Transmigrated As The Villainous Scumbag Wife Of A Disabled Tycoon - Chapter 48

48

Xu Congshi stopped short of saying more.

Her relationship with Jiang Ciyi wasn’t close enough to delve into matters of love and marriage. It was merely a case of appreciating talent and not wanting to see her deceived again.

If Jiang Ciyi were to fall into despair over this, what would happen to the project?!

Xu Congshi chatted with her briefly before leaving.

Jiang Ciyi watched her figure disappear at the doorway, then turned her wheelchair to look at the research documents on the table.

They were intriguing.

But Xu Congshi’s words had served as a wake-up call.

What came after curiosity?

She wasn’t sure.

What Jiang Ciyi was certain of, however, was that she wasn’t ready to enter another intimate relationship. Even if this Cheng Xing seemed nice and suited her taste, she wouldn’t let herself fall for her.

One cannot step into the same river twice.

Even if the river’s waters have been renewed.

Jiang Ciyi stared at the name and photo on the documents, her eyes narrowing with a hint of coldness. She closed the file and tossed it aside.

Curiosity could be suppressed.

Just like this fleeting, insignificant affection.

For some reason that day—perhaps because of Xu Congshi’s words—her heart rippled, and she found herself distracted while poring over the complex documents.

Her thoughts kept drifting to her old pen pal.

Her one and only pen pal.

In an era when everyone was diving into the internet, communication apps were sprouting endlessly, and forums and chat rooms had become gathering spots for restless teenagers.

Jiang Ciyi didn’t have a phone, but there was an internet café near her home. During summer breaks, she’d work there overnight, earning thirty yuan to help with household expenses.

She feared her grandmother would be upset if she found out, so she always lied, saying she was staying at a friend’s house to study.

The computer at the internet café allowed her to register accounts. Out of curiosity, Jiang Ciyi signed up for one.

She chatted briefly with a netizen who gave her an address, suggesting they become pen pals.

Jiang Ciyi didn’t fully understand what being a pen pal meant and didn’t think much of it.

Later, when she returned home, she was often listless. Her grandmother followed her one day and discovered she was spending nights at the internet café.

What was her grandmother’s expression then?

Fury, yes, but more than that, guilt.

Without a word, her grandmother dragged her home. That evening, she cooked as usual. The old television blared lively sounds, but the atmosphere in their quiet home remained untouched.

Her grandmother never forbade her from going to the internet café again, nor did she lecture her. She was silent.

It was Jiang Ciyi who broke the ice, apologizing to her grandmother.

She hadn’t expected her “I’m sorry” to make her grandmother sob uncontrollably, saying, “It’s me who’s sorry for you.”

Jiang Ciyi never returned to that part-time job. Instead, she followed her grandmother, selling fried rice from a street cart.

Later, they set up a fixed stall near her school, though her grandmother avoided the school itself, fearing Jiang Ciyi’s classmates would see and embarrass her.

Jiang Ciyi didn’t care much. She was already an outcast at school.

Whether it was because she was poor or because she was beautiful—perhaps both.

Back then, Jiang Ciyi didn’t understand that beauty, paired with anything, could be a weapon to turn one’s life around. Anything except poverty.

Poverty meant she could protect nothing.

Anyone could mock her, bully her, humiliate her.

Jiang Ciyi consistently scored top marks, her grades like a rollercoaster at its peak. Teachers valued her, but she became a thorn in her classmates’ eyes.

Some girls hated her because boys liked her.

Some boys hated her because the girls they liked hated her, or because she rejected them.

Her grandmother never knew what happened at school, but she protected Jiang Ciyi’s dignity. She’d close the stall late at night, dragging her exhausted body home, counting oil-stained coins, always believing life still held brightness.

But good times didn’t last. The city cracked down on street vendors. Her grandmother’s stall was confiscated, and she was fined five thousand yuan for lacking a permit and health certificate. The money they’d earned flowed away like water.

Then came her father, returning to demand debts.

The house was trashed, bowls shattered across the floor, sharp enough to draw bl00d with a misstep.

Locked in her room by her grandmother, Jiang Ciyi put on headphones, turned the volume to max, and cried silently.

At midnight, when she stepped out, her grandmother sat slumped on the floor, tearless, her eyes filled with despair.

Jiang Ciyi was skilled at cleaning up such messes. But that night, lying in bed, she tossed and turned, wanting to say so much but not knowing what.

So she sat up, took a piece of paper, and after much thought, wrote a raw, honest sentence: I really hate my father.

The next morning, her mood sour, she walked to school and accidentally bumped into a boy.

He was about her height; their shoulders brushed. It didn’t even hurt, and she apologized first.

But the boy stared at her for a long moment, smirked, and said, “Since you feel sorry, how about you sleep with me?”

Jiang Ciyi frowned. She recognized him—a notorious school bully who hung out with delinquents, relying on his family’s modest wealth to harass girls and even good-looking boys.

Even the principal dreaded dealing with him.

Jiang Ciyi said nothing, trying to walk past, but his lackeys blocked her.

“I’m talking to you. Deaf?” the boy sneered.

Jiang Ciyi pressed her lips shut, saying nothing. A crowd gathered, the bell for class rang, but the boy showed no sign of letting her go.

“No way,” Jiang Ciyi said. “I need to get to class.”

The next second, her hair was yanked, and the boy’s voice hissed like a demon in her ear: “Did I say you could leave?”

That day was one Jiang Ciyi never wanted to recall.

It marked the beginning of her high school nightmare.

At first, she was merely isolated, which didn’t bother her—she didn’t feel lonely.

But from that day, something shifted in the school. Bullying her became a kind of twisted “justice.”

Her textbooks were defaced, her homework torn and tossed in the trash, her chair smeared with glue or steamed rice.

This went on for a while, but she never let a hint of it show at home.

She feared her grandmother wouldn’t stand up for her—or worse, that she would.

That’s how it was for poor people.

Especially in a school where class divides were stark.

Many students didn’t bother with college entrance exams; they’d apply to study abroad and return to family businesses, destined to be elites.

Jiang Ciyi thought long about her major—accounting, journalism, law, even medicine—all fields where she’d likely cross paths with “them.” So she chose forensic medicine.

No other reason than to prove herself.

Forensic medicine meant she wouldn’t have to deal with those “privileged” types.

Living people lie; the dead don’t.

The living wield power; the dead differ only in their graves, which changes nothing.

Money can’t bring you back to life.

After her clash with the boy, a teacher intervened in time. There were clear strangulation marks on Jiang Ciyi’s neck, yet the teacher didn’t dare demand an apology from the boy. Instead, they urged her to let it go.

Jiang Ciyi felt a dark cloud over her head.

Even the wind felt bitter on her walk home.

But then, a letter arrived.

She didn’t know the sender’s real name, only their pen name: He Miao.

At her desk, under warm yellow lamplight, she read the letter.

He Miao’s writing wasn’t polished. She wrote about her grandmother’s persimmon trees, reminded Jiang Ciyi to dress warmly as the weather cooled, mentioned failing another exam and dreading her parents’ scolding. It was all trivial, the kind of scattered writing a literature teacher would criticize.

Yet through the thin paper, Jiang Ciyi felt strength flowing from He Miao.

It was as if someone, far away, possessed everything she longed for—family, love, vitality, joy—and one day, she might have it too.

So her first sentence in reply was: Dear He Miao, I wish I could be as free and happy as you.

Pain and resentment poured through her pen, easing the bitterness in her heart.

But rereading it, she felt it was too negative, as if she were someone hateful.

So she wrote a second letter.

It became a habit.

The first letter vented her pain and despair; the second shared warm, everyday moments, the sparse happiness she gleaned from her barren life.

That night had given her so much strength to carry on that writing letters became a ritual.

She’d send the second letter, mailing one every month.

She didn’t know when He Miao would receive them, but for her, the letter’s purpose was fulfilled the moment it was written.

He Miao seemed about her age. When Jiang Ciyi felt lost about the future or overwhelmed by negativity, she’d pour it into her letters, hoping for He Miao’s advice or a way forward.

He Miao always offered just the right guidance.

Though by the time it arrived, Jiang Ciyi often no longer needed it.

She and He Miao stayed in close contact, but when she started studying forensic medicine, her schedule tightened. The pressure of coursework left little time for letter-writing or reading the books she used to share with He Miao.

When she finally noticed, she realized she hadn’t read a book in ages, and her letters to He Miao were filled with negativity.

She was too busy to notice life’s small joys.

She had to earn money, study, take exams, do experiments, attend anatomy classes.

Anatomy classes were torture. The smell of formaldehyde filled the air, and her sensitive nose could detect the faint rot beneath it.

She also had claustrophobia.

Jiang Ciyi never told anyone. When called to demonstrate, her cuts were steady, her hands moving before her mind caught up, precise to a fault.

Her professor once said she could pass for a seasoned professional.

But her mind was breaking.

She started writing again, confessing her confusion and preparing to switch majors. He Miao told her, “Life isn’t a right-or-wrong question; it’s a multiple-choice one. Whatever you choose is right.”

She decided to switch to mathematics, but then she ran into the boy who’d bullied her in high school. He mocked her.

In the end, she gave up switching majors.

Not for any grand reason, but because, in a fit of defiance, she’d snapped at him: “Walk the night road too long, and you’ll meet a ghost. Who knows when you’ll die quietly, and I’ll be the one dissecting your corpse, cutting wherever I please.”

Furious, he tried to hit her. She threw him over her shoulder to the ground.

In university, Jiang Ciyi became a spinning top—learning self-defense, judo, joining the taekwondo club, always the hardest worker.

She squeezed sleep to write to He Miao, sharing these updates, even maintaining her monthly letters. But for some reason, He Miao’s replies stopped.

Her last letter had rambled about getting a pet, debating between a cat and a dog, listing pros and cons over three pages.

Jiang Ciyi, marveling at He Miao’s light academic load and envying her leisure, suggested a dog.

Dogs are loyal.

As a child, Jiang Ciyi had taken in a stray dog.

Then, abruptly, their letters became one-sided.

She searched the address He Miao had given but found no trace of a Liuli Lane in Beijing.

Even Beijing University of Chinese Medicine, where He Miao claimed to study, had no Dormitory Building 7.

Jiang Ciyi guessed He Miao was cautious, likely giving a nearby address to deter her from tracking her down.

The reason for the silence was probably simple.

In the era of pen pals, it was cool to have one.

But in today’s internet age, it seemed silly.

Perhaps He Miao was embarrassed by her past whimsy.

Or maybe she had a boyfriend or girlfriend, her focus now on real life.

He Miao was, after all, a vibrant, interesting person.

Living with someone so thoughtful and gentle must be wonderful, Jiang Ciyi had thought countless times.

But today, He Miao kept creeping into her thoughts.

After flipping through the research documents for the nth time and closing them again, she took a blank sheet of paper and wrote:

[Dear He Miao, hello.

It’s been a long time since I last wrote. Are you doing well? Though I look forward to your reply, writing to you is a joy in itself.

I have many doubts, and no one but you can offer me honest advice. If you receive this, I hope to hear from you.]

Writing to He Miao required no effort.

But Jiang Ciyi didn’t mail the letter. As always, she folded it, sealed it, and tucked it into her bag.

At home, she’d store it in her cabinet.

She used to have many letters from He Miao, and many she’d written herself. But Cheng Xing had found them, torn some, and hidden the rest.

Jiang Ciyi didn’t know where they were. She’d searched Tinglan Mansion quietly but found nothing.

Cheng Xing had once gripped her chin, sneering, “Don’t you like her? When I’m in a good mood, I might return them. When I’m not, I’ll burn one, like this.”

She let go, lit a lighter, and set a letter ablaze. Jiang Ciyi’s pupils constricted.

Those handwritten letters were irreplaceable.

They were her only solace in her darkest days.

Now, they were ash.

Cheng Xing seemed to relish her despair, laughing, “Be my dog, crawl and bark twice, and maybe I’ll give them back.”

Knock knock—

The sound of fingers tapping the desk snapped Jiang Ciyi back. She lowered her eyes, adjusted her expression, cleared her throat, and asked, “Why are you back?”

It was Xu Congshi again.

Xu Congshi studied her for a moment. “What were you thinking about just now, junior?”

“Nothing,” Jiang Ciyi said coolly, unused to sharing her private matters. “What’s up?”

“Time to clock out,” Xu Congshi said. “Let’s go eat something nice.”

“Alright. Let me tidy up.” Jiang Ciyi replied.

Xu Congshi eyed her, then said, “Want to bring a plus-one? There’s room.”

Worried Jiang Ciyi might feel awkward, she added, “I’m single, no one to bring. Xiaolan and Guozi are bringing their partners.”

Jiang Ciyi paused, then shook her head. “No need.”

Xu Congshi hesitated. “You don’t seem yourself. That look earlier was murderous. Want me to call your plus-one to cheer you up?”

Jiang Ciyi’s face hardened. “No.”

Xu Congshi didn’t mind her tone.

Talented people often had a bit of a temper.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But since you’re new, don’t keep that icy face like before. We’re all recent grads here. You’re practically a veteran in the field—flash a smile, and the kids will be thrilled.”

Jiang Ciyi hadn’t given her face earlier, but now she nodded.

Cheng Xing wasn’t feeling great at the meeting either. Jiang Bai and the others threw around jargon, clearly not in casual discussion but to make her feel out of her depth.

From Daisy’s reactions, it was obvious their usual meetings weren’t like this.

Finally, the workday ended. Cheng Xing didn’t care who left or stayed—she packed up and left on time.

At the underground parking lot, she called Sister Zhou, asking if the two “plague gods” at home were gone.

Sister Zhou hesitated for two seconds. “Miss, are you eating out tonight? Madam is here. You’re really not coming back? Oh? You’ve planned a candlelit dinner with Miss Jiang? I’ll let Madam know.”

Before Cheng Xing could respond, Sister Zhou rattled on.

Cheng Xing was stunned. “My mom’s there too?”

Sister Zhou: “Madam missed you and Miss Jiang, so she came to visit. She’s tidied the guest room and plans to stay a few days.”

Cheng Xing: “…”

Likely, the news of today’s police call had reached Guan Linmin’s ears, so she’d come to help deal with the old lady.

Catching Sister Zhou’s hint, Cheng Xing decided not to rush back into trouble. “Fine, I’ll come home later.”

After hanging up, she opened a food app, found a highly rated barbecue restaurant nearby, and headed for a quiet dinner.

It wasn’t peak hours, so the restaurant was sparse. The waiter led her to a secluded spot.

In the past, Cheng Xing would’ve been frugal due to money concerns. Now, with an inexhaustible balance and having died once, she spared no expense on food.

For ambiance, she set up a phone stand and played Spring Court Evening, a show Jiang Ciyi had mentioned.

At first, she couldn’t get into it, distracted by the female lead’s face, which felt eerily similar to Jiang Ciyi’s.

She puzzled over it, unable to place why. Halfway through her meal, it hit her—

Could this be Jiang Ciyi’s sister?!