The Lin family’s reputation was everything.

It was the boardrooms their father walked into with cool detachment.
It was the charity galas where Mother Lin’s elegance earned nods from politicians.
It was Lin Chen’s clean school record, top placements, and quiet dependability.

And it was Qin Yiran.

Their perfect daughter.

Kind. Graceful. Composed.

That image had been cultivated over years—woven from press releases, school awards, and dinner parties where she stood beside Zhiwei like a mentor, not a threat.

But Zhiwei had never cared for appearances.

Not before.
And certainly not now.

The Lin Academy’s annual exhibition week was coming up.

An open-house event, complete with student projects, performances, and sponsor receptions. A PR opportunity disguised as community spirit.

Yiran volunteered to coordinate the schedule.

Naturally.

She’d done it last year too—and she had no intention of ceding control.

And this time, she saw a perfect opportunity.

Zhiwei had quietly submitted a solo presentation—a photojournalism board, highlighting life outside the city through muted, contemplative images. Stark colors. Minimalist captions.

No one expected it.

And the faculty had loved it.

So Yiran made sure to rearrange the slots.

She placed Zhiwei’s presentation in the wrong room. Assigned it a last-minute time. Gave it no announcement.

She told herself it was subtle.

Not sabotage.

But deep down, she hoped Zhiwei would arrive late.

Look careless.

Make a mistake.

Zhiwei noticed the change the morning of the event.

The printout schedule didn’t match what she’d been emailed.

She looked at the time. Then at the classroom she was supposed to be in.

She said nothing.

Did nothing.

Just walked in ten minutes early.

Set everything up alone.

And waited.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

No audience.

No announcements.

No teachers.

Just the faint hum of a projector and the sound of her own breathing.

Of course.

You want me to feel small. Forgotten.

The same way I felt the first time.

Then the door opened.

Lin Chen stepped in.

Followed by Mother Lin, Father Lin, Principal Xu And half the board of trustees.

Behind them trailed two dozen curious parents and a few students who’d heard there was a missing event and followed the sound.

Yiran stood frozen outside the room, watching it all happen.

Her trap had failed.

Publicly.

Worse—they had chosen to go to Zhiwei’s event instead of hers.

Zhiwei began without hesitation.

She introduced the project.
Explained the message.
Walked them through each photo with soft, level tones.

She didn’t speak like she was selling herself.

She spoke like she had nothing to prove.

And by the end, no one clapped loudly.

They didn’t need to.

They were silent in a different way.

Moved.

Humbled.

Shaken.

After the event, Principal Xu approached her.

“We’d like to feature this in the regional exhibition next term.”

Zhiwei nodded.

Sure. Do what you want.

Father Lin watched her carefully.

She’s not asking for praise. She’s just building her way out.

That night, Yiran sat in her room, shaking.

Everything she built was slipping out of her hands.

And all Zhiwei had to do…..was show up.

The next day a decision came quietly, No family meeting this time.

Just a note on the breakfast table with Mother Lin’s careful handwriting, placed beside a warm cup of tea and a set of house keys.

“The Maplewood Residence is yours now.
Take your time settling in. We’ve arranged for weekly deliveries and full autonomy.
It’s a gift—not a rejection, But we all need space.”

Qin Yiran stared at the paper for a long time.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t speak.

She simply picked up the keys with shaking fingers and smiled.

It wasn’t a soft smile.

It was something sharper.

They think giving me distance is peace.

I’ll show them what I can do without their roof.

Zhiwei didn’t react when she heard the news.

She only thought: 

I WISH they had given me the house...

That night, in the quiet halls of Maplewood Residence, 

Qin Yiran walked barefoot across the polished floors, phone in one hand, keys discarded on the counter.

She stood before the wide window overlooking the garden and whispered, “So they’ve really chosen her.”

Her reflection didn’t answer. But her mind suddenly buzzed.

[System initializing… Syncing with Host Personality.]
[Objective: Reclaim narrative trajectory. Restore protagonist centrality. Threat detected: “Zhiwei.”]
[Support modules unlocked.]

The voice was cold.

She didn’t hear it like a foreign entity.

It slipped through her mind like a natural thought—like certainty taking shape.

She pressed a hand to her chest.

“I won’t lose,” she murmured. “I wasn’t made to lose.”

The words didn’t feel like hers.

But they felt right.

And in the empty house, the smile that crossed her face had nothing sweet left in it.