Chapter 14

After sending that message, Song Qingre indeed didn't reply for a while.

So tsundere.

But that didn't stop Yan Qingqiu from pushing further: 【If you don't pay me back, I'll come to your company every day and pester you for it!】

After sending it, Yan Qingqiu thought about how vicious she was being, truly the epitome of the villainess archetype.

Borrowed a million from someone, kissed them, had them do manual favors, and finally... still demanded the million back.

Yan Qingqiu snapped awake.

She'd been squeezing this little tangerine of a woman, Song Qingre, all along. What would happen when Song Qingre finally grew strong enough to fight back and came for her throat?

But she couldn't really blame herself either. Song Qingre was too stubborn—she could at least try to haggle, say she'd pay back five hundred thousand, or three or four hundred.

Ugh, female leads were generally tougher, not shameless like her, a supporting character.

Yan Qingqiu flipped her phone face down. After a moment, another message came in. She was about to send a voice reply, but checked who it was from first.

Dong Shu·Butler: 【Sent you my resume】

"...?"

Yan Qingqiu closed her eyes, sat up, and downloaded the resume.

Name: Dong Hai

Current position: Senior Butler (Side gig: Romance novelist)

Education: CkButler (world-class butler academy), eight languages, seventh dan in martial arts, black belt...

Later, the butler came upstairs to call her for dinner, but she didn't go down. Too awkward, she'd die of embarrassment.

Yan Qingqiu sighed and pulled up the butler's latest update to read. She even poured herself a cup of tea—personally, she really did enjoy reading the butler's stories.

【About Miss's affairs, besides the moonlight, there were also the coins.

Those days were plagued by relentless rain, rain and light falling strand by strand upon the coins. The few coins Miss used to toss around for fun were now all gathered up and stuffed full in her pockets, as Miss pushed a tripod up onto the wall and climbed over into Miss Song's courtyard.

The coins in her pocket scattered all over the ground, and the moonlight tilted down along with them.

Miss was only fourteen then. She fell and got up, got up and fell again. In the years before, she'd lived a life held in the palm of someone's hand, and a single fall would send her wailing. I wanted to help her, but the Master said, kids have to learn to stand up on their own.

Night after night, the figure on the wall grew more and more practiced.

But those days the rain just wouldn't stop. Miss wore a raincoat and kept carrying piles of stuff from home to jump down with, like a little thief.

Finally, Miss Song, who hadn't appeared for days, stood beneath the wall. She opened her arms, and Miss jumped down without a care. Mud splashed up, and two small bodies toppled into the dirt.

I watched clearly from upstairs. Miss didn't jump into her arms—she deliberately shifted position to avoid Miss Song. Someone so practiced fell hard that time, and her arm got cut by a scratch.

Miss Song hurriedly examined her. "Are you stupid? What if you hurt yourself falling?"

The one who used to cry so easily just pouted and brushed the mud off herself. "I'm not hurt. What if I crushed you? I don't want to see you cry."

The rain was still heavy, but Miss Song cried even harder, sobbing into her shoulder.

"See, I almost died falling just now, but it's okay. In the future, don't be afraid. I'll take care of you. Whatever money my dad gives me, I won't waste it. Taking care of you won't be hard at all." Miss patted her shoulder.

"This is our secret. My dad can't know."

"Alright, stop crying." Miss reached out to wipe her eyes. "I'm not in pain. From now on, we'll always be together. You have me."

"No matter how the world changes, my favorite person is you."

"If you're too shy to say it, you can call me Sister Qiuqiu."

Miss Song stayed silent, and Miss's hands came away wet.

When Miss Song was fifteen, her parents passed away. That was an unchangeable track, but Miss, with hands stained with mud and rain, pulled her out, handful by handful.

She stood up and reached her hand out toward Miss Song.

And Miss Song placed her hand in hers.

The rain stopped. The Song family's courtyard gate opened, and Miss Song came to the house with a painting. I didn't see what was in it—Miss hid it away mysteriously.

In the days after the sky cleared, Miss Song would often come to the courtyard to paint. She'd set up a tall easel, and the two of them would hide behind it to apply medicine in secret.

I was lucky enough to see that painting once. It depicted our Miss, and it was called: 《Blonde Princess》. A very fairy-tale name.

Later, the painting won an award, and Miss Song's talent burst forth, earning her the title of gifted painter.

Only, later on... the painting... sigh...】

Yan Qingqiu: "?"

What happened later? Why did the butler stop writing?

She flipped the paper over and over, examining it closely. She looked carefully at the trailing "..." at the end—all pressed out by the butler's pen tip. Clearly, he was melancholy about it, finding it hard to continue down that memory lane.

Once she was no longer too embarrassed to go down, Yan Qingqiu went to stand by the window. The butler was in the courtyard talking to the family mason about repairing the wall, in his tailcoat and glasses. He looked like a proper gentleman, so how did he manage to write such emotional, gripping stories? It was a bit sad.

She watched for a while, then went downstairs. The butler looked at her curiously and asked, "Miss, is there something you need?"

It was all Song Qingre's fault for tagging her on social media—Yan Qingqiu felt embarrassed. She said, "Come upstairs and help me hang a painting."

"Very well, Miss." The butler followed behind her, and Yan Qingqiu felt like he was smiling. She turned to look at him. The butler pushed up his glasses and said, "I do want to laugh a little, but I can hold it in."

Yan Qingqiu pointed to the oil painting she'd just unboxed in her room. "It's this painting, 《Golden Hair》. Hang it up."

The butler walked to stand directly in front of the painting and shook his head. "No, this is 《Golden Hair》, not 《Blonde Princess》. Even though 《Golden Hair》 achieved the greatest recognition, personally, I think 《Blonde Princess》 is better."

This painting, 《Golden Hair》, had a rather abstract style. The morning sun leapt up from the ground, its golden light turning into a maiden's long hair, and the moment the golden hair lifted off the earth, the land went pitch black—silent, oppressive.

Yan Qingqiu felt a strong sense of unease. Hanging this painting in the room didn't feel right. She'd taken it out specifically to test whether it was the painting from the story, and the butler said, "It seems unsuitable to hang this one up." If this painting were truly sold, it would fetch at least ten million.

He suggested, "Why not hang the others, and lock away this 《Golden Hair》? It counts as your personal property."

Ever since Yan Qingqiu had dyed her hair back, she couldn't help but find that statement unlucky. Still, she wasn't that superstitious. Most of the paintings she'd bought yesterday used her "father's" money; only this bonus gift could truly be considered her own. "Fine, lock it away."

"Then what about the original painting and 《Blonde Princess》..."

Yan Qingqiu swallowed back her words several times, but she couldn't help herself. She bit her lip and said with a stern face, "From now on, don't imitate those teaser endings. You pick up all the bad habits and none of the good. Update properly and finish the whole thing in one go. Leaving it hanging halfway is unbearable."

The butler sighed. "The main reason I didn't write it is because I was afraid it would hurt you."

Yan Qingqiu shivered. Was the abuse about to start?

Her first thought: No way, my ship can't sink. She'd cry.

Then she thought: I'm sick in the head!

Yan Qingqiu couldn't hold back anymore and asked in a low voice, "What's the ending of the painting?"

"Wasn't it burned by you? Have you forgotten? Burned right in front of Miss Song."

"Huh?" Yan Qingqiu froze.

The butler said, "If you want to read it, I can write it out next time. It's really too sad to tell you directly. Oh, right, Miss Song is busy at the studio and won't be coming back today."

After hearing this, Yan Qingqiu deeply regretted it.

She felt awful the entire evening, clutching her chest from the ache. Unable to fall asleep, she propped herself up to scroll through videos. Whether by coincidence or because big data was watching her, she came across a line: "I raise fine incense to honor the gods, to ease the regret in my heart. Then I raise the incense above my head, wishing I weren't stained by mortal sorrow."

It hurt. It hurt so much.

Miss Song and Miss Yan's story was pure tragedy!

Yan Qingqiu really couldn't sleep. Lying by the bed, she kept thinking she had to do something. In the dead of night, well past midnight, she turned on the light and sat at the desk by the bed, picking up the butler's manuscript. She held a pen and decided she'd write her own ending—this story was not going to be a bad end. She set her phone on the paper, opened her chat with Song Qingre, and pressed the voice message button: "Song Qingre, are you asleep?"

Then she scribbled out the trailing "..." at the end of the butler's manuscript, and as she waited for Song Qingre to reply, she wrote anew: 【On that night in 20xx, the twenty-four-year-old Miss Yan traveled across time. The stillness of the world couldn't hold back the surging tide in her heart. She pressed the voice message button and, nervous and uncertain, sent a message to Miss Song: "Song Qingre, are you asleep?" This was a conversation across time, the first greeting from Miss Yan to Miss Song after years of separation.】

She checked her phone—still no response. She changed the contact name to "Miss Song" first, then prepared to send the message. She edited it for ages without sending anything and continued writing below: 【Miss Yan deleted and revised the words in the chat box, not knowing what to say at all. She waited, kept waiting. The moonlight outside the window seemed lost, hazy and uncertain. Would Miss Song reply to her?】

Yet in reality, half an hour passed and still no message.

Come on, Song Qingre!

Yan Qingqiu was furious. Don't be cruel! She figured she'd just make it up herself!

Finally, her phone chimed—two consecutive "ding-dong" sounds. A message had arrived!

She looked and saw two voice messages, one 5 seconds, one 8 seconds.

Yan Qingqiu gripped her pen and kept writing: 【Miss Song, she said—】 She opened the voice messages and listened carefully to what was said.

Song Qingre's voice was languid, her unique voice soft and magnetic, enough to numb the ears into distraction at night. She said, "Good evening, 198 technician at your service."

Song Qingre: "Would you like a massage with special techniques, or would you prefer my specialty—expanded services, human body painting?"

TL Note:

"I raise fine incense to honor the gods, to ease the regret in my heart, then raise the incense above my head, wishing I weren't stained by mortal sorrow" is a line from Gong Zizhen's poem collection.