Chapter 8
976 Words
The air conditioning at the International Exhibition Center was set far too low. I pulled my cashmere shawl tighter around me; beneath my custom-tailored gown, my pregnant belly formed a gentle, graceful curve. A promotional video for Nirvana Culture was playing on the massive screen, its background music drowning out the ceaseless clicking of camera shutters rising from the audience below.
"And now, let us welcome our 'Outstanding Female Entrepreneur of the Year'—Ms. Su Yan!"
Just as the applause began, the screen suddenly flickered with static. The feed abruptly cut to a close-up of Zhou Muchen; his bloated face filled the entire LED display, smeared with snot and tears that seemed to be smudging the very lens capturing him.
"Yanyan... I was wrong..." His kneeling posture looked eerily familiar—it was the exact same angle he had assumed years ago when he forced me to sign away my equity shares. "All those mistresses... they were all arranged by my mother!"
A collective gasp swept through the venue. I steadied myself against the podium, my fingers brushing against the melting ice water at the bottom of the glass provided for me. Suddenly, the camera pulled back, revealing the iron bars behind him—the detention center inmate number was still visible, hanging on the wall.
From the guest seating area, Lin Jiayi raised her phone. A screenshot of a WeChat Moments post she had just published was projected onto a backup screen: a detention notice for Zhao Meiling, with the listed charge: "Incitement to Cause Bodily Harm."
"Ms. Su!" A reporter in the back row suddenly stood up. "The father of the child you are carrying is..."
"I’ve been pursuing Ms. Su for three years," Lu Yuan’s voice rang out from a side entrance. "Unfortunately, I haven't even qualified as a rival for her affections."
He wasn't wearing his glasses today; instead, a simple silver tie clip adorned the tie beneath his gray suit jacket. Sunlight streaming through the crystal chandeliers struck the clip, refracting into a peculiar gleam—a gleam that revealed the date engraved on the inside of my wedding ring.
The camera flashes from the audience suddenly intensified. As Lu Yuan walked down the red carpet, the main screen began broadcasting Cheng Wei’s latest livestream. She was holding up a paternity test report, while in the background audio, Zhou Muchen could be heard roaring: "That bastard child can't possibly be mine!"
"Excuse me." Lu Yuan stepped in to shield me, gently pushing aside the microphones thrusting toward us. As his cuff brushed against the back of my hand, I felt the faint ridge of a scar hidden beneath the fabric. Three years ago—on the night I was hospitalized following my miscarriage—the hospital’s security footage had captured a man climbing through my window to deliver flowers; the attending nurse later mentioned that the man’s arm had been left bleeding profusely from cuts sustained on the broken glass.
Finally, the event organizers switched the feed back to the main screen. Beneath the Nirvana Culture logo, a line of fine print appeared: "Technical Support: LY Capital." I reached under the podium and found the backup remote control taped there; the buttons were still stained with coffee—the very same brand Zhou Muchen had once spilled all over my proposal.
"Next, please watch this video clip." I pressed the button.
On the screen, Cheng Wei was kicking open the doors to the Zhou family ancestral shrine. From beneath the overturned altar table, a pile of pill bottles tumbled out, their labels bearing the inscription: "Ovulation-Stimulating Hormones." The camera panned across the latest page of the family genealogy; next to Zhou Muchen’s name, my birth details had been penciled in—only to be crossed out with a massive red X.
Lu Yuan suddenly gave a sharp cough. He feigned adjusting his tie, his fingers lingering for a moment on his tie clip. The initials "S&L"—engraved on the underside—flashed briefly in the light; they were the names I had once planned to give our child.
The reporters were still pressing me for details regarding the child's biological father. I glanced toward the empty seat in the front row; at some point, Lin Jiayi had slipped away. Peeking out from the pocket of the jacket she had left draped over her chair was half of an ultrasound report—the patient's name listed as "Cheng Wei."
Suddenly, a new trending topic flashed across the giant screen: #ZhouMuchenSpermMotility0.01%#. Accompanying the headline was an image of his medical examination report from three years ago; stamped next to the doctor's signature was the personal seal of Zhao Meiling’s cousin.
"Ms. Su, do you have anything you’d like to say to your ex?" A reporter thrust a voice recorder right into my face.
Lu Yuan abruptly removed his tie clip and placed it on the podium. The sharp *clink* of metal against wood reminded me of the sound our wedding rings had made as they tumbled down the champagne tower.
"Oh, by the way," he said, leaning down to adjust the microphone height for me, "Mrs. Zhou was released on medical parole this morning."
Suddenly, a scream rang out from backstage. The live broadcast feed instantly cut to a hospital emergency room corridor, where Zhao Meiling was violently swinging an IV stand, attempting to smash it into Cheng Wei’s pregnant belly. As she thrashed about, a small packet of white powder tumbled from the pocket of her hospital gown—the very same substance that had been detected in the bird's nest soup she had given me all those years ago.
I gently touched my own pregnant belly. At just over four months, the baby's movements were still faint—like the soft flutter of a butterfly’s wings against my heart.
- Writer
