The problem with being loved for your mask is that no one notices when it slips.

Qin Yiran had worn hers for so long, she believed it was skin.

Polite. Caring. Selfless.

She had been the sweet girl, the one who brought sunshine into every room, the one who stood beside the Lin family like a portrait daughter.

And it had worked.

Until Zhiwei.

Zhiwei didn’t scream. She didn’t argue. She didn’t try to reclaim the spotlight.

She just left the stage.

And now, Yiran was performing for no one.

She watched from across the courtyard as Zhiwei passed through the school gates alone.

The morning sun caught the ends of her unstyled hair. Her uniform wasn’t pressed. Her steps weren’t graceful.

And still, eyes followed her.

Not because she was beautiful.

Not because she tried.

But because she didn’t try at all.

And yet people talked.

“She’s mysterious.”
“Unbothered.”
“It’s like she knows everything already.”

Yiran’s stomach twisted.

She wasn’t used to being compared. She was used to winning.

Now she was losing, silently, to a girl who didn’t even raise her hand.

So she changed tactics again.

This time: sabotage.

She found the student council vice president after class.

“Oh, by the way,” she said sweetly, “you know that file Zhiwei submitted for the cultural fair poster design? I think she might’ve copied the format from a previous year’s file. Just thought I’d let you know before it gets flagged.”

No raised voice. No accusations.

Just a seed.

A whisper.

One that would unravel everything if placed right.

Two days later, Zhiwei was called in by the student affairs office.

“Did you reuse a design template?” they asked gently.

Zhiwei blinked.

“I used the one provided in the student cloud drive.”

“Ah,” the teacher murmured. “It seems… someone flagged it as suspicious.”

Zhiwei’s gaze didn’t shift.

“Who?”

The teacher hesitated. “It was anonymous.”

Zhiwei nodded once.

Of course it was. You always hide behind sugar. But the blade still cuts.

That night, she printed out the old project file and compared it line by line to her own.

Then she walked into the kitchen, where Father Lin was pouring water into a glass.

She placed both papers on the counter without a word.

He looked at her.

She didn’t explain.

Just turned around and walked out.

But in her mind, she thought loudly:

Let’s see what you do now. When there’s proof in your hands.

Yiran sat in her room, waiting.

Waiting for Zhiwei to snap. For someone to yell. For the family to erupt.

But nothing came.

Just more silence.

And the awful weight of it pressing on her skin like humidity.

She threw her hairbrush against the wall.

The sound shattered the stillness.

But no one came.

Because this time, she was the one being ignored. 

The Lin family rarely had family meetings.

They preferred polite conversations over afternoon tea, the kind that were full of nothing and resolved even less. But this evening, the atmosphere was different.

The air was thick with tension. The help had been dismissed. The dining room was quiet, untouched dinner growing cold under silver lids.

Qin Yiran sat at the head of the table with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Zhiwei leaned against the wall by the bookshelf,  She had no interest in the performance about to unfold.

She was just there to listen.

Let’s see what it takes for you to admit the golden child’s hands aren’t clean. Zhiwei thought.

Father Lin cleared his throat. “There was… an incident.”

Yiran looked up, feigning confusion. “An incident?”

“The student council issue,” Mother Lin said quietly. “They investigated.”

Yiran smiled, soft and wounded. “You think I reported her?”

Zhiwei didn’t flinch.

She just thought.

You did. And we both know it. The only difference is I’m not interested in playing defense.

Father Lin set a folder down on the table.

Two printed designs. One from Zhiwei. One from the school archive. Identical in layout, as they were supposed to be.

“Someone lied,” he said simply.

And it wasn’t Zhiwei.

Yiran’s expression twisted—just for a second.

Then, instantly, it was smooth again.

“I only meant to warn them in case it was a mistake. I didn’t accuse her of anything.”

Zhiwei blinked.

Ah. So we’ve moved on to plausible deniability. How refreshing.

“I thought I was protecting her,” Yiran added, tears forming just beneath her lashes.

“From what?” Mother Lin asked, voice colder than it had ever been. “From embarrassment she didn’t earn?”

Yiran looked at her, eyes wide.

Like she was shocked to be doubted.

To be questioned.

To not be believed.

For the first time.