Adopting Myself from the Young Heiress - Chapter 32

Yan Ciwei’s measured steps were slower than usual, each footfall deliberate. Backlit, her figure was shrouded in shadow, obscuring her expression and even erasing the crimson mole beneath her eye.

Only her black-clad form remained, her gloved hands gleaming starkly white against the darkness, unnaturally conspicuous.

The way she adjusted her gloves resembled a warrior preparing for battle—a lethal composure, graceful as a jackal.

In a fleeting moment, An Chixu glimpsed bloodshot veins in Yan Ciwei’s eyes. The crimson mole, now glaring like a bloodstain, seemed to echo the aftermath of a brutal fight.

In that instant, An Chixu felt like a mayfly, while Yan Ciwei loomed as a ravenous flood, dyed ink-black, threatening to engulf everything in its path.

An Chixu blinked again, her heart stopping between blinks.

Yan Ciwei stood before her now.

The oppressive aura closed in.

It had been a long time since An Chixu had felt so overwhelmed by Yan Ciwei’s presence that she couldn’t lift her head, her shoulders hunching under the weight.

Now, even her knees nearly buckled.

What does Yan Ciwei intend to do?

An Chixu forced herself to take a deep breath, struggling to maintain composure. She focused all her strength in her neck, straining to lift her heavy head.

She knew her eyes must be filled with hatred—a raw, forced hatred.

Yan Ciwei seemed oblivious, leaning down and extending a hand toward her. The hand, recently treated by An Chixu, still wore a glove thick with disdain.

“Tuantuan, give it to me,” Yan Ciwei said, her tone casual, as if it were just another ordinary day. As if Yan Ciwei had once again planned an outing, bending down to take the crossbody bag from her hand as they stepped out.

An Chixu’s brow furrowed. She hugged the cat carrier tighter, stepping back until she pressed against the armrest of the bench, half her body still shrouded in Yan Ciwei’s shadow.

“Pei Yuxi is your cousin,” she stated, drawing her own conclusion. Even without detailed family discussions, An Chixu knew Yan Ciwei’s mother’s surname was Pei.

Yet An Chixu had never known Yan Ciwei had a cousin. In the past decade, she had only ever heard Yan Ciwei mention one elder cousin.

Of course. Yan Ciwei harbored so many secrets. How could she ever hope to truly understand this woman, let alone possess her?

“Yes,” Yan Ciwei replied, maintaining her demanding posture.

Or rather, her commanding stance. She would never be the one pleading; she was merely approaching an unruly subject to issue a warning.

“I didn’t mention it before because Pei Yuxi has lived in Four-Nine City her entire life and only came to S City for university.” In truth, An Chixu had once had the opportunity to know Yan Ciwei completely.

They had been engaged, intimately close.

But An Chixu had voluntarily given it up.

This concealment might be Yan Ciwei’s unspoken revenge.

An Chixu’s eyes darkened. She still couldn’t bring herself to meet Yan Ciwei’s gaze. “What about Pei Luochen?”

“She’s Pei Yuxi’s biological sister.” Yan Ciwei seemed impatient, explaining briefly before reaching out toward the cat carrier in An Chixu’s arms.

But An Chixu reacted faster.

She hid the carrier behind her back, tilted her head, and looked past Yan Ciwei’s cold, emotionless eyes toward the sunlight slowly piercing through the heavy clouds behind her.

Even the sun on this overcast day couldn’t penetrate Yan Ciwei’s icy aura. An Chixu shivered, goosebumps rising across her skin. She bit her lip, determined to make one last plea.

“I can’t give you Orange.” This kitten had taken her over ten shops to secure.

She had been looking forward to this for a month, spending days and nights poring over cat care guides and carefully selecting all the necessary supplies.

Only to get this docile and adorable cat.

And only for three months.

Yan Ciwei wouldn’t even spare her three months?

“Why?” Yan Ciwei slightly lowered her hand, still blocking the light.

An Chixu felt her phone vibrate.

A thought struck her, and she opened her phone, her hands trembling.

It was a transfer notification. The 150,000 yuan had arrived in her account.

The same account she had opened last week, one she hadn’t told Yan Ciwei about.

“It’s not… about the money,” An Chixu said, struggling to control the tremor in her voice. Her throat burned like she was drowning, the pain unbearable.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe, reaching for a lifeline only to find it was bait Yan Ciwei had laid out, barbed and poisonous. She had been pierced through.

“You can’t take care of it properly,” Yan Ciwei said, her tone unchanging. It was as if she wasn’t arguing with her lover, showing no emotional fluctuation whatsoever.

“I have a dedicated caretaker. Pei Yuxi can check on its condition at any time, which will give her peace of mind.”

Such cruel words. An Chixu didn’t even know how to retort.

She had once vowed to prove herself and had been trying relentlessly.

Yan Ciwei would never believe her.

Yan Ciwei trusted her with ten of the most important things, yet overlooked this one small matter.

She didn’t believe An Chixu could be independent.

An Chixu’s chest heaved violently. Her eyelashes trembled, fluttering across her vision, causing Yan Ciwei to flicker between stark black and blinding white—terrifyingly dark one moment, painfully bright the next.

“Why would you say that?” An Chixu finally snapped, her voice raw with suppressed emotion.

“I’ve been taking care of him for half a month already.”

“You’ve been sick. You have rhinitis. You’re not suited to care for an animal that sheds so much.”

“But you don’t even like cats! You don’t like pets! How could I possibly entrust him to you?” An Chixu’s eyes were already bloodshot.

Even Yan Ciwei, who maintained her composure so flawlessly, paused her breath at the sight of those crimson eyes.

“I have dedicated staff to care for him,” Yan Ciwei said after a long silence, her voice regaining its earlier detachment. “A butler, maids, and a veterinarian—all on call around the clock. He’ll have his own room to play in, and professional cat lovers to keep him company.”

An Chixu knew Yan Ciwei could make it happen. She could not only dedicate a room and hire people to play with Orange.

If Yan Ciwei wanted, she could even build Orange his own private garden.

This was their fundamental difference. An Chixu recalled a question she’d seen when she first got Orange: If someone offered you a million dollars for your beloved cat, and they could provide her with a life a hundred times better than yours, would you take the deal?

Only now, facing this reality, did she understand the true pain of such a question. The windfall of money meant nothing to An Chixu, but the moment she heard Yan Ciwei’s words, her thoughts weren’t of Orange, but of herself.

“Why can’t I keep him? After all this time, I finally—”

But Orange had never been her true support. A cat who couldn’t understand human speech could never provide the stability she craved.

Raising a cat was nothing like being kept by Yan Ciwei.

An Chixu’s latest attempt had failed.

She gazed blankly at the sky, her eyes meeting Yan Ciwei’s, her own brimming with tears.

After selfishly and resolutely breaking free from Yan Ciwei for so long, she still hadn’t found what she sought.

Did she have to willingly wear the collar, return to Yan Ciwei’s grasp, to finally obtain the peace she so desperately craved?

“I can’t allow it,” Yan Ciwei said, pulling on her mask. She saw that An Chixu had already given up.

“Without me, you can’t do this. Give him to me.” Her words were as cold as bl00d.

When An Chixu looked up again, Yan Ciwei had already taken Orange’s cat carrier.

Yan Ciwei’s last words echoed in An Chixu’s ears. An Chixu pressed her eyelids shut, leaning weakly against the bench, half her body soaked.

Yan Ciwei’s car drove away without a moment’s hesitation.

An Chixu stared blankly for a long time, until the receding car disappeared from sight. Inside the car, Yan Ciwei gripped her wrist tightly, bl00d trickling from the fresh wound over old scars.

Orange meowed anxiously from the back seat. Yan Ciwei slammed her foot on the accelerator again, the car surging forward with near-manic speed.

The survival reality show Storm Camp held its first planning meeting.

The planning team in attendance remained at just five members. The one who couldn’t find the Zhuguang TV building had been immediately excluded.

An Chixu, sporting dark circles rivaling Yan Ciwei’s, brought two junior team members to the meeting.

These two had proposed the core concepts for the show, and after reviewing their past project proposals, An Chixu believed they merely lacked an opportunity to shine. She intended to give them more responsibility.

A week had passed since Yan Ciwei took Orange away. As July began, the rainy season ended, and S City entered a period of sustained high temperatures.

Today was particularly hot. An Chixu and her team were drenched in sweat by the time they entered the conference room.

“Sister An, are you really okay?” one of the team members asked with concern.

An Chixu looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine as long as I get through this meeting.”

She had buried herself in the show’s planning, desperate to forget Yan Ciwei’s existence.

But recently, Yan Zhaoyin and Yan Ciwei had been locked in a fierce power struggle. The upper echelons were in turmoil, and rumors were swirling even among the lower ranks. Every day, they heard about Yan Ciwei’s allies being transferred out through one ear, and Yan Zhaoyin’s embarrassing mishaps through the other.

Over the past few days, their rivalry had escalated from personnel disputes to project control. Yan Ciwei, who was leading several major projects, had caught Yan Zhaoyin’s eye.

If things continued as expected, Storm Camp would be next.

An Chixu felt a headache coming on. She desperately wanted to avoid seeing that man again, but fortunately, he had been busy lately and hadn’t shown up much.

“Let me give you a quick rundown,” An Chixu whispered to her team members as the others arrived. “The group on the left previously handled the planning for Goodnight, Stranger and Beyond the Script. They’re the strongest team here. The group on the right organized the gala last year, so don’t underestimate them either.”

The content for the first episode likely wouldn’t involve their team. To be honest, An Chixu had already prepared herself for the possibility of being called to the set as a production assistant once filming began.

Her team members listened attentively, diligently taking notes on each team’s strengths and weaknesses.

The Chief Producer remained the same middle-aged man who prioritized character relationships over actual content. Listening to his rambling only made An Chixu’s sleep-deprived headache worse.

The overall direction of the show had been determined by the “strongest team” An Chixu had mentioned. The guidelines were only distributed a few days ago, clearly designed to deliberately make things difficult for the remaining teams.

An Chixu’s consecutive all-nighters were partly due to this.

Her team was the first to present. After their presentation, the Chief Producer looked satisfied.

An Chixu closed her eyes, wanting to rest.

The second team to present was the gala planning team. Surprisingly, their proposal was remarkably similar to the first team’s.

However, their content aligned even more closely with the Chief Producer’s requirements, incorporating elements like “Truth or Dare” that could easily create interpersonal conflicts.

The first team leader’s face darkened.

“What’s going on?” A team member nudged the drowsy An Chixu.

An Chixu forced her eyes open. “There must be a mole.”

The team’s obscurity had its advantages. In the first stage of the competition, no one had bothered to infiltrate their group and steal their data.

Watching the two teams argue, An Chixu suddenly saw an opportunity.

“Want to make a move?” No one dared to step forward, but the Chief Producer’s expression grew increasingly grim. If the stalemate continued, they’d all face a scolding.

An Chixu glanced at her team members behind her. The two exchanged confused glances, unsure what she meant.

Without hesitation, An Chixu stood up, snatched the microphone from the third team—who were huddled at the edge of the stage—and strode forward with her USB drive.

She glanced at the Chief Producer, who regarded her with a slightly probing but non-interfering gaze, and began to present her team’s proposal.

Two team members, suddenly realizing what was happening, rushed to An Chixu’s side to add details.

Halfway through An Chixu’s presentation, the two bickering teams fell silent, their eyes fixed on her with ill intent.

An Chixu remained composed. These hostile stares couldn’t inflict even half the damage Yan Ciwei’s gaze had that day.

“Our team’s main concept combines the gameplay of Werewolf with survival elements. We’ll divide the guests into three factions to create conflict, but the teams will be randomly assigned, so the guests won’t know each other’s allegiances. The first episode will be filmed in a forest, with minimal visible resources provided—only essential items like tents, but they’ll be disassembled…”

After finishing her presentation, An Chixu nodded to the Chief Producer and returned to her seat with her team.

The remaining two teams, who hadn’t yet presented, also watched An Chixu’s group.

An Chixu slowly regulated her breathing.

Her team had always been overlooked.

But recognition had to be earned.

Of course, the content mattered too. An Chixu remained confident in her team’s proposal, certain that it met the Chief Producer’s requirements.

After the remaining two groups finished their presentations, the Chief Producer predictably began scolding everyone, particularly tearing into the two groups that had plagiarized each other.

“You call yourselves renowned planning teams? The work you produced is inferior to theirs!” The Chief Producer pointed at An Chixu’s group, successfully inciting a wave of resentment.

An Chixu had anticipated this development. After all, she wasn’t here to make friends; she needed to guard against internal problems later.

“What’s your name again? Never mind. Your group, stay behind. The first episode is yours. The rest of you young people, work harder! Stop trying to cut corners. I want solid content, not you putting on a show for me while telling them to act out palace intrigue for the audience…”

At that moment, the gazes of the two group members toward An Chixu shifted, now filled with undisguised admiration.

They had truly managed to snag a lucky break. An Chixu followed the Chief Producer to a private conference room to discuss the details of the first episode.

Over the next two weeks, An Chixu was swamped with coordinating the episode’s content with the production team, establishing the faction system, and seamlessly integrating the sponsor’s advertisements. She was so busy that she had no time to think about Yan Ciwei.

Yan Ciwei had vanished as if she’d evaporated, never contacting An Chixu again.

An Chixu never imagined their next meeting would be at a company-wide conference.

Headquarters personnel had convened the meeting, and team leaders were the lowest-ranking employees permitted to attend.

When An Chixu saw that Yan Ciwei wasn’t presiding over the meeting, but rather Yan Zhaoyin, her heart skipped a beat.

Then she spotted Yan Ciwei sitting in the department director’s seat. Though she should have been surrounded by her trusted subordinates, not a single one was present. In the cramped conference room, a single empty seat stood out, as if she carried some contagious plague.

Yan Ciwei had been stripped of her authority, and today would be her day of reckoning.

The moment An Chixu saw this, that single thought filled her mind.

She stared in shock for a long moment, her heart pounding, before hastily lowering her head.

As Yan Zhaoyin formally began her address, Yan Ciwei turned her head.

Isolated in the sea of faces, she precisely caught the one gaze fixed on her.

Her smile was as cold as snow.

An Chixu’s head was already bowed, their eyes never meeting.

What followed was Yan Zhaoyin’s lengthy speech.

An Chixu couldn’t focus on much of Yan Zhaoyin’s speech. When she snapped back to attention, she only heard Yan Zhaoyin saying, “Director Yan’s decisions were flawed. The content lacked explosive moments and didn’t have any eye-catching segments suitable for promotion. It’s out of sync with the current entertainment landscape. The AI model predicts lukewarm viewership, and post-broadcast data won’t meet our targets. It won’t go viral, and we won’t attract investment. The platform now needs fast-paced, high-impact content—controversies and gossip are what grab attention. Therefore, Zhou Qian, whose last show dominated the trending charts, will take over as Chief Producer for both of Director Yan’s projects. Any objections?”

Yan Zhaoyin only mentioned the AI model’s predictions, omitting the actual data.

While the AI model was an internal company tool designed to forecast audience reactions, connect with big data platforms, and provide real-time updates on viewer preferences to help planners adjust their strategies, An Chixu had used it before. This so-called “AI model” had failed to predict Shen Jibai’s viral street-shot footage or the positive reception to Yang Xu’s contrasting persona.

Ultimately, audiences are complex and vast. The AI model can predict the behavior of the most active segment but can’t represent the entire viewership.

A young planner with even a little experience wouldn’t blindly trust the company’s large language model, and Yan Zhaoyin certainly understood this principle.

However, Yan Zhaoyin had likely already dealt with everyone around Yan Ciwei, which was why she didn’t even bother coming up with a more plausible excuse.

Zhou Qian was undoubtedly part of Yan Zhaoyin’s faction. The so-called “project handover” was actually a scheme to strip Yan Ciwei of her director position.

If Yan Zhaoyin succeeded in this maneuver, Yan Ciwei wouldn’t just lose her position as general manager of the S City branch—she would likely be forced to leave the entire group.

Just like… two years ago.

The entire room fell silent. Those who had no connection to Yan Ciwei avoided eye contact, while those she had helped lowered their heads.

Yan Ciwei’s rivals began to sneer. “Little President Yan still can’t measure up. You’re nothing like your mother—how could you make such a basic mistake?”

“I think Director Yan is genuinely exhausted. Maybe she’s not suited for the current pace anymore? Shouldn’t we hand over the reins to someone with real competence, instead of letting someone abuse their position and make a mess of things?” A middle-aged colleague chimed in with feigned concern.

“In the end, President Yan saw through it all,” someone said, referring to Yan Zhaoyin, of course. After all, everyone knew that after today, Yan Ciwei would likely no longer even be President.

“Zhou Qian took over just a few months ago and immediately got ‘Emotional Waiting Room’ trending at number one. It consistently stayed in the top three during its run, relying on drama and plot twists. Every move was ruthless—exactly what audiences love.”

“You can’t blame her, though. Being a member of the Yan Family, no one dared to interfere. But this time… fate has other plans.”

Gradually, the conference room filled with nothing but cold mockery and derision.

More and more people joined in, eager to show their allegiance to Yan Zhaoyin and prove their loyalty.

Their reactions made it seem as if Yan Ciwei’s program had already aired, flopped spectacularly, and cost the company billions in losses.

Yan Ciwei’s content was flawed, her direction misguided, and her strategies disastrous.

Not a single person spoke up in her defense.

Yet Yan Ciwei remained seated in the empty space, her lashes lowered, a faint smile curving her lips, her expression indifferent, like an unyielding snow lotus.

Yan Zhaoyin watched the scene with satisfaction.

After a month of meticulous planning, she had finally uprooted all of Yan Ciwei’s remaining influence. Today was the day of reckoning.

Who told Yan Ciwei to spread rumors about her, especially such malicious ones about physical assault? Otherwise, she might have kept Yan Ciwei around for a few more days, waiting for her to make a real mistake.

Now, Yan Zhaoyin couldn’t wait any longer.

She glanced at Yan Ciwei’s eyelashes, her greatest hatred reserved for her cousin’s eternally calm eyes—as if everything Yan Zhaoyin did was a pathetic joke, unworthy of a second glance.

“Since no one has any objections…” Yan Zhaoyin was about to declare the motion passed, but her smile froze mid-grin.

At the back of the conference room, a figure suddenly stood up.

The woman’s presence was so faint that some had completely ignored her while she sat there, even as they exchanged mocking glances about Yan Ciwei with their neighbors.

Standing, she seemed even smaller, almost a mere shadow. Had her chair not scraped loudly against the floor as she pushed it back, few would have noticed her rising at all.

She tossed her ponytail, revealing freckles that still failed to connect her to a name.

“I object,” An Chixu said, suppressing her trembling. She strained to amplify her voice, her gaze locked unwaveringly on Yan Zhaoyin.

The summer heat burned on her lips.