posture rehearsed. His lips curve into a smile designed to impress cameras that aren't even here.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, voice practiced smooth, "thank you for joining us tonight. There's been speculation… and it's time we address it clearly, with respect to both families."
Every head turns, waiting. Across the stage, Shen Jiayi stands poised in her crimson gown, a picture of soft perfection. Her smile glimmers like a crown, but her eyes gleam sharp with hunger.
Go on. Do it. You've been waiting for this moment.
Yifan clears his throat. "After thorough discussions, our families have agreed to annul my engagement to Miss Shen Yue."
Gasps echo, crystal sharp. Some women clutch their pearls; others lean forward, savoring the scandal. I feel their eyes cut into me like scalpels. My heart stumbles but I plant my heels firmly. Here it comes. My public execution.
"It has come to light," Yifan continues, "that Miss Yue is not, in fact, the true daughter of the Shen family. DNA has confirmed it." He pauses, smirk twitching. "With the Shens' blessing, I am honored to announce my forthcoming engagement to Miss Shen Jiayi, the true Shen Family Heiress."
Polite applause begins, hesitant but building once the correct social equation clicks: bloodline trumps appearances. Status is preserved. Face is saved.
Jiayi glides up the steps, slipping her hand into his. Her crimson nails catch the chandelier light as she gazes out like royalty crowned. "I am grateful to my parents for welcoming me home," she says sweetly. "And to Yue… for carrying the role until now."
Her eyes linger on me, sympathy painted so carefully it feels crueler than any insult.
Guarded it? Try lived it. Try survived it.
Whispers ignite like brushfire. "So it's true…The fake heiress, exposed." A man murmurs, "The Shens handled this elegantly." Their words crawl over my skin, heavy as smoke, but I keep my chin high.
Father steps forward, voice heavy with authority. "Yue. You were raised in our home. That will not be erased. But from tonight, you are no longer of the Shen family." His gray eyes skim me like a ledger entry gone red. "We will prepare a sum for your comfort."
A severance package. Payment for silence. Face disguised as generosity.
Mother follows, shawl fluttering as she stops just shy of touching me. Her lips curve in a brittle smile, but her words slice under her breath. "Take what's offered. Don't disgrace us further."
The bitterness tastes metallic on my tongue. Disgrace you? I'm already your greatest shame, Mother.
Jiayi descends gracefully, perfume cloying, her voice pitched for the inner circle. "Sister," she says, all honey, "I'll honor everything you protected."
I smile, thin as glass. "Guard your halo, Jiayi. It slips when you smile too hard."
A twitch betrays her before she smooths it. Small victories still count.
I set my glass on a tray with steady fingers. "Congratulations," I say clearly, bowing slightly, etiquette wrapping my words in silk. Murmurs ripple. They expected tears. Rage. A scene. Instead, I gift them composure.
That composure becomes its own scandal.
Applause resumes, more confident this time. The orchestra seizes the cue, strings sliding into a waltz to patch the hole with civility. The bowing of violins sounds almost desperate, as though the music itself is straining to cover the fracture running through the room. Guests seize the lifeline instantly, clapping harder, spinning safe phrases to one another. "Fortunately the truth came out now… Jiayi is radiant… Yue was surprisingly composed." Their chatter piles like sugar over bitterness.
Yet across the ballroom, one figure does not clap.
Gu Hanchuan.
He stands apart, half-shadowed by a pillar, his glass untouched. The room moves around him, but his hazel eyes are fixed on me—steady, unblinking. It's not the hungry curiosity of the crowd, nor the polite pity I half expect. It's something quieter. He doesn't flinch when I meet his gaze.
For a moment, the noise of the ballroom thins. My chest tightens, though I can't say why. I don't know what that look means, and I don't have the strength to untangle it now.
I look away first, forcing my steps forward. Whatever it is, it's not mine to puzzle over tonight.
I step through the crowd, each stride deliberate, dress whispering against marble. Their whispers trail behind me—"Tch…faking it all the way till the end—as if I'm already a story to tell over brunch. I don't give them the scene they're waiting for.
Near the archway, Mother intercepts me, smile lacquered for her friends. Her voice is low, sharp. "Don't make a scene."
"I'm leaving," I answer, steady. "That is the opposite of a scene."
Her nostrils flare, but she pastes her smile wider. "Good girl," she whispers, and I brush past her without slowing.
The corridor hushes as the doors close behind me. At last, the air is cooler, honest. The perfume and whispers vanish, replaced by marble echo and the faint hum of electricity in the walls. Each click of my heels steadies the storm inside me. At the far end, a waiter slips by, startled to find me alone, but says nothing. His silence is kinder than all their applause.
For a heartbeat I glance back. Gu Hanchuan is still there at the threshold, framed by golden light spilling from the ballroom. He doesn't move closer, but his gaze hasn't shifted either. A fractional nod, stripped of performance, as if acknowledging something only he sees. I don't understand his subtle gestures and don't care to linger.
The outer doors yield to the night. Haicheng's air rolls over me, warm and salted by the bay. Lanterns glow along the boardwalk, casting soft halos on stone. Beyond them, the water gleams dark, the city lights stretching long reflections across its surface.
Behind me, muffled strings resume their waltz, obedient, as though the scandal never happened. That's how it will be remembered: tidily managed, politely applauded, already rewritten into family lore.
I descend the stairs, gown dragging lightly, and step into the open dark. No sobs. No collapse. Only a quiet sigh of release, the rhythm of heels on stone, and the echo of a melody only I can hear.
If they wanted spectacle, they'll have to settle for this: the fake heiress walking out upright, stripped of everything but her name and the faint Lament steadying her spine.
*******
A/N: Banquet is over. Did I do a good job of showing exactly how I want the Female lead to be personified? Too much sass or do you all like it?