Yan Yan listened to Mrs. Zhao's voice on the phone, her cheeks burning as a tangle of emotions welled up inside her. On one hand, she understood the older woman's eagerness for a grandchild — that hopeful tone carried the weight of a family's expectations. But on the other, the strange, intricate relationship she now had with Zhao Mingyuan and Qi Sili made the idea of bearing a child feel unbearably complicated.
She couldn't help wondering: how would a child face such a peculiar family structure? Would they hate her for bringing them into it? And what would Zhao Mingyuan and Qi Sili think — how would they treat that child? The more she thought, the more her thoughts spiraled. The phone in her hand felt as heavy as lead.
Mrs. Zhao's voice went on and on in her ear. Yan Yan opened her mouth, but no words came. She didn't want to disappoint her, yet she had no idea how to face what was coming. In the end, she could only murmur vague replies, uncertain what to do when Zhao Mingyuan and Qi Sili came home later that evening.
When they finally returned from work, the butler called her down for dinner. Yan Yan hesitated on the staircase, then slowly descended. Under the warm yellow light of the dining room, the first thing she saw was Qi Sili's back. He was setting out bowls and chopsticks — his long fingers against the pale-green porcelain looked like part of a still-life painting.
When he turned around, she saw his face clearly for the first time. His skin was very fair — not sickly pale, but smooth and luminous, like rice paper under soft light. At thirty-two, his features were fine and understated, his brows and eyes like distant mountains drawn in diluted ink. The corners of his eyes slanted slightly downward, lending him a trace of quiet weariness. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses rested on his nose, the curve of the chain at his temple giving him the air of an old-world scholar.
He wore an indigo linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up twice, exposing slender wrists and clean joints. The most striking detail was the faint blue stain on the knuckles of his right hand — ink, soaked into the lines of his skin after years of painting, like a delicate flower-and-bird motif accidentally brushed there.
"The food's getting cold." His lips barely moved as he spoke; his voice sounded like it drifted from far away. Yan Yan noticed a small mole on the left side of his neck — stark against his white skin, like a dot of cinnabar left by an artist's final touch.
Zhao Mingyuan emerged from the washroom, carrying a faint scent of mint soap. He dried his hands with a towel as he strode toward the table, his presence like a gust of wind — sharp and vibrant, a contrast to Qi Sili's quiet composure.
He was a little taller than Qi Sili, broad-shouldered and long-legged, dressed simply in a black T-shirt. The faint definition of his muscles hinted at regular exercise. His skin was a healthy tan, his hair cropped short and neat. A slightly raised brow ridge and dark eyes lent him an intensity softened only when he smiled — the corners of his eyes tipping upward with a roguish charm.
As he passed behind Qi Sili, he reached out naturally to pinch the back of the man's neck, teasingly — like someone petting a proud cat. "Teacher Qi, what masterpiece did you paint today?" he drawled lazily.
Qi Sili didn't even lift his head. He merely clicked his tongue lightly — but he didn't pull away. Zhao Mingyuan's fingers lingered at the base of his neck, thumb brushing over that small mole before he withdrew his hand and sat down. The movement was so practiced, so casual, that it spoke of countless repetitions — and an intimacy that needed no words.
When Zhao Mingyuan sat, the steel of his watch gleamed coldly in the light. At twenty-four, he already carried the polish of someone long immersed in business. After inheriting his family's mining empire, he had started several ventures of his own — the confidence of old money paired with the hunger of a young entrepreneur.
His features were more sharply cut than Qi Sili's — a defined jaw, bold brows, a hint of aggression that softened when he smiled, revealing a small canine tooth that lent a disarming charm. The calluses on his fingers weren't from brushes or pens, but from years of flipping lighters and signing contracts.
He set his phone down carelessly on the table; the screen still glowed faintly with the graph of a stock market app. Tilting his head toward Qi Sili, he asked casually, with a trace of coaxing in his tone, "Teacher Qi, free this weekend? Come with me to an auction?"
Qi Sili picked up a piece of food with his chopsticks, eyelids barely lifting. "No."
Zhao Mingyuan wasn't offended. Instead, he grinned wider and flicked at the chain of Qi Sili's glasses. "Come on, just take a look with me. What if I get scammed again?" His fingertip brushed the curve of Qi Sili's ear — a touch so easy and familiar it was clearly not the first time.
Throughout dinner, Yan Yan listened to their back-and-forth without knowing how to join in. Mrs. Zhao's earlier words echoed in her mind. If this "game" had to end, then perhaps she should just end it quickly — get it over with, and leave this life behind.
She gathered her courage and spoke softly, almost in a whisper. "This week… is my ovulation period."
The room fell silent for a breath. Yan Yan's face flushed scarlet; she dropped her gaze to her plate.
Qi Sili remained calm, as if she had mentioned something entirely ordinary. "Then we'll take turns this week," he said evenly. "Let's try to maximize the chances."
Zhao Mingyuan nodded. "Alright. I'll go first tonight."
Yan Yan's heart clenched — shame and anger tangled together — but she had no strength left to protest.