Xu Yijing rose and returned to her room, leaving Shen An alone on the living room sofa.
The mindless soap opera on the television had long since ended, replaced by endless loops of tedious advertisements.
He leaned back gently against the sofa cushions, in no rush to head to bed.
Rubbing his chin, he sank into quiet contemplation.
With his timid facade dropped, he methodically pieced together the clues in his mind.
For now, Xu Yijing, Zhao Qingyu—even Chen Nannan—each had her own take on the matter.
No one was right or wrong; it all boiled down to their individual perspectives.
Take Zhao Qingyu, for example. She would naturally start from her own viewpoint, interpreting Xu Yijing’s “ungrateful” challenge as brazen insubordination.
Whether that held water was anyone’s guess.
Xu Yijing’s account sounded airtight, laced with an air of impartial fairness.
But who could vouch that she wasn’t bending the truth?
She might not be outright lying, but the real skill in talking lay in veiling half the facts and weaving in a touch of personal bias.
Chen Nannan carried the least suspicion, of course.
She had no motive to fabricate anything.
More likely, she genuinely didn’t know the full story and was just connecting dots from scattered snippets.
In their conversation, she hadn’t stated anything as absolute fact—just relayed what she’d heard.
And even she probably couldn’t tell truth from fiction in those details.
Shen An sifted through it all carefully. He placed full trust in neither Zhao Qingyu nor Xu Yijing.
His gut told him both were playing coy, each withholding key pieces while framing their words to tug at a listener’s sympathy.
But that was beside the point.
Neither woman had laid out her grievances directly to him, yet Shen An could hazard a solid guess.
Their bad blood ran deeper than a squabble over leadership roles.
If Zhao Qingyu’s family name shared no ties with Zhao Li’s, that would be the real punchline.
For the moment, Shen An shelved the question of which one harbored ulterior motives. His mind drifted to another overlooked player.
The former Art Troupe leader.
From Xu Yijing’s telling, this ex-leader had meddled in the contest between the two women, pulling considerable weight.
Progress there might yield real clarity.
But who was she?
Shen An paused, uncertain.
He dreaded another heavyweight. He’d already crossed paths with Xu Yijing and Zhao Qingyu; one more could overwhelm him.
He mulled it over for about ten minutes before lifting his head, rolling his neck, and rising slowly. He flicked off the television and living room lights.
No more head-scratching—it was a waste of brainpower.
The enigmas might seem to multiply, but Shen An was steadily evolving from pawn to puppeteer.
Zhao Qingyu’s attitude toward him had thawed noticeably, after all.
He was merely indulging his curiosity, not launching any truth-seeking crusade.
As long as the feud between Zhao Qingyu and Xu Yijing endured, the full picture would emerge in time.
It depended on who cracked first—Zhao Qingyu spilling to him, or Xu Yijing losing her cool.
Hmm.
That sparked an idea: he could try probing Zhao Qingyu’s stance.
Xu Yijing meant to use him as her sounding rod against her rival anyway.
He snatched the book from the table and dashed back to his room.
Sprawled on the bed, he fired off his routine messages to Chen Nannan, Wang Yuqiong, and Song Rui.
Then he pulled up the texts, scanning the dozen-plus from Zhao Qingyu.
His phone had pinged sporadically during his outing with Chen Nannan.
The final buzz came while strolling back to the North District, hand in hand with her.
He’d ignored them all.
Had he not, leaving the phone out on the table upon arrival would have lost its purpose.
He was testing whether Zhao Qingyu’s impatience would drive her to call outright—or spam more texts.
Either way, it would pique Xu Yijing’s interest.
If she ignored it, fine. If she snooped, her suspicions would spike.
Shen An skipped lock screens, and the sender’s name blared Zhao Qingyu in plain sight.
In hindsight, Xu Yijing’s sudden candor probably wasn’t random.
Her play mirrored Zhao Qingyu’s back at the hotel: downplay her own faults, trash the opponent.
What had they even discussed…
Pity this phone lacked auto-recording.
Shen An checked the call log. Under five minutes.
Not much said, then.
“Should I ring her?”
He eyed the messages, waffling.
On one hand, Xu Yijing had fielded the call, and given their history, it likely devolved into a shouting match across the ether.
Calling now risked catching flak—thankless labor.
He might even absorb Zhao Qingyu’s pent-up ire, eroding her sense of obligation toward him.
On the other, stonewalling her could fester into outright humiliation.
She might snap, torpedoing their fragile rapport overnight.
As Shen An wavered, a knock echoed at his door.
“Senior Sister?”
He blurted instinctively.
Xu Yijing’s voice filtered through: “You heading to bed?”
“Uh, not yet.”
“Forgot to mention something earlier.”
“Yeah?”
“Senior Sister Zhao wants you to call her back soon. She’s probably still waiting.”
Oh?
Talk about perfect timing.
Shen An’s eyes narrowed, glinting: “Got it. I’ll give her a ring shortly.”
“One more thing. About grabbing your call unasked—I’m sorry. Hope you accept my apology.”
Xu Yijing bent for once, a rare concession.
It signaled no seismic shift between them, merely polished etiquette.
Like murmuring “excuse me” after jostling a stranger.
“Yeah, my oversight. Water under the bridge.”
“Good. Sleep well.”
Her footsteps receded into silence.
Once clear, Shen An stood, sidled to the window, and dialed Zhao Qingyu.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
In the dim rest room, the chime pierced the quiet. Zhao Qingyu, barefoot on the bed and swinging her feet idly, spotted the caller ID and sprang up.
Gritting her teeth, she fumed inwardly: “About damn time!”
Either to grind Shen An’s patience or broadcast her grudge, she let it ring nearly to voicemail before answering.
Wary this time, she held her tongue first.
No more slip-ups.
“Hello?”
Shen An murmured, off guard.
His voice confirmed, Zhao Qingyu huffed: “Mr. Big Shot graces me with his time? I didn’t saddle you with tasks today, right?”
“Handled some personal stuff.”
Shen An replied evenly: “Senior Sister Xu said you needed to talk. What’s the matter?”
Ice-cold formality!
She nearly chomped her crimson lip bloody. The bastard was feigning ignorance—rubbing it in!
Fingers vise-tight on the phone, she seethed: “Nothing earth-shattering. Guess you’re swamped—too swamped for a text peek.”
Her barbs slid off him. “If it’s minor, I’ll sign off. Early night, Senior Sister.”
Zhao Qingyu: ???
“Wait!” she snapped.
“Hm?” A smirk tugged his lips.
“Hah…”
Through the line, her ragged breaths rasped loud.
This little ribbing marked one of Zhao Qingyu’s rare defeats.
Barefoot, she paced the floorboards, breaths yielding to slapping footfalls.
Shen An waited patiently, phone in hand.
He knew her gears were turning.
Agonizing, really.
Click.
The rest room light blazed on. She jammed on her shoes, exited the Art Troupe building, and ventured into the deathly still corridor.
A chill breeze soothed her simmer, steadying her.
Lips to the receiver, she murmured: “Sorry.”
