Qin Yiran sat alone in her bedroom, surrounded by soft lighting, warm pink pillows, and the scent of roses.

It should have comforted her.

This was the room where she built her perfect image. The mirror where she practiced the smiles. The desk where she wrote thank-you notes in flawless penmanship. The closet of delicate dresses her mother once called “angelic.”

She hated it now.

Because for the first time, she saw it for what it was: a cage she gilded herself.

She pressed her palms to her face.

The family meeting still rang in her ears.

They didn’t yell. They didn’t scold.

They looked disappointed.

And that was worse.

She had never been on the receiving end of that silence before.

It felt like drowning in a mirror.

She paced.

Back and forth.

Barefoot on the plush rug, feeling its softness like a mockery.

She should’ve won by now. She did everything right.

She was helpful. She was generous. She had carried the Lin family’s image on her back for years.

Then Zhiwei came.

And without even trying—without saying a word—she pulled everything out from under her.

“I protected this house,” Yiran muttered to herself, gripping the edge of her vanity. “I earned this place. I became the daughter they needed.”

Her reflection stared back.

Tired.

Cracked.

Ugly.

She hated it.

“I was their family.” Her voice broke.

“She’s just a placeholder. She came late. She didn’t earn anything.”

She didn’t realize she was crying until a drop fell onto the wooden edge of the mirror.

And when she wiped it away, her fingers curled tight.

No.

She wouldn’t lose. Not to someone like Zhiwei.

The next day, she smiled brighter than ever.

She brought snacks to class. Helped a junior carry her books. Offered to take cleanup duty for homeroom. The teachers praised her again. Some students hesitated—but smiled back.

Yes. She could still recover this.

Until she passed by a classroom and heard it:

“Zhiwei’s weird but in a cool way.”
“She’s like... above it all.”
“Did you hear she’s already working and applying for early uni entrance?”

Zhiwei hadn’t said a word about any of that.

But somehow, they admired her for it.

Yiran’s smile stayed on her lips.

But her knuckles turned white around her phone.

That night, she opened Zhiwei’s door again.

Zhiwei was at her desk, calm as always, typing.

Yiran stepped in.

"Let’s talk,” she said.

Zhiwei didn’t look up.

She’s trying something. There’s always something.

Yiran took a breath, hands clasped in front of her chest.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

Zhiwei paused.

Then turned, very slowly, her gaze quiet and unamused.

“I think we got off exactly the way you planned it.”

Yiran blinked. “I—no. I mean—”

“You don’t need to explain,” Zhiwei said softly. “I don’t care.”

That stopped her cold.

“What?”

“I’m not here for your apology. Or your confession. I’m not trying to win.”

Zhiwei stood.

Walked toward her.

And smiled.

Not sweetly. Not cruelly.

Just… honest.

“You can hate me. You can try again. You can fail again. But I won’t lift a finger.”

Yiran felt the chill before she could name it.

Zhiwei brushed past her.

“You don’t matter enough to fight.” 

 Yiran stood frozen in place. And for the first time, she realized— She hadn’t just lost control.

She had lost relevance. And she didn’t know how to survive without it.