(Hanchuan's POV, Shen Family Banquet)
The ballroom glimmered like every other in Haicheng: chandeliers blazing, marble polished until it reflected vanity back at itself, violins straining through rehearsed waltzes. Hanchuan had been attending galas like this since boyhood. They were all the same: a theater for money, power, and desperation disguised as elegance.
The air smelled of imported roses and expensive perfume, yet beneath it all lingered the familiar musk of greed. He could already read the evening before it unfolded: alliances cemented in champagne toasts, whispers traded like currency, smiles sharp enough to draw blood.
He would have let this one blur into forgettable, if not for her.
Shen Yue.
She was truly a stunning girl, but at first glance, she looked like any other debutante playing dress-up in borrowed silk. The sapphire gown pinched awkwardly at the waist, her ponytail was too practical for the room, and her emerald eyes met gazes too directly to be considered refined. By all accounts, she should have blended into the background—another casualty of Haicheng's merciless hierarchy.
And then he heard her.
Look at them, strutting like they own the world. Newsflash: money doesn't buy grace.
The words were never spoken aloud, yet they struck him with perfect clarity. His gaze sharpened, following her through the crowd. She hummed faintly, lips unmoving, but in his mind there spilled a melody of her inner defiance: a lament built of sharp violin strokes, threaded with stubborn pride.
A private song. A private voice that, for some reason, only he could hear.
For the first time in years, something unexpected had entered the script called life.
The night unfolded with cruel precision. Jiang Yifan played his part, leaning toward Shen Jiayi as if she were a prize he'd earned. Jiayi basked in her crimson gown, halo polished for the crowd, envy flashing with every glance at her "sister."
Hanchuan knew the performance by heart. The doting parents, the loyal guests pretending scandal shocked them when in fact they thrived on it. The music swelled to mask the stench of betrayal.
While Yue maintained an air of indifference, her thoughts slipped free.
Quaint? Your wit's a blunt knife, Yifan.
Thin ice? I've been skating it my whole life.
Her face betrayed nothing: chin high, lips curved in polite indifference. Yet underneath, her mind ran sharp, irreverent, and unflinchingly honest. It was like being given access to the diary she'd never let anyone else read.
When Fang Lihua whispered, "Don't embarrass us tonight," Shen Yue answered aloud with a smile, but in her head: Embarrass you? I'm already your biggest shame.
Hanchuan felt his lips twitching upward—something that usually only occurred when he let his guard down around those few he cared for. Everyone else heard outward compliance. He alone heard her inner truth, and that truth was far more alive than the hollow chatter filling the ballroom.
The irony struck him: here was a girl everyone dismissed as fake, and yet she was the only genuine voice in the room.
When Yifan mounted the stage to announce the annulment, Hanchuan already knew the outcome. Families saved face. Bloodline restored. Jiayi crowned. Applause on cue. The same hollow ritual he had watched too many times before.
But Yue stood in its crossfire, stripped of name and promise, and she did not break. No tears. No collapse. She held herself upright, steel hidden in silk.
Her thoughts thrummed to him even then—sarcasm woven with quiet anguish, a defiance thrashing against humiliation. It was raw. It was unpolished. It was real.
Jiayi tried to coat victory in honey; Yue's reply slipped the knife in with elegance: "Guard your halo, Jiayi. It slips when you smile too hard."
The audience chuckled nervously, but he caught the tremor in Jiayi's forced smile. Yue had landed the blow.
He couldn't help but admire her for it.
And he wanted to hear more.
The applause swelled again, violins scrambling to stitch civility over scandal. The Shens managed their performance. Yifan preened. Jiayi glowed.
But Hanchuan did not clap. He stood apart, hazel eyes steady on her. She noticed. Their gazes caught across the crowd, and for a breath the music dulled, leaving only her pulse and his intent. He inclined his head, the barest acknowledgment.
She looked away first.
Around them, the glittering crowd chattered on, oblivious to the weight of the moment. To them, Shen Yue had been cast out, forgotten as quickly as spilled wine mopped from marble. To him, she lingered.
When she left, she walked with deliberate steps, dress brushing marble, whispers trailing like smoke. The crowd parted just enough to let her through, then sealed behind her as if she had never existed. But he saw the defiance in her stride, the rigid set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin daring the world to look down on her.
He watched her go, and even then, her thoughts lingered: If they wanted a spectacle, they'll have to settle for this. She walked out of the banquet hall with her back straight and head held high.
It was strangely compelling to watch her exit—not as a spectacle of ruin, but as a quiet act of rebellion. She turned disgrace into dignity, her silence louder than the orchestra's waltz. He found himself listening for more even as the doors shut behind her.
That was when he decided.
Not because she was useful—though he knew she could be. Not because she was discarded—though that gave him an opening.
But because she was a contradiction that fascinated him. She was an enigma.
The girl abandoned by her family carried herself with grace they lacked. The heiress exposed as a fraud was truer than all the frauds around her. Her surface was calm, untouchable, while beneath it ran fire: sarcasm, bitterness, humor, and an aching defiance no one else could hear.
Except him.
Her voice threaded into him like a secret meant for his ears alone. It stirred not just curiosity but a kind of intimacy, as though he had been invited past the armor she showed the world. Every thought he caught left him wanting another, like snatches of a song too fleeting to satisfy.
He wanted to peel back those layers—not out of idle calculation, but out of genuine interest, the sharp pull of fascination.
Gu Hanchuan admired her. Admired her more than he had expected to admire anyone in that room. He wanted to keep her close long enough to uncover the full truth of the voice only he could somehow hear. And he knew himself well enough to admit: he enjoyed the sound of her. The wit. The bite. The melody of a girl who refused to shatter even when the stage was set for her ruin.
A contract marriage would do it. An arrangement that bound her to his side, justified his protection, and gave him time. Time to watch, to listen, to unearth every hidden note of her private symphony.
And perhaps—though he would not voice it aloud yet—time to discover why fate had granted him access to her thoughts at all.
He set his glass aside, decision already firm.
Shen Yue, cast out of one family, would be drawn into his.
Shen Yue, whose silence sang, would not escape his hearing.
Shen Yue—the girl he intended to uncover piece by piece.
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A/N: I'm honestly not sure what to think of this chapter...Writing through his POV of an event that already happened felt important to me, but somewhat off. What do you all think?