Chapter 20

Chapter 20: 020 – Drowning Sorrows?

“I thought after everything you’ve been through, you’d have turned into an unkillable cockroach by now.” Her voice was loud with liquor and indignation as she tipped the bottle and refilled Qiao Qing Yan’s glass. “Back then, who was it who swore up and down, ditched all of us, and said you were going to break into that crappy entertainment industry? So why’d you quit so easily now? What am I supposed to do with myself?”

She kept talking as she poured, then leaned in and gave Qiao Qing Yan’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the bravado cracking into a sloppy, earnest softness. “If I hadn’t shut myself away in the lab these past few years, maybe you wouldn’t have ended up like this. Xiao Qing Yan, I came back too late. Don’t be mad anymore. Leaving showbiz is good too—you’ll be freer. From now on, Sister will take you places… Sister’s got your back…”

Qiao Qing Yan sank deeper into the sofa, the cold glass heavy in her hand, and studied the woman opposite her.

She wore a crisp white shirt tucked into a black fishtail midi skirt that hugged her hips with surgical precision. The white lab coat she’d taken off at the bar entrance earlier was folded neatly inside her bag, as if even a night out had to be kept in order.

Her face was delicate in a way that felt polished rather than fragile—fine jade, bright eyes, white teeth. When she lifted her glass, the tequila slid slowly into her mouth, and her eyes narrowed just a fraction, a mature, tempting charm surfacing like something she usually kept on a leash.

Beautiful, yes—but not Qiao Qing Yan’s kind of beauty. Qiao Qing Yan was the sort that burned bright and bold. This woman belonged to the calm, commanding type.

At least, she did when she wasn’t rambling.

“Xiao Qing Yan, I really miss the old days,” she murmured, leaning forward as if the table between them was a confession booth. “If you hadn’t left back then, it would’ve been so much better…”

She drifted into memories Qiao Qing Yan didn’t have. Names. Scenes. Laughter that rang hollow because it didn’t belong to her life.

Half an hour later, the woman’s head slipped forward and thudded softly onto the table.

The private room door opened almost immediately.

“Sorry, Team Leader Tan,” one of the men said. He and the other wore plain clothes, but their posture was too upright, their restraint too disciplined to hide. “Miss Tan is drunk. We’ll take her back.”

They’d been outside the entire time—close enough to hear, careful enough not to intrude.

Qiao Qing Yan lifted an eyebrow and watched as they kept a respectful distance, half-supporting the limp woman from either side. They guided her out like they were escorting something precious and dangerous.

“The bill’s already been paid,” the first man added before he left, each word clipped and clear. “Enjoy yourself.”

Then all three disappeared down the corridor.

Silence returned to the room, thick with the bite of tequila and the ghost of someone else’s nostalgia.

Qiao Qing Yan unlocked her phone. A file was already waiting on her screen.

Tan Mu Ning, twenty-six. Third Miss of the Yan Jing Tan family. Special-grade personnel at the research institute.

Arrived in the Capital on August 14, representing the research institute to attend this exchange meeting.

The photo showed the same woman: fishtail skirt, white lab coat draped over her shoulders, gaze steady enough to make people look away first.

The woman who had just called herself Qiao Qing Yan’s best friend.

Qiao Qing Yan flipped her phone facedown, took a slow sip, and looked out through the glass toward the hall below.

Lights pulsed. Music hit like a heartbeat. Men and women crowded together, laughing too loudly, touching too casually, burning off their loneliness under neon and bass.

Five minutes later, Qiao Qing Yan stood.

When she appeared again, she was in the middle of the crowd, moving with the music like she’d been born to it—wild, unrestrained, all heat and glamour.

Some people carried their own spotlight. Even in a sea of bodies, you could pick them out at a glance.

As if they were born to stand at the brightest point and receive worship without ever asking for it.

“Drowning your sorrows?” On the top floor, a man stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at her as he murmured the words to himself.

“Brother Shi, what are you looking at?” His friend leaned in, following his gaze.

It took him only a second to find that bright patch of chaos in the crowd.

“That isn’t—”

He cut himself off and turned, confused, to the man beside him. “Brother Shi… don’t you dislike her?”

Fu Yan Shi’s eyes didn’t change, but his hand reached out all the same. He pulled the blinds down, shutting out the music, the lights, the sight of her.

“You’re remembering wrong,” he said.

His friend blinked at the closed blinds as if they’d personally offended him.