Chapter 17 – The Puppet on Strings

The wind chime by the door gave a crisp jingle.

Just as Fan Shengmei lifted a spoonful of cake toward her mouth, a long, elegant hand pushed an eight-inch Royal Chocolate cake into her line of sight.

The gilded tray was adorned with raspberries and flecks of gold leaf—far more extravagant than the signature cake she had hesitated over earlier but never dared to order.

“Birthday?”

A deep male voice came from above.

She looked up. Meng Yanchen stood there in a white casual polo shirt, his hair loosely styled instead of slicked back as usual. Gone was the sharp-edged businessman; he seemed unexpectedly approachable, almost gentle.

“President Meng?”

“Eat this one.”

His gaze fell on the palm-sized cake before her. “That one’s too small. Doesn’t look like a birthday cake, more like afternoon tea.”

Fan Shengmei instantly recognized it—this was the store’s limited edition, priced at 6,888 yuan. When she ordered her cake, she hadn’t even dared to look at it twice.

“Will you… have some?” she asked softly, staring at the cake big enough for ten people.

Meng Yanchen glanced at his watch. “No sweets after three.”

“Then…” She hesitated. “This shop has a no-return policy. Since you gave it to me, may I… handle it my way?”

He gestured with a simple go ahead.

She snapped photo after photo, then quickly listed it online. Moments later, she had a deal.

Meng Yanchen sat across from her, sipping his coffee in silence. A line he once read floated to mind: The poorer a person is in some aspect, the more eager they are to flaunt it.

Which was why he had always believed that “sharing life” on social media was nothing more than another form of showing off.

Twenty minutes later, a girl in a frilly Lolita dress rushed into the shop.

“You’re selling the Dream of the Stars?”

“Brand new, untouched.”

Fan Shengmei opened the box for inspection. “Less than an hour out of the store. List price 6,888. I posted it at 6,500, but since you’re so cute… 6,000.”

The girl instantly transferred the money, afraid Fan Shengmei might change her mind.

“Birthday luck,” she chirped.

Fan Shengmei scanned the payment, then waved her phone at Meng Yanchen with a bright smile. “Thanks for the red envelope, President Meng.”

He raised a brow. “This is your idea of happiness?”

“Once you grow up, birthdays and anniversaries lose their magic,” she replied, scooping another bite of her modest 28-yuan cake. “It’s just those things you never had that turn into obsessions. Strange behaviors, repeated rituals… eventually, they become habit.”

His fingers stilled briefly against the table.

Wasn’t his twenty-year devotion to Xu Qin the same? What he thought of as deep affection—was it just a sick obsession with the words can’t have?

Unaware of his thoughts, Fan Shengmei kept eating happily.

“Obsession fulfilled, and I’ve got six thousand left. That’s far better than eating the fancy cake.”

“You like money that much?” His tone was sharp, eyes gleaming behind his glasses.

“Who doesn’t?” she shot back easily. “You’re rich and still work overtime till dawn—don’t you like it?”

He tapped the table lightly. “Never thought it rude to sell a gift right in front of the giver?”

“You said I could handle it however I wanted,” she reminded him bluntly. “A gift is meant to make the receiver happy. If selling makes me happier than eating, that means your gift was a success.”

He arched a brow. “So, if I gave you money directly?”

“Even better.”

Her eyes lit up. “Saves the middleman’s cut.”

Meng Yanchen gave a short, amused huff. “You’re very straightforward.”

“That’s just human nature.” She twirled her fork. “Fighting human nature is unscientific.”

He remembered Xu Qin, stubbornly declaring, I don’t care about French cuisine. I just want to eat the food he cooks. Can’t I?

The corner of his lips curved bitterly.

“Turns out, not everyone chooses bread.”

Fan Shengmei shrugged. “That only means she wasn’t hungry enough. Only when you’re full do you have the luxury to choose.”

“And you?” he asked quietly.

She blinked, thought for a moment, then said mischievously, “I’d choose the bread I like.”

Clever. He let it go, simply sipping his coffee while glancing at the modest cake in front of her.

“So not every expensive cake gets chosen.”

Fan Shengmei laughed lightly. “That just means the person can’t handle it—maybe an allergy, or maybe they’re still starving, hoping to trade one expensive cake for many smaller ones.”

Oddly enough, her words soothed something inside him.

His phone buzzed. Xu Qin’s message flashed on screen:

【Got the cake! I love it~ But why didn’t you bring it yourself? Are you busy?】

He locked the screen without replying.

When he looked up, Fan Shengmei was watching him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You should go, President Meng. Thank you—for the cake and… for keeping me company on my birthday.”

The sincerity in her voice landed in his ears as a dismissal.

He inhaled shallowly, then smiled with deliberate defiance.

“Not busy.”

He gestured at her plate. “Go on, finish it.”

Every bite afterward was agony, eaten under his gaze. At last, she put the fork down.

“All done?”

He stood. “Let’s go.”

“Huh? Where?”

“To buy your gift.”

Adjusting his glasses, his tone was serious, like a CEO reviewing a balance sheet.

“Cake, gift—the full procedure. Can’t stop halfway. I’d lose sleep.”

She was speechless.

Who treated a birthday like a project checklist?

“What do you want? Jewelry? A bag?”

“Actually…”

“Cash doesn’t count,” he cut her off. “No meaning in that.”

Her only desire now was to escape. She pointed randomly at a nearby boutique. “This one’s fine.”

It was a small crafts shop, mostly trinkets and ornaments.

As she browsed absentmindedly, she noticed his gaze fixed on a marionette—a finely crafted nutcracker dangling on thin golden strings.

“This one, then.”

She reached for it, but his hand clamped around her wrist.

“No. Choose another.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you say I could pick?”

“I don’t like it.” His voice was colder now.

She shook him off and insisted, taking the puppet down.

“My gift. My choice.”

The strings swayed as the puppet dangled in her hand. “See? Beautiful craftsmanship.”

The cold light in his glasses sharpened. “No one likes being a puppet.”

“But without these strings,” she teased, tugging lightly, “it’s just a pile of useless wood.”

He froze.

With a flick, she made the puppet dance a jaunty little step.

“With someone pulling the strings, it comes alive. Maybe not in the story it wanted, but at least it grows flesh and bone… until one day, it might even find its soul.”

She met his gaze steadily. “That’s not control. That’s guidance.”

His pupils contracted.

Xu Qin had always called Fu Wenyan’s influence control. Had always wanted to escape.

He too had begun to see it as suffocating.

But perhaps… it was that very guidance that shaped them into who they were.

By the time he returned to himself, Fan Shengmei was already at the register, smiling as she held up the puppet.

“President Meng, time to pay.”

“Would you like it gift-wrapped? With a card?” the clerk asked cheerfully.

“Two sets,” Meng Yanchen replied.

Pen in hand, he glanced at Fan Shengmei taking a call by the door, then scrawled on one of the cards:

To the puppet who has grown a soul — Meng Yanchen