On the other side of the city, there was an upscale residential area.
It was a peaceful oasis in the midst of the hustle and bustle, with green trees forming a canopy. Each villa was half-hidden behind neatly trimmed hedges, revealing only gray-white roof corners and the warm glow of light spilling from floor-to-ceiling windows. The Jiang Muyun family’s villa was at the very end.
Passing through an ornate wrought-iron gate and walking to the end of a bluestone path, you would see the three-story European-style building.
It was already past eight in the evening. Bright lights shone from the second-floor windows, and the faint sound of piano music drifted out.
The living room was magnificent.
A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, its countless faceted diamonds refracting dazzling light, illuminating the entire space as if it were daytime.
Several authentic oil paintings hung on the walls in heavy, solid-wood gilded frames that gleamed with understated luster under the light.
The floor was covered in imported wool carpet, dark brown with intricate floral patterns embroidered into it, muffling footsteps completely.
By the window stood a grand piano, its black body polished so spotlessly that it reflected people’s images.
A woman sat at the piano, playing.
She wore a carefully tailored dark green velvet gown, with an exquisite brooch pinned at the collar, its diamonds catching the incandescent light and scattering tiny sparkles.
Her hair was twisted into a low bun, revealing a stretch of snow-white, slender neck. Her posture was upright and elegant, back straight, fingers dancing, gliding, and crossing nimbly over the black and white keys.
The sound of the piano was crisp and fluid.
She was playing Chopin’s Winter Wind Etude.
That piece, famous for its technical difficulty, required the right hand to race at lightning speed while the left hand steadily supported the melodic framework.
Countless pianists regarded this piece as a touchstone; very few could play it well.
But her technique was smooth and effortless, one continuous flow. Every note landed precisely where it should, every phrase was handled perfectly—neither dragging nor rushing.
Those dizzyingly rapid note clusters were like tamed spirits beneath her fingertips, gushing out joyfully and orderly, without any hesitation.
The piano sound crossed the living room, passed through the corridor, and drifted to every corner of the villa.
Just then, the door at the entrance was gently pushed open. A figure walked in.
Jiang Muyun changed into slippers, carrying her school bag, and walked slowly along the corridor toward the living room. From a distance, she heard her mother’s piano playing and instinctively softened her steps.
She reached the living room door and stopped.
Her gaze fell on her mother’s profile, her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.
She hesitated for a few seconds, then ultimately chose silence, standing quietly at the door, waiting for her mother to finish the piece.
She didn’t dare to disturb.
In the Jiang family, no one was allowed to interrupt Mother while she was playing. That was a rule she had known since childhood.
After about two or three minutes, the last note faded into the air. The woman lifted her hands from the keys, held them in midair for an elegant finish, then slowly lowered her arms and gently exhaled.
Only then did Jiang Muyun take a slight breath, pick up her bag, and walk behind her mother.
“Mom,” she said, her voice soft and cautious, “the grades are out.”
The woman didn’t turn around. She just raised her hands and carefully examined her fingers under the light.
“Mm,” she hummed noncommittally.
Those were impeccably cared-for hands—long fingers, nails trimmed round and neat, without any flaws.
She turned her palms over to look, then back again, as if admiring a meticulously maintained piece of art.
“And then?” she asked, her tone flat.
“I improved a bit compared to last time,” Jiang Muyun said. After a pause, she added, “And Professor Zhang, the one you mentioned before, praised me today. He said my painting has improved a lot.”
“Mm, that’s good.”
The woman finally turned her head.
She looked at Jiang Muyun.
It was a well-maintained face—skin firm, features delicate, with a nine-out-of-ten resemblance to Jiang Muyun in the brows and eyes.
One could tell she had been a beauty in her youth. Now past forty, she still retained her charm.
But even though her gaze fell on Jiang Muyun’s face, even though mother and daughter were looking directly at each other, Jiang Muyun always felt—her mother wasn’t really seeing her.
It was as if a thin layer of mist lay behind those eyes, and beyond the mist was another world—a world Jiang Muyun could never enter.
“Improvement is good,” the woman continued. “By the way, about the city art exhibition next week—what painting do you plan to submit?”
Jiang Muyun froze.
“Mom, what did you say?”
“The exhibition,” the woman said, her brow slightly furrowing in impatience at her daughter’s reaction. “I heard from your college professor that the school is selecting some student works for display. Each class only gets one slot. I happen to be attending an art salon with a few friends, and I’ll introduce your work to the guests there. It’s a good opportunity. What painting are you going to submit?”
Those words hit Jiang Muyun like a bucket of cold water poured over her head.
Her face turned deathly pale.
The exhibition.
One slot per class.
She hadn’t been selected.
The moment she saw the list in the class group chat earlier, the anger, hatred, and jealousy surged back into her chest.
She remembered the name—Yan Yu—quietly sitting on the selected list, black and white, clear as day.
And her name? It wasn’t on there at all!
How could she tell her mother this?
How could she admit that she hadn’t qualified?
How could she say that she had lost to a substitute sitting in a wheelchair, a copy of herself?
How could she explain that after studying art abroad for three years, after winning so many awards, after being called a “prodigy” by so many people, she had actually lost, in this small college exhibition, to an ordinary student whose name almost no one knew?
Her fingers unconsciously dug into the strap of her school bag, knuckles turning white.
“I… I still need to think about it,” she said, taking half a step back, her voice tight.
The woman glanced at her.
“Alright,” she said, standing up and gently sliding the piano bench back into place. “Time is short. I hope you won’t take too long.”
She turned, leaving her back to Jiang Muyun.
That back was straight and elegant. The dark green velvet gown gleamed with a soft luster under the light.
“Muyun,” she said without turning around, her voice coming from ahead—neither too loud nor too soft, just enough to reach Jiang Muyun’s ears. “Don’t disappoint me too much.”
Then she walked away, passing through the living room and heading toward the room at the other end of the corridor.
Jiang Muyun stood still, motionless.
The living room was terrifyingly quiet.
The crystal chandelier still blazed overhead. The piano lid was still open. The air seemed to retain the lingering echoes of Chopin.
But all she felt was cold.
It wasn’t a physical cold. It came from within her heart.
Jiang Muyun slowly crouched down, placing her bag at her feet, wrapping her arms around her shoulders.
She stared at the darkness at the end of the corridor.
Her eyes were slightly red, but she didn’t cry.
She just bit her lip and silently, over and over again, repeated that name in her mind.
‘Yan Yu.’
‘What right do you have?’
‘What right do you have?’
‘What right do you have?!’
She suddenly grabbed her hair, fingers digging deep into it, pacing back and forth in the room in fury.
Each step was heavy, as if she wanted to stomp through the floor.
Again, Yan Yu!
The one who shook Su Qinghan was Yan Yu. The one who affected her career was Yan Yu. And now, the one who would steal her only chance to prove herself to her mother—again, Yan Yu!
“What right does she have?”
“What right?” she hissed through clenched teeth.
She stopped, hands braced on the desk, head lowered, staring at her own shadow wavering in the light.
That Yan Yu—her family was so poor, she couldn’t even walk, her body was so weak she couldn’t last through a single class, and her educational resources were far inferior to hers!
Jiang Muyun had spent three years abroad, attending the top art schools, learning from the most famous professors.
Yet despite all that, what right did this person have to steal her exhibition slot?
Why was it Yan Yu’s name on the selection list, and not hers? Yan Yu had nothing.
Her breathing grew heavier. A fire seemed to burn in her chest, blazing so fiercely she felt she might explode.
If only there were a chance to make Yan Yu disappear completely.
If only she could completely destroy Yan Yu.
Then Su Qinghan would turn back to look at her.
Then the exhibition slot would be hers.
Then her mother wouldn’t be disappointed in her.
Jiang Muyun panted, staring at the bedsheet for a long time. The soft fabric blurred and then sharpened again in her vision. Her heartbeat slowly calmed from its frenzy, and her breathing steadied.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally felt the fire in her heart subside a little.
She slowly sat down on the bed, picked up her phone, and began scrolling through her contacts.
Jiang Muyun believed that things wouldn’t just end like this.
The exhibition—she still had a chance.
She absolutely would not embarrass herself in front of her mother. She absolutely would not let her mother look at her with those eyes.