The glow of the crystal chandelier scattered across the dining table, casting tiny, trembling reflections. Three pairs of silver chopsticks were lined neatly beside the bone china plates—yet somehow, the arrangement carried a sharp, tense air, as if a storm lurked beneath the politeness.
Yan Yan kept her head lowered, sipping her soup quietly, deliberately avoiding the gazes of the two men across from her. The atmosphere at the table was so heavy that even the soft clink of silverware rang like a warning.
"Try this."
Qi Silì's calm voice broke the silence. His slender fingers held a pair of ivory chopsticks as he delicately picked up a slice of steamed perch, placing it gently into Yan Yan's bowl. The fish was snow-white, gleaming softly against the blue-and-white porcelain, exquisite and perfect.
Yan Yan froze for a moment, lifting her gaze to meet his. His expression was as composed as ever, as if the gesture had been nothing more than casual courtesy—but in the depths of his eyes flickered something she couldn't decipher.
"Thank you…" she murmured. Just as her chopsticks touched the fish, a sharp clack split the air.
Zhao Mingyuan had set his wine glass down hard. Red wine rippled dangerously near the rim, and his sharp, blade-like gaze swept toward her bowl, fixing on the piece of fish. His lips curved into a cold, mocking smile.
"Teacher Qi is so considerate," he said slowly, his tone soft but edged. "What's wrong—afraid the food in my house isn't to Miss Yan's taste?"
Qi Silì didn't flinch. His expression stayed mild as his eyes met Zhao Mingyuan's."She's too thin," he said evenly. "Not fit to bear children like this."
Zhao Mingyuan let out a low, derisive laugh. Without a word, he reached across the table, plucked the fish straight from Yan Yan's bowl with his own chopsticks, and placed it into his mouth—chewing with deliberate slowness.
"Not bad," he said, still staring at Qi Silì. Beneath the surface calm, his eyes were dark and turbulent. "But I prefer taking what's mine myself."
Yan Yan's fingertips trembled. The rice in her bowl suddenly tasted dry and heavy, impossible to swallow.
Then Zhao Mingyuan rose to his feet, his tall figure casting a shadow over the table. He ladled a bowl of chicken soup himself, sliding it toward her with a voice that allowed no refusal."Drink this. It's good for your blood."
Qi Silì's chopsticks paused for an instant—but he said nothing.
Under the chandelier's glow, the shadows of the three of them tangled together on the tablecloth, silent and tense, like a game of chess played without words.
Then—ring!—the shrill sound of the telephone shattered the fragile quiet.
The butler moved quickly to answer. After a moment, he turned and bowed slightly toward Yan Yan."Miss Yan, a call for you."
She blinked, startled, setting her chopsticks down. As she stood, the hem of her dress brushed the edge of her water glass—sending it toppling. Clear water soaked into the white tablecloth, spreading like a dark wound. She muttered a quick "sorry" and hurried out toward the living room.
Zhao Mingyuan's gaze followed her back, eyes cold and unreadable. Qi Silì merely lowered his head, fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass, his face impossible to read.
Yan Yan picked up the receiver. Before she could speak, a cold, sharp voice came through the line.
"Yan Yan," Zhao Mother's voice was icy, "you'd better remember your place."
Yan Yan's fingers tightened around the cord. Her throat felt constricted.
"I paid you to give my son a child," Zhao Mother's tone was laced with venom. "Letting Qi keep his bloodline too—that was Mingyuan's condition. Don't mistake it as something that gives you value."
Yan Yan's breath shook, but she didn't dare speak.
"If it weren't for their insistence that the two children must share the same mother, do you think I'd tolerate this ridiculous arrangement?" Zhao Mother's voice grew sharper, every word striking like a whip. "Sending myself a cuckold and a crazy man for company! I swallowed my pride for one reason only—a grandson. Don't forget what you're here to do!"
Her cold laugh hissed through the line."And don't think climbing into Qi Silì's good graces will protect you. Whatever he gives you—I can take back whenever I please."
Click.
The line went dead, leaving only the harsh, empty dial tone.
Yan Yan stood motionless, her fingertips icy.
When she finally returned to the dining room, her face was pale as paper.
Zhao Mingyuan looked up, his lips curved in something between a smile and a sneer."Who was that?"
Yan Yan forced a weak smile. "…Wrong number."
Qi Silì's gaze flicked toward her trembling hands, a glint of cold light passing through his eyes.
Zhao Mingyuan chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. He pulled out her chair for her, his tone deceptively gentle."Sit. The food's getting cold."
His fingers brushed against her wrist as he spoke—an almost invisible touch, but one that carried warning like a blade wrapped in silk.
Qi Silì said nothing. He simply picked up a piece of sweet-and-sour rib and placed it in her bowl.
"Eat," he said quietly. His voice was calm, but his eyes were deep and shadowed, impossible to read.
The air around the table grew even tighter, thick with silence—more suffocating than before.