Their status was too different, and she still wasn’t used to calling him by name, afraid she might inadvertently offend this distinguished figure.

Shen Zongliang stood at the doorway, holding a redwood tray, blocking most of the light behind him.

He frowned slightly, his tone full of reproach. “You tricked me into steaming all these crabs, and then you left?”

Qiehui stepped aside to let him in and instinctively reached out to take the tray, but Shen Zongliang didn’t let her.

He walked in and set it on the table. “You seem to be afraid of the heat. Don’t go dropping another plate.”

Qiehui hesitated for a moment—he must have seen her blowing on her fingers earlier.

She spoke softly, “I thought you’d ask your niece to stay for dinner. It wouldn’t have gone to waste either way.”

It was a reasonable assumption, and Shen Zongliang found himself at a loss for words.

From the moment Tangyin entered, he hadn’t considered keeping her for dinner—especially since she had brought along a sidekick.

In the cutthroat world of power and prestige, Shen Zongliang navigated social interactions effortlessly, never missing a beat in the toasts and negotiations.

But when it came to his younger relatives at home, he rarely had much to say. The age gap between them was too large, and more often than not, their conversations ended in awkward silence.

The Shen family’s discipline was strict, and hierarchy was rigidly maintained. Shen Tangyin was wary of him and probably didn’t enjoy eating with him either.

Unlike Zhong Qiehui, who, despite her cautious demeanor, wasn’t truly afraid of him.

And today, after exchanging a few more words with her, even that initial restraint had started to fade.

He spoke in a serious tone but with a hint of teasing. “I told you I steamed them for you—how could I let Tangyin eat them instead? That would make me look stingy, as if I can’t even afford to host a guest.”

Qiehui lowered her head with a small laugh. “How could the renowned Shen Zong ever be stingy?”

Without waiting for her to say more, Shen Zongliang pulled out a chair and sat down, making himself comfortable as if he were in his own home.

Leaning back slightly, he tapped his fingers on the black walnut dining table and caught a flaw in her words. “Renowned? When have you ever heard of me?”

Qiehui stood across from him, her fingers gripping the handle of the dining chair, looking like a junior receiving a lecture.

One was tense, the other at ease—who held the upper hand was self-evident.

She let out a small laugh, a sudden surge of competitiveness rising in her. “Of course, I’ve heard of it. President Shen is known for his lavish generosity—who doesn’t know that?”

Shen Zongliang had never considered that the phrase “lavish generosity” could be associated with him.

He chuckled in disbelief. “Nonsense. Where did that come from?”

Qiehui sat down, flipped over two celadon cups, and poured the yellow wine until they were 80% full. She silently pushed one toward Shen Zongliang.

“Just hearsay, I suppose,” she said. “But tell me, is President Shen this generous with every woman?”

Shen Zongliang remained as nonchalant as ever.

With a faint smile at the corner of his lips, he deflected the question with ease. “Whether I’m generous or not depends on how you define it.”

Ha, a smooth talker. Qiehui mentally labeled him.

She had no idea how many women he had been with, but when it came to the art of conversation, Shen Zongliang was undoubtedly a master.

Shen Zongliang glanced down at the golden liquor in his cup, its hue contrasting against the smooth, glazed surface of the porcelain.

This kind of Ru kiln cup, thin as a cicada’s wing, was rare to see nowadays. He turned it slightly in his hand. “Was this left to you by your family?”

Logically, such items shouldn’t appear on the market, nor would they likely end up in the hands of a young woman.

Qiehui shook her head. “The day I started university, Grandpa Chen had his secretary send me a set of tea ware. He said it was for good luck.”

“It seems Old Chen has taken special care of you,” Shen Zongliang remarked.

She lowered her gaze. “Yes, Grandpa Chen has always looked out for me. He has a kind heart.”

Speaking of this, Qiehui took a deep breath and raised her cup. “A toast to President Shen—you’ve taken care of me, too.”

No matter how much time passed, she could never escape the shadow of her past. Even when she stood in the sunlight, a slight disturbance would bring those dark clouds rolling back, swallowing up the brightness around her.

Shen Zongliang clinked his cup against hers and downed the drink in one go.

Compared to the fine liquors he had tasted before, this one wasn’t particularly outstanding, yet it left an indescribable sweetness lingering on his palate.

He thought for a moment. “Are you sure you’re toasting the right person? I don’t recall ever taking care of you.”

Qiehui set her cup down. “Of course. That day, I took your parking spot for no reason, and you didn’t hold it against me.”

“Do I seem like someone who likes to hold grudges?”

His tone was steady, but Qiehui detected a hint of danger beneath it.

“Not exactly,” she admitted, her throat suddenly dry. “Take just now, for example—if not for you, Yang Yumeng wouldn’t have acknowledged me at all.”

In her mind, Qiehui wondered if she should fetch a mirror. President Shen, do you realize how much you look like a tyrant right now?

She had judged correctly from the start—whether as a boss or a neighbor, he was someone to tread carefully around.

He didn’t seem pleased at the mention of Yang Yumeng.

Shen Zongliang furrowed his brows. “She’s spoiled. It’s only natural for her to be a little willful.”

Qiehui smiled indifferently. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten used to it a long time ago. And she’s not the only one like that.”

Falling from grace was like a grand palace crumbling into sand.

This was no longer ten years ago. She was no longer the heiress of the Zhong family—just Qiehui.

Old friends, former classmates—only a handful still bothered with pleasantries. Most people acted as if they didn’t see her, as if she no longer existed in their world.

Lost in thought, she didn’t realize Shen Zongliang was waiting for her to continue.

After a while, he asked, “That’s it? No ‘and then’?”

Qiehui waved a hand and smiled—gentle yet resilient. “No ‘and then.’”

She didn’t like complaining about life.

Qiehui was a bit superstitious. She believed that putting too much negativity out into the world would affect her luck.

To have made it this far safely, to have gotten into a decent university, to still have good friends who cared about her—she considered it a stroke of fortune.

Besides, what could she say to Shen Zongliang?

That she, too, once lived in a grand mansion, but the past ten years had been anything but ordinary?

Shen Zongliang curved his lips slightly. He picked up a small silver cutter, clipped off the legs of a crab, peeled open the shell, and placed the golden roe onto her plate.

Qiehui murmured a quiet “thank you,” scooped up a spoonful of crab roe, and took a bite. Her eyes lit up. “Wow, this is really delicious.”

The young woman in front of him tilted her head back, holding her spoon, her bright eyes fixed on him.

She had a radiant smile, revealing a row of pearl-white teeth, like a clear sky after a spring rain.

Shen Zongliang was scraping off the thin layer of fragrant crab oil from the shell when his hand paused mid-motion. For a moment, he forgot what he was supposed to be doing.