Chapter 4 Public Vows, Private Wounds
1284 Words
The engagement announcement was released on a Friday morning.
No warning.
No preparation.
No room for retreat.
By the time Cong Yi woke up in London, her phone had already exploded.
Missed calls. Messages. Dozens of notifications piling up on her screen like an avalanche she had no intention of facing.
Cong Group Heiress Engaged to Wen Family’s Eldest Son
A Power Alliance Between Hong Kong and Beijing’s Financial Giants
Marriage of Convenience or True Match?
She stared at the headlines in silence.
The hotel room was bathed in soft morning light, pale and cold. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, London was waking slowly—gray skies, distant traffic, a city indifferent to her personal disaster.
Cong Yi dropped the phone onto the bed.
So this was it.
No discussion.
No consent.
Just a public declaration.
A neat, merciless way of cornering her.
She laughed softly, the sound empty.
“Well played, Wen Shiyi.”
She returned to Hong Kong two days later.
The airport was crowded with reporters, flashes bursting like fireworks the moment she appeared at the exit. Cong Yi wore oversized sunglasses and a tailored black coat, her expression unreadable.
“Miss Cong! Is the engagement true?”
“When will the wedding take place?”
“How did you and Mr. Wen meet?”
She didn’t answer a single question.
A black Bentley pulled up smoothly, security clearing a path. The door opened.
Wen Shiyi stepped out.
The noise seemed to dip for half a second.
He was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, posture straight, movements precise. Calm. Controlled. Unbothered by the chaos.
He walked directly to her side.
Without asking, he placed a hand lightly on her back.
The contact was brief—but unmistakable.
Protective.
Possessive.
Cong Yi stiffened instinctively.
Then, slowly, she relaxed.
The cameras went wild.
“Mr. Wen!” someone shouted. “Can you confirm the engagement?”
Wen Shiyi stopped.
He turned slightly, positioning himself half a step in front of Cong Yi, shielding her from the crowd.
“Yes,” he said calmly.
Two words.
Clear. Final.
No elaboration. No theatrics.
The reporters erupted.
He didn’t stay.
He guided her into the car, door closing behind them with a soft, decisive thud that cut off the noise outside.
The world fell quiet.
Cong Yi stared out the window, jaw tight.
“You didn’t tell me,” she said flatly.
Wen Shiyi loosened his cufflinks, gaze forward. “You would’ve refused.”
She laughed bitterly. “At least you know me.”
“This was faster,” he replied.
“Faster for whom?” she snapped. “For you?”
“For both of us.”
She turned sharply. “Don’t pretend this is for my sake.”
He met her gaze evenly.
“I won’t,” he said. “But I also won’t apologize.”
Her chest tightened.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, she looked away.
“Just don’t touch me like that again,” she said quietly. “Not without asking.”
His expression shifted—almost imperceptibly.
“Understood,” he replied.
But neither of them believed it would be that simple.
The Cong family held a small celebratory dinner that evening.
Small, by their standards—only close relatives and a handful of trusted associates.
Cong Yi arrived late.
She wore a wine-red silk dress, hair swept up elegantly, lips painted the same deep shade as the fabric. She looked flawless.
Untouchable.
Only Wen Shiyi noticed the tension beneath the surface.
Throughout the dinner, she barely spoke. When she did, her smile was sharp, brittle—like glass stretched too thin.
She drank more than usual.
“So,” an aunt said with a laugh, “when are we meeting the bride’s ring?”
Cong Yi lifted her glass lazily. “Soon.”
Wen Shiyi set down his fork.
He reached into his jacket and placed a small velvet box on the table.
Every conversation around them slowed.
He opened it.
Inside lay a diamond ring—simple, elegant, devastatingly expensive.
No exaggeration. No unnecessary brilliance.
Perfectly controlled.
He took her hand.
Cong Yi hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then she let him.
The ring slid onto her finger, cool and heavy.
Applause followed.
She smiled.
No one noticed how tightly her fingers curled.
The next day, the engagement party was announced.
Lavish. Exclusive. Impossible to avoid.
Cong Yi stood in front of the mirror that evening, staring at her reflection.
She looked like a woman about to step onto a stage.
Her assistant adjusted the necklace around her neck nervously. “Miss Cong… are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she replied.
A lie.
The ballroom buzzed with conversation and champagne. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting soft light over silk gowns and tailored suits.
Cong Yi entered on Wen Shiyi’s arm.
She played her role perfectly.
Smiled at the right moments. Laughed when expected. Accepted congratulations with graceful indifference.
Until—
She saw him.
Across the room.
Standing near the bar.
Tall. Familiar. Too familiar.
For a moment, the noise around her faded.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
He hadn’t changed much.
Same clean-cut features. Same calm eyes. Same presence that once felt like safety.
Her first love.
Her past mistake.
Shen Yu.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around Wen Shiyi’s arm.
He felt it immediately.
“Who is it?” he asked quietly, not looking at her.
She didn’t answer.
Wen Shiyi followed her gaze.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I see,” he said.
Shen Yu noticed her then.
Their eyes met.
Shock flickered across his face.
Then something softer. More complicated.
He walked toward them.
“Yi,” he said gently. “Congratulations.”
Her throat tightened.
“Thank you,” she replied coolly.
His gaze flicked to the ring on her finger.
“You look happy.”
She laughed softly. “Do I?”
An awkward pause followed.
Wen Shiyi stepped closer.
He placed a hand over hers, fingers interlacing deliberately.
“We are,” he said calmly. “Aren’t we?”
Cong Yi stiffened.
But she didn’t pull away.
Shen Yu smiled politely. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
“We weren’t,” Cong Yi said before she could stop herself.
The air shifted.
Wen Shiyi’s grip tightened slightly.
“We are now,” he said evenly.
His eyes never left Shen Yu.
The message was clear.
Mine.
Shen Yu looked between them, something dark flashing briefly in his gaze.
“I’m happy for you,” he said finally.
Then he turned and walked away.
Cong Yi’s composure cracked the moment he disappeared into the crowd.
She pulled her hand free and excused herself, heading for the balcony.
Cold air hit her face.
She gripped the railing, breathing hard.
She hadn’t expected this.
Hadn’t prepared for it.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
“You still love him,” Wen Shiyi said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
She laughed weakly. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes,” he replied.
She turned, eyes blazing. “Then you shouldn’t have married me.”
“I didn’t marry you,” he said calmly. “Not yet.”
His gaze softened—just slightly.
“But I will.”
Her voice shook. “You’re cruel.”
“No,” he said. “I’m realistic.”
He stepped closer.
“I don’t care about your past,” he said. “But from this moment on—what’s mine stays mine.”
She stared at him, heart racing.
“And if I refuse?” she whispered.
His voice dropped.
“Then you’ll learn,” he said, “how expensive freedom can be.”
- Writer
