Yanxin was warm with low golden lighting and polished wood interiors. Soft music drifted through the air.
Lin Qinran stood at the entrance for a moment.
What am I even doing here?
She rarely came to places like this.
A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside.
"Qinran—"
Nana collapsed into the chair opposite her.
"I got dumped."
"I know."
"You knew and you didn't stop me?"
"I did."
Nana froze mid-sob. "You… did?"
"I told you he was unreliable."
"You say that about everyone!"
"You date the same personality repeatedly."
Nana stared at her.
Then her lips trembled again. "He said I was too emotional."
"You are currently crying over a useless thing"
"QINRAN."
Qinran calmly poured tea into Nana's cup.
"I also recall," she added evenly, "you saying he was 'different.'"
"He was!"
"You said that about the last two."
Nana's voice dropped into wounded indignation. "I thought he was different…"
Qinran considered this.
"It appears you are experiencing a recurring memory leak."
"Can you please not turn my heartbreak into a software bug?"
Nana sniffed loudly.
Qinran blinked. "…Not really."
Silence.
Then Nana wailed again.
Qinran reached across the table and awkwardly patted her shoulder twice.
There. Effort made.
In another private room at Yanxin—
Su Huilan sat elegantly at the round table. Her posture was straight, movements unhurried.
Across from her sat a young woman — refined, carefully dressed, visibly nervous. She twisted her napkin between her fingers.
"Will… President Mo come?" she asked softly.
"He will," Su Huilan replied, lifting her teacup. Calm. Certain.
At precisely eight o'clock, the door opened.
Mo Beichuan entered.
He did not rush. He did not smile.
His gaze swept the room once — taking in his mother, the woman opposite her, the prepared dishes.
I see.
"Beichuan." Su Huilan gestured lightly. "Sit. I've found a suitable match for you."
"Mother," he said evenly, taking his seat, "not this again."
The young woman offered a shy greeting. He acknowledged it with a polite nod.
Conversation followed. Predictable questions. Polite answers.
Education. Family background. Hobbies.
Ten minutes later, he set down his cup.
"Excuse me," he said calmly. "I need to take a call."
Su Huilan gave him a knowing look.
"Don't take too long."
He stepped out.
—
The terrace area was quiet, separated from the main dining hall by glass panels. City lights reflected faintly against the night.
He loosened his tie slightly and lit a cigarette.
The first exhale was slow.
Hoo…
Another blind date.
Another polite evaluation.
Another attempt to accelerate something he felt no urgency toward.
He rested one hand against the railing and looked out over the city.
Then his gaze shifted.
Through the glass.
A familiar figure.
Lin Qinran.
She was seated at a table not far from the window, awkwardly patting someone's shoulder — twice — as if following instructions from a manual.
Her expression remained calm.
The woman across from her was clearly crying.
Mo Beichuan stilled.
Her again.
The faint tightening in his chest returned.
Not dramatic. Just present.
Persistent.
He lowered the cigarette slightly.
What is she doing here?
And more importantly—
Why does it feel less suffocating to look at her than to sit in that room?
He watched for a moment longer.
An idea began to take shape.