Adopting Myself from the Young Heiress - Chapter 33

Just after starting her freshman year, Yan Ciwei finally managed to persuade An Chixu to stay at her place.

Their relationship had already become quite intimate. An Chixu, like a kitten learning to speak, loved to mimic Yan Ciwei, sneaking up behind her and pouncing into a hug.

Friends wouldn’t be this close. Despite Yan Ciwei’s repeated hints, An Chixu remained clueless, only blushing and never daring to cross the line.

Yan Ciwei had to devise another plan.

Coincidentally, her mother was coming to S City to see her. For several days, Yan Ciwei spent little time with An Chixu.

Sometimes, after leaving the house, Yan Ciwei would deliberately turn back, lean against the door, and open the security camera. She would listen and watch the little kitten she had left at home, lost and aimless, doing nothing. A deep sense of satisfaction filled her heart.

Yan Ciwei still remembered the carefully planned afternoon.

“You should go back to Four-Nine City,” her mother said, sitting by the window and gracefully slicing foie gras.

Yan Ciwei’s stubbornness and pride came from her mother, as did her calm and composed demeanor.

They had met at a restaurant, Yan Ciwei having specifically chosen a window seat. Now, she sat across from her mother, head bowed and silent.

Beside her mother sat her partner, Yan Ciwei’s other mother.

Her mother’s appearance was unexpected. As Yan Ciwei sipped her tea, she cautiously glanced at her mother’s exquisite face, finding it unchanged from her memories. Over a decade had passed, yet there wasn’t a trace of aging; time seemed to have no hold on her.

Yan Ciwei always remembered her mother sitting in the sunroom, surrounded by colorful plants, her favorite yarn, and canvases. When knitting, her mother was so focused that she wouldn’t even notice Yan Ciwei running, jumping, and shouting nearby.

Sometimes, Yan Ciwei would open the sunroom door and chase after a dancing butterfly. Only then would her mother gently pull her back inside, her voice soft and slow, urging her not to be so wild.

At just five years old, Yan Ciwei would gaze up at her mother’s gentle features, glimpsing a deep, lingering sorrow in her eyes. The little girl didn’t understand, only asking why they couldn’t go outside together to chase butterflies. The garden was so vast, the world even more so. Yet her mother seemed forever confined to that small sunroom.

Even at eighteen, Yan Ciwei still couldn’t fully comprehend it, but she felt a pang of empathy for the sorrow in her mother’s eyes. Perhaps this nameless melancholy was what kept her mother eternally young.

Yan Ciwei dared only steal a glance at her mother. Once, for spending just ten extra minutes with her, her mother had dragged her to the confinement room and made her stand there for two hours as punishment.

Yan Ciwei averted her gaze. Beside her, Yan Zhaoyin snatched the abalone from her plate, turning to smile at her with an innocent, harmless expression that completely ruined Yan Ciwei’s appetite.

Yan Ciwei was both delighted and panicked by her mother’s decision to bring her mother to see her. She was terrified by Yan Zhaoyin’s inexplicable presence.

Yan Zhaoyin’s mother had passed away early. Her mother and Yan Ciwei’s mother had been close sisters, and for a long time, Yan Zhaoyin had lived with Yan Ciwei’s family, sleeping in her room, wearing her clothes, and using her allowance.

Yan Zhaoyin had been like a sister to Yan Ciwei, perhaps the relationship her mother had initially hoped for.

But they had never been close, nor had they been openly hostile. Out of sight of their mothers, they often brawled and argued.

This was the direct reason Yan Ciwei had left Four-Nine City to attend high school in a small town.

Yan Ciwei never held back. Moments later, she snatched the freshly served cream soup from Yan Zhaoyin’s plate, poured it flamboyantly into her wine glass, and left it untouched—a blatant act of defiance.

“Yan Ciwei,” her mother snapped, her voice like a disciplinary ruler striking Yan Ciwei’s hand. “You’ve been away from Four-Nine City for only three years, and you’ve already forgotten all your manners. Where’s your courtesy?”

Yan Ciwei suppressed the urge to fling the soup. “She started it.”

How absurd. No matter how mature and composed she acted around An Chixu, as gentle as her sorrowful mother, the moment her mother appeared, bringing Yan Zhaoyin with her, Yan Ciwei would instantly regress to childhood, reverting to childish acts of revenge, defiance against discipline, and the wronged indignation of a misunderstood child.

How annoying. Yan Ciwei loathed her loss of control.

Her mother was the original sin of her emotions. That’s why, on the day she left home, she resolved to abandon her mother and become the ideal adult she envisioned.

“It was just a piece of meat. Why are you fighting over it like a rowdy hooligan, scattering food everywhere?” her mother said, tossing her own piece into Yan Ciwei’s bowl.

Yan Ciwei clenched her fists so tightly that the veins bulged on the back of her hands.

“Yan Zhaoyin, apologize,” her mother said. This surprised Yan Ciwei even more than her mother’s visit to S City.

Her mother’s voice was always like water—gentle, accommodating, and soothing, a tone that evoked a sense of vastness. Yet her words carried an undeniable authority.

“Auntie, but…” Yan Zhaoyin began to protest.

Yan Ciwei lifted her chin, anticipating the apology.

But her mother simply tapped the table, signaling them to continue eating.

Yan Ciwei gripped her fork, remaining silent for so long that the abalone her mother had given her grew cold, as if it had returned to the seabed.

Finally, Yan Ciwei spoke. “I’m not going back.”

Four-Nine City held nothing worth returning to—no people or places she missed. Here, she could be herself, free from her mother’s influence and the annoyance of Yan Zhaoyin.

Most importantly, her Tuantuan still needed her.

Her mother set down her utensils and stared at her.

Yan Ciwei recognized this gaze—familiar yet loathsome. She didn’t know that An Chixu was equally accustomed to such looks, harboring a deeply hidden fondness for them.

Yan Ciwei lifted her head to meet her mother’s eyes. For a fleeting moment, their pupils seemed to merge in the interplay of light and shadow.

When An Chixu arrived at the restaurant at Yan Ciwei’s invitation, she moved cautiously through the opulent decor and luxurious furnishings, carefully approaching Yan Ciwei’s table. There, she saw Yan Ciwei’s mother berating her daughter mercilessly.

Standing beside Yan Ciwei’s mother was an adult, a slightly more mature-looking peer. An Chixu didn’t recognize them, but she assumed they were also Yan Ciwei’s family.

Listening to Yan Ciwei’s mother’s words, An Chixu felt dizzy and disoriented.

It was even more shocking when Yan Ciwei’s mother embraced the peer, grabbed her partner, and swept away, leaving Yan Ciwei behind, her head bowed in shame. They acted as if they were the real family, and Yan Ciwei was merely an accidental passerby.

“Sister, Sister, are you okay?” An Chixu rushed to Yan Ciwei’s side, her heart aching, completely disregarding how her presence clashed with the restaurant’s refined atmosphere.

Yan Ciwei slowly lifted her head, her movements sluggish as if her heart had been torn into nine pieces.

When she saw An Chixu, she smiled. The smile lacked its usual sharpness, and when she gazed at An Chixu, there was no hint of aggression.

Her eyes were brimming with sorrow, the glistening tears like a veil of pain.

“Tuantuan, I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to see this,” Yan Ciwei said softly.

She reached out as if to embrace An Chixu, but hesitated, her hand gripping An Chixu’s without moving further.

An Chixu instinctively stood on tiptoe, leaned in, and wrapped her arms tightly around Yan Ciwei, her heart aching in sync with Yan Ciwei’s sorrowful gaze.

It was around this moment that Yan Ciwei’s mother and her family walked past the window.

Yan Ciwei watched the intimate trio, and An Chixu quietly followed her gaze, her chest clenching with waves of pain.

“Sister…” An Chixu longed to meld Yan Ciwei into her very being, to protect her and never let her go.

Yan Ciwei clutched An Chixu’s arm, her lips moving as if she wanted to say something, but no words came.

“It’s okay, Sister. I… let’s go to another restaurant. I’ll stay with you…” An Chixu struggled to express the overwhelming emotions surging through her.

It was as if the fire had finally burned through the paper window, its flames no longer concealable.

“Tuantuan,” Yan Ciwei murmured, lowering her head to avoid An Chixu’s gaze.

An Chixu heard a faint, muffled sob.

“No one loves me anymore.”

“How could that be!” An Chixu pressed Yan Ciwei’s hand, her voice rising involuntarily. “How could that be, Sister? I… I still love you.” It was a sudden, unexpected confession.

An Chixu frantically pulled out a long-ago folded butterfly from her pocket.

The night she realized her feelings, she had tossed and turned, secretly folding this red butterfly behind Yan Ciwei’s back. She hadn’t dared to give it to her. For countless nights, she had held Yan Ciwei’s sleeping hand with one hand while pressing the butterfly hidden beneath her pillow with the other.

“I… I like you, Sister. I’ll love you. From today onward, forever, even before… I’ll always love you.” An Chixu stiffly placed the butterfly in Yan Ciwei’s palm, her voice trembling.

Yan Ciwei swallowed her tears and hugged An Chixu tightly, finally receiving the love she had longed for.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said, accepting the butterfly. “Promise me we’ll always love each other.”

“I object.” Hearing An Chixu repeat herself, Yan Ciwei lost her earlier composure, her hand instinctively reaching into her pocket for the butterfly she carried with her every day—the one An Chixu had given her when she confessed her feelings at eighteen.

An Chixu strode through the crowd, her gaze locked on Yan Zhaoyin’s eyes, as if her reckless determination could pierce through her facade.

Everyone else stood firmly on Yan Zhaoyin’s side. Everyone else remained silent.

Only An Chixu rose to her feet, breaking the overwhelming tide of malice.

The room fell deathly quiet. Some of the more impressionable attendees lowered their heads in fear.

But… who was this audacious person daring to object, openly opposing Yan Zhaoyin?

Before the murmurs could erupt again, An Chixu had already seized the microphone and projected several names onto the screen.

“First, everyone here is familiar with these variety shows,” she began, listing programs known to every household in the country—true blockbusters, some even featured on state television and officially praised.

“Neither Ask the Mountains and Seas nor National Orator are what you’d call ‘hype-driven’ shows. Myriad Lives delves deep into grassroots communities, showcasing the virtues of ordinary citizens and the lives of everyday people. The common thread among these shows is their focus on content, emphasizing cinematography, narrative pacing, and the stories themselves.”

“Admittedly, the promotional videos for National Orator focus on the contestants’ ‘explosive’ speeches to attract viewers. But consider this: if the show consisted solely of such sensationalized moments, with contestants arguing over obviously contrived topics like people who’d never been to school, lacked basic logic, and had distorted values, would it still be drawing tens of thousands of viewers at any given time, and be the benchmark against which every similar variety show is compared?”

“What truly makes these shows memorable, enduring, and classic is their substance.” An Chixu concluded, deftly pulling up data.

“Last quarter’s data shows a growing viewer fatigue with sensationalized content. More and more people are realizing that many variety shows rely on malicious editing and deliberately manufactured conflicts to manipulate audiences. This is a clear trend. If we launch a show with genuine substance now, we can’t guarantee it will reach National Orator‘s level, but at least it won’t suffer the fate of Emotional Waiting Room, whose viewership plummeted after a strong initial three episodes.”

“Manager Yan, I don’t understand why you’re so convinced our director’s strategy is flawed. Anyone in content planning knows that large language models aren’t always accurate. Could you elaborate on your reasoning?” An Chixu asked, his head feeling like it was about to explode.

Her body burned with heat, adrenaline surging through her veins, her heart pounding relentlessly.

Her ears buzzed, barely registering the sounds around her.

Yet she still caught the faint murmur from the audience.

“Tuantuan…” Yan Ciwei whispered, his voice trembling with a rare hint of tears.

She didn’t dare raise her voice, clenching her fists as she watched An Chixu stand up for her.

Why…?

Yan Ciwei couldn’t understand.

She had believed An Chixu had completely lost faith in her, consumed by resentment.

On stage, Yan Zhaoyin froze for a moment.

In her thirty years of life, she had never been challenged so directly by such an insignificant nobody.

“…Who do you think you are? What achievements have you accomplished to dare question my decisions? Do you think you know better than me?” she retorted instinctively, her words sharp and cutting.

The previously silent group exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shifting as they witnessed her true nature.

“I’m the character planner for Shen Jibai and Yang Xu. Recently, I participated in the program planning for Storm Camp and led the winning team for the first episode,” An Chixu replied, her voice now steadier.

Her accomplishments had become her confidence. Even after two years apart, she had achieved something of her own.

Hearing Yang Xu’s name, the audience exchanged knowing glances once more.

Shen Jibai and the others were known, but not particularly noteworthy. However, Yang Xu’s recent exceptional performance hinted at her securing a top-tier position, leaving everyone curious about who had devised her new persona strategy.

As for Storm Camp, industry insiders had heard of the two elite teams competing for the project’s planning rights. Yet no one had expected such an obscure, small team to win the first phase.

They actually have some talent, Yan Zhaoyin thought, twitching her eye as she forced herself to remain calm.

“Are you one of Yan Ciwei’s people?” she asked, attempting to change the subject.

But An Chixu wouldn’t let her succeed. “If I am, then everyone in our planning department should be considered Director Yan’s people, since she’s our director. Manager Yan, you’ve already asked me four questions. Can you answer mine now?”

“Tuantuan!” Yan Ciwei called out softly from the audience, this time genuinely trying to get An Chixu’s attention.

She knew her Tuantuan so well: timid, shy, easily frightened, and prone to tears, never daring to voice her own needs.

Yet this cat-like girl was now publicly challenging Yan Zhaoyin, a high-ranking executive with powerful connections.

All for her.

Her Tuantuan was becoming increasingly unfamiliar… and increasingly dazzling.

Yan Ciwei felt a surge of fear.

She feared An Chixu’s stubbornness, feared she would be implicated, and most of all, feared she would… leave for good.

An Chixu didn’t turn around. She was locked in a confrontation with Yan Zhaoyin and shouldn’t be distracted until it was resolved.

“Hmph. Very well. If you think the content is good, then take a look at the data for these projects,” Yan Zhaoyin sneered, pulling up a PowerPoint presentation.

“With all due respect, this isn’t content-driven; it’s bland, lacking any real spark. Content-driven projects should have a clear narrative framework or thematic focus, built around compelling characters and events—both are essential,” An Chixu retorted sharply.

Yan Zhaoyin’s faction in the audience visibly darkened.

Yan Zhaoyin hadn’t warned them about today’s disruption. Yan Ciwei had been unusually quiet lately, and Yan Zhaoyin, unable to uncover any suspicious activity, assumed she had given up—just like two years ago.

“Manager Yan, the most crucial point is that Director Yan’s program hasn’t even aired yet. How can you possibly claim her decisions were flawed? I suspect you can’t answer that. And if you’re asking whose side I’m on, is it because you’re projecting your own factionalism onto me?” An Chixu pressed her advantage while Yan Zhaoyin remained silent.

Her words startled those who had initially been leaning toward her.

In the next instant, everyone jumped in shock.

“An Chixu!” Yan Ciwei, who had been isolated and silent since the start of the meeting, finally spoke, her composure cracking.

Her furious shout, the sweat beading on her forehead, and the veins bulging on her neck all betrayed her turbulent emotions.

It was at that moment that everyone in the room learned the audacious young woman’s name: An Chixu.

“An Chixu, stop talking. Stop arguing with Manager Yan. There’s truth in what she’s saying.” No one had expected Yan Ciwei to speak up like this.

Rarely did anyone stand up for her, yet she was trying to silence her only ally.

But An Chixu ignored her, stubbornly sweeping her gaze across the group loyal to Yan Zhaoyin.

Amidst Yan Ciwei’s desperate tugging, she stepped forward and plugged in the USB drive.

Yan Ciwei glanced down and realized An Chixu had somehow taken the USB drive from her grasp.

How did she know…?

Panic surged through Yan Ciwei. Given the current circumstances, this document was entirely inappropriate to be revealed at this moment.

After tapping her phone a few times, she stood up and rushed forward, pulling the USB drive out before An Chixu could pull up the report and grabbing An Chixu’s hand.

Just then, Yan Zhaoyin received a phone call. She answered casually, but her brow furrowed deeper and deeper until she abruptly ran out of the conference room.

Yan Ciwei naturally took over the meeting, settling matters with just two sentences.

“Zhou Qian, you’ll take over as the second-in-charge for both projects. Ni Hong and Tan Lixin, your projects are suspended for three months. Submit your financial reports and complete personnel investigations. Meeting adjourned.”

With those words, no one could dwell on how much leadership Yan Zhaoyin had just displayed.

Yan Ciwei had undone everything Yan Zhaoyin had built with just two sentences.

The attendees filed out of the conference room in a daze. Some glanced back to see Yan Ciwei standing motionless, her hand clamped tightly around An Chixu’s.

Though their eyes didn’t meet, a subtle, heavy, and oppressive atmosphere lingered between them.

Yan Ciwei shot a glance toward the door. No one dared look at them again, and they all scurried away with their heads bowed.

For the first time, Yan Ciwei pulled An Chixu along without restraint.

Her grip was stronger than usual, as if declaring to An Chixu that her usual gentleness had been a facade.

An Chixu struggled to keep up with her pace, her vision blurred by the aftereffects of her overwhelming emotions.

She stumbled.

An Chixu fell into Yan Ciwei’s arms.

The corridor was deserted. In the oppressive silence, only their breathing and the rustle of fabric filled the air.

An Chixu gripped Yan Ciwei, trying to stand up, but Yan Ciwei swept her into a horizontal carry.

“…Yan Ciwei, put me down,” An Chixu protested, her ears flushing crimson. She patted Yan Ciwei’s arm and looked up to see her eyes bloodshot. Yan Ciwei’s palm pressed against her arm, a slightly softened, old piece of paper shaped like a butterfly clinging to her skin.

At this, An Chixu fell silent, her breath the only sound directed toward Yan Ciwei.

Then, she quietly reached up and wrapped her arms around Yan Ciwei’s neck.

Yan Ciwei held her tightly, securely.

In those few steps, Yan Ciwei felt as if she had walked through ten years.

With each step forward, she seemed to shrink, growing younger and more vulnerable.

The lover in her arms slowly transformed back into a frail kitten.

The light and shadows blurred.

A drop of water landed on An Chixu’s forehead, turning from scalding hot to icy cold in an instant. The sudden temperature change made her involuntarily close her eyes.

It was just one tear.

Yan Ciwei cracked open her office door, still refusing to let go of An Chixu.

Only after settling into her own seat did she finally let An Chixu sit on her lap.

“Why?” Yan Ciwei asked, her voice laced with confusion.

Why help me when you hate me?

Why sabotage my plans when you knew I had them?

Why put yourself in danger when you could see Yan Zhaoyin was a threat?

Why… why did you speak up?

Why couldn’t you just sit quietly in the audience, joining the ranks of those who hate me?

Yan Ciwei had done so much, hoping An Chixu would hate her.

Only then could I love you back.

An Chixu gazed at Yan Ciwei, offering her first and final confession as a red butterfly fluttered past the window.

“Because… I love you.”

Because I love you, I couldn’t bear to see them mock you so brazenly.

Because I love you, I couldn’t stand listening to their baseless slander.

Because I love you, I couldn’t stand by and watch you face this alone.

Because I love you, I wanted to try to be your safe harbor.

Because I love you, even a coward like me could find the courage to act recklessly.