Chapter 2: Rewriting Fate

His cold hands clamped over hers. His legs trapped hers between them. The whole motion was practiced, automatic.

So warm.

Duan Yan patted her back, his voice thick with sleep.

"Go to sleep."

Rong Jiqiao froze. The haze that had clouded her mind since waking finally cleared—just a sliver. This was real. She was really back.

Yes, she was vain. Yes, she'd refused to accept being discarded by Duan Yan.

She regretted lying to him. That was why she'd kept going back, hounding him—because she couldn't stomach watching her one shot at wealth slip through her own fingers.

So many terrible people in the world lived just fine.

Was she worse than the tycoons who bullied and exploited? More unforgivable than actual murderers?

All she'd wanted was a little more money. Why did that mean she deserved to be thrown into the sea, drowned alive?

The shared apartment's walls were a joke—you could hear the neighbor scrolling through short videos, crystal clear.

She didn't drift off until a sliver of gray, cold dawn light crept through the window.

When she jolted awake, the sun was already blazing across the bed.

Duan Yan's side was empty. The sheets had been pulled taut and smooth, as if no one had ever slept there.

A crumpled note sat pinned under something on the nightstand. The handwriting was sharp, forceful:

"Food in the fridge. Eat. Working tonight. Don't wait up."

As if she had the appetite for food.

She was really reborn?

Did that mean she could rewrite her fate?

Even if she couldn't hold on to Duan Yan this time, she absolutely could not make an enemy of him again.

In her last life, after Duan Yan returned to the Duan family, even the construction buddies he'd bought a few meals for had risen with him—riding his coattails all the way up.

But the lie she'd told would be impossible to hide forever.

Rong Jiqiao had always known exactly what kind of person she was.

Cowardly. Not smart. Greedy.

She'd come from nothing. Having finally latched onto a rich man, she was never going back to being a nobody.

But she also knew that being reborn didn't come with a new brain.

She wasn't going to suddenly get smart.

In her last life, after Duan Yan returned to the Duan family and learned everything she'd done was a lie, he'd still given her three million and told her to disappear.

She'd blown through every cent. Then gone crawling back, unsatisfied.

...So what if, this time, she was good to Duan Yan from the start?

Surely she could get more money out of him?

Take the money and run. No clinging, no scenes. Would that be enough to keep her alive?

Counting the days—Duan Yan still had about six months before the Duan family found him.

Rong Jiqiao was still scheming when the door shook under a barrage of pounding.

Bang bang bang!

"Open up! Don't you hide in there!"

The landlady.

Rong Jiqiao sucked in a breath and pulled the door open, bracing herself.

The landlady leaned against the doorframe, a fat ring of keys jangling in her hand.

"Rent! Two months overdue!"

Rong Jiqiao plastered on a smile. "Sis, do you think maybe—"

"Don't sweet-talk me!" The landlady's voice went shrill. "This place is eight thousand a month. I'm not running a charity for out-of-towners. You're four months behind now. Cash today, or pack your bags and get out!"

Eight thousand a month?

Four months behind?

Rong Jiqiao nearly had a heart attack.

The rent money Duan Yan had bled for, hauling bricks day and night—she'd funneled it into cheap Yiwu knockoffs and cover charges at high-end venues, trolling for rich men.

"One day. Just one more day, okay?"

Rong Jiqiao dropped her posture, her voice edging toward pleading.

The landlady's spit nearly hit her face.

"Last day! I come back tomorrow, and if there's no money, I'm changing the locks!"

Watching the landlady storm off, still muttering curses, Rong Jiqiao slumped against the doorframe.

Oh, Grandma Heaven.

I'll never call you Grandma again.

Because you never treated me like a granddaughter.

She darted back into the room and crammed every halfway-decent fake bag, faux jewelry, and cosmetic product she owned into a tote bag.

3 PM. The secondhand resale market.

The shop owner poked at the pile of bags with undisguised disdain. "This craftsmanship is garbage. I'd be overpaying at five hundred."

Rong Jiqiao gritted her teeth. "A thousand. Or I walk to the next buyer."

They haggled forever—and then, buried in the pile of fakes, the owner spotted a genuine Chanel. Rong Jiqiao couldn't even remember how she'd gotten it.

Probably a gift from some rich guy she'd been stringing along.

The owner bought the lot for thirty thousand.

With the rest of the junk factored in, she scraped together thirty-three thousand.

She didn't dare waste a second. Transferred the overdue rent straight to the landlady.

Sent a WeChat while she was at it: [Sis, rent's paid. We're moving out at the end of the month. Not renewing.]

This hellhole—she couldn't afford one more day.

Meanwhile, Duan Yan was passing through the apartment complex downstairs.

He'd just picked up his new work uniform from the property management office. Planning to swing by the apartment, drop it off, then head straight to the construction site.

In the stairwell, Old Wang from next door was crouched there smoking.

Old Wang was a notorious gossip. The moment he spotted Duan Yan, he perked right up.

"Little Duan, your girl causing trouble again?"

Duan Yan stopped, a faint crease between his brows. "What happened?"

Old Wang clicked his tongue, eyes full of pity. "The landlady was raising hell at your door around noon. Saying you're four months behind on rent. I see you working yourself to the bone every day—where's all the money going?"

Four months behind?

Duan Yan transferred rent money to Rong Jiqiao every month, on the dot.

She'd sworn up and down the rent was paid and the rest was for living expenses.

Wages in the capital were decent, sure.

Security work paid fifty-five hundred a month. Night shifts sorting and hauling at the express delivery warehouse brought in another five thousand. Throw in odd jobs at construction sites, and he was clearing twelve, maybe thirteen thousand a month.

It was Rong Jiqiao who'd insisted on coming to the capital. Said small towns had no future.

And it was her who'd demanded they rent a place in a nice complex—better environment, better location, easier to find work, she said.

He'd given in on everything.

Because he owed her.

She didn't work. Spent her days dolled up to the nines, heading out god knows where, coming back reeking of perfume in the dead of night. He never asked a single question.

He figured she just liked having fun, liked looking pretty. Normal, for a young woman.

He'd just work a little harder. That was enough.

...

Rong Jiqiao came through the door humming an off-key tune, takeout bag in hand.

She seemed to be in good spirits. She flicked the light switch the moment she stepped inside.

The sudden brightness made them both squint.

Their eyes met.

Rong Jiqiao startled so hard the takeout bag nearly flew from her grip.

"You—why are you back? Didn't you say you were working overtime tonight?"

Duan Yan didn't answer her question. He just stared at her with those pitch-black eyes, unblinking.

The look made her scalp prickle.

Her face was bare today—no makeup, clean as a blank sheet of paper.

She wore an oversized jacket that swallowed every curve, hiding her figure completely.

This version of her was unrecognizable from the Rong Jiqiao who left the apartment every day in ten-centimeter heels and a bodycon sequin dress.

His gaze lingered on her face for a few seconds. Then he spoke, slowly.

"Where did you go?"