Chapter 172 (This is a fragment of a story, likely a misinterpretation or a misunderstanding.)
Fang Wanyu's voice was sweet and crisp, like a glass wind chime swaying in the wind, instantly breaking the heavy atmosphere in the room.
She wore a light pink dress, the hem swaying gently with her steps, like peach blossoms blooming in spring.
Her hair was neatly combed, and a small pearl hair clip was tucked behind her ear, making her look pure and gentle.
She was carrying an exquisite mahogany food box with a light blue ribbon tied to it, clearly indicating that it had been carefully prepared.
She walked in with a smile, her face bearing just the right amount of gentleness: "I heard that Commander Fu's mother was here, so I quickly made a few of your favorite dishes and brought them over. They were all made according to the tastes you mentioned before."
"You must have had a long and tiring journey, and you probably haven't had a proper meal."
As she spoke, she gently placed the food box on the coffee table, her movements delicate and her posture graceful, just like a thoughtful and sensible junior.
As she spoke, she secretly glanced at Qiao Wanyin. Her gaze was brief and sharp, and a hint of unconcealed smugness flashed in her eyes, like the satisfaction of a hunter seeing its prey fall into a trap.
“Sister Wanyin,” she turned her head, her smile still sweet, “I brought extra, why don’t you have some too! It’s just home-cooked food, nothing special, but it’s the thought that counts.”
Qiao Wanyin stared intently at Fang Wanyu's pure and innocent face, her stomach churning.
This woman's smile is too fake, her gentleness too deliberate.
That address, "Sister Wanyin," sounded affectionate, yet it was like a venomous snake spitting its tongue—cold and dangerous.
This woman's acting is so fake!
She acts pitiful in front of others, but behind their backs she's full of scheming and ruthless!
"Wanyu is so thoughtful."
Song Yazhi gently patted Fang Wanyu's hand, her tone so gentle it was as if she were a different person, her eyes filled with doting affection, as if the person sitting opposite her was her own daughter, "Unlike some people, who don't even think to pour a cup of tea for their elders, they really don't understand etiquette at all, I don't know if they are deliberately being negligent."
Qiao Wanyin took a deep breath, feeling as if a huge rock was pressing down on her chest, making it almost impossible for her to breathe.
She gritted her teeth, suppressing her anger, and tried to keep her voice steady: "Mom, I'll go make some tea right away. Comrade Fang, please sit down, don't stand."
He attacked her as soon as he entered the door, making sarcastic remarks to her face and showing her no mercy whatsoever.
What's this?
A meticulously planned play?
Or was it a foreshadowing that had been planned all along?
How could she possibly have a chance to explain?
Before she could even utter a word, she was already accused of "not understanding filial piety."
She turned and walked towards the kitchen, her steps slightly heavy. Her fingers gripped the rim of the teacup tightly, her nails turning white, and her knuckles trembling slightly from the force, as if she wanted to crush the cup.
Fang Wanyu's voice came from behind, deliberately tinged with concern and tenderness: "Aunt Song, please don't be angry. Sister Wanyin grew up in the countryside, so she might... not understand these customs. We can't be too harsh on her, after all, they come from different backgrounds."
In the kitchen, the kettle was bubbling and steaming, the white steam rising up and blurring the windowpane, as well as Qiao Wanyin's vision.
She stared at the rolling bubbles, watching them burst and disappear one by one, her mind a jumbled mess, like pieces of paper scattered by the wind, impossible to piece back together.
Before transmigrating, she had read many clichéd stories; those melodramatic and familiar plots kept flashing through her mind. She knew all too well the tropes of these supporting characters.
She pretended to be well-behaved and innocent, secretly stirred up trouble, framed others, and ultimately plotted step by step, all to break up the main characters and take away the position that did not belong to her.
And now, they dare to attack her!
Did they think she was still the same submissive and easily manipulated adopted daughter of the Qiao family?
"Sister Wanyin, do you need my help?"
A soft voice came from the doorway, like a spring breeze, but it made Qiao Wanyin's back stiffen.
She turned around and saw that Fang Wanyu had appeared at the kitchen doorway at some point, with her hands folded in front of her, a concerned smile on her face, her eyes crinkling, as if she genuinely wanted to lend a hand.
But his gaze was uneasy; the smile didn't reach his eyes. Instead, it held a hint of scrutiny and probing, as if he were watching to see when she would reveal a weakness.
"No, thank you."
Qiao Wanyin replied calmly, her tone tinged with aloofness. She lowered her head and tossed the tea leaves into the cup with swift, decisive movements, without a trace of hesitation.
Fang Wanyu didn't leave. Instead, she turned around gently, leaned against the door frame, and sat with her body slightly turned to the side, her posture as relaxed as if she were chatting casually.
But her voice was light and airy, yet every word was barbed, like fine needles silently piercing people's hearts: "Aunt Song is quite unhappy. She heard... that the Fu family's heirloom jade ruyi is lost? That was a keepsake left by Old Master Fu, passed down for generations. No one can say for sure when it disappeared."
Qiao Wanyin paused, and a few tea leaves spilled out and landed on the corner of the table.
She slowly raised her eyes, her gaze sharp as a knife, staring directly at Fang Wanyu: "It is quite strange. That day in the study, we were the only outsiders. Do you think... someone might have taken advantage of the situation?"
What do you mean by that?
Fang Wanyu's smile froze for a second, her pupils contracted slightly, and her fingertips curled up unconsciously.
But she quickly recovered, suppressing her momentary panic, and put on a weak and innocent expression again, her voice becoming even softer: "Sister Wanyin, don't overthink it. I grew up in the Fu family, and Aunt Song treats me like her own daughter. Do you think she would doubt me? I don't have that kind of courage or scheming."
"Oh."
Qiao Wanyin sneered, a sarcastic smile curving her lips, her eyes as cold as ice. "Then why did you write a letter accusing me of trying to commit marriage fraud? Saying that my marriage to the Fu family was for their wealth? And you even sent it to Old Madam Fu, as if you were afraid she wouldn't know? Hmm?"
Fang Wanyu's eyes flickered, her eyelashes trembled slightly, and she was clearly flustered. Her fingertips suddenly gripped the edge of the door frame.
She opened her mouth, her lips slightly pale, but her voice forced a calm tone: "I don't know what you're talking about, really... I've never written that kind of letter, are you mistaken? Did you just hear someone spreading rumors?"
She took a step forward, her footsteps so light they were almost silent, as if afraid of disturbing the tranquility of the room.
Her voice was extremely low, almost a whisper, yet it carried an undeniable sense of pressure: "But who do you think Aunt Song believes? A country bumpkin, or me, who watched me grow up?"
“Don’t think I don’t know,” she continued in a low voice, a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth and a cold glint in her eyes. “The man you have in the port city lives right next to the military district. You think you’re well hidden, but there aren’t many things that can be kept secret in this city.”
“Be smart,” her tone suddenly turned cold, like a blade pressed against her neck, “and hand over what I want. Otherwise—I’ll make sure you can’t stay here! Don’t think you can live a peaceful life here; I’m the one who calls the shots here.”
Qiao Wanyin frowned, her fingertips unconsciously gripping the hem of her skirt.
She felt a tightness in her chest, as if someone was choking her.
Fang Wanyu is right.
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