CHAPTER 29: CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: DOWNWARD SPIRAL

The night air was sharp on the terrace—cool, quiet, and much too honest. The music from the ballroom had softened into something distant, elegant, and irrelevant.

However, unlike the cold evening, Song Qingwan and An Yanming were anything but calm—their tempers burned beneath the polite glitter of the party.

"You said you wanted to prove yourself," Song Qingwan hissed, her voice low but trembling. "I did what I had to—i did it for you."

An Yanming’s expression darkened. "For me?" His tone was low, clipped, and dangerous. "What do you mean?"

"I took photos of the proposal and sent you, didn’t I?" She said, feeling wronged at the anger that was directed at her. "Wasn’t that what you needed?"

For a heartbeat, silence pressed down between them. Then his voice broke it—flat and cold.

"What I needed," he said, "was the real data."

Her face went pale. "What...?"

He stepped closer, the light from the terrace catching the hard line of his jaw. "The figures you sent me were wrong, Qingwan. Wrong enough to make me lose the bid by a margin."

Her lips parted, disbelief flashing in her eyes. "That’s not possible. I-I checked it myself, I swear—-"

"Checked?" His voice rose, quiet but vicious. "You checked nothing. You cost me everything! Do you know how much this project means to me?"

"Yanming—-please, listen to me, I didn’t—"

"Go on, I’m listening," he said coldly. "Tell me—did you and An Yancheng enjoy playing me as the fool? Was it fun setting me up?"

She froze, horror flickering across her face as she listened to An Yanming’s accusation. "You think I...set you up?"

His smile was thin. "If not, how do you explain that I lost to An Yancheng by a margin, a small margin?"

"Stop twisting it! I did it for you!"

"You did it for yourself," he bit out. "To make sure someone would win—just not me."

Silence stretched—taut, uneasy.

Then they noticed it. The faint rustle of movement behind them.

A crowd had gathered at the edge of the terrace—guests in glittering gowns and dark suits, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. And at the front stood An Yancheng, expression unreadable beneath the warm wash of light from the ballroom.

Neither Song Qingwan nor An Yanming knew when the others had arrived—nor how much of their exchange had been overheard.

Their minds raced, scrambling for excuses, for some way to twist the scene in their favour. But before either could speak, An Yancheng’s voice broke the silence first.

"Ah," his tone was light, almost amused. "Here I was, wondering where my beloved fiancée and cousin had wandered off to."

Heads turned as one, the crowd parting instinctively, as though the air itself made room for confrontation.

His words were casual, but his presence carried a quiet authority that made the crowd instinctively hold their breath.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The night breeze toyed with the edge of Song Qingwan’s gown. The silence around her stretched, thin enough to snap. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

"Yancheng—" she started, voice trembling just enough to sound pitiful. "It’s not what you think—"

"Oh?" An Yancheng’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Then do enlighten me. Because from where I’m standing, it looks... rather self-explanatory."

A ripple of unease went through the watching guests. Someone coughed discreetly. Another pretended to check their drink. Yet not a single one turned away.

An Yanming’s expression hardened, the mask of easy arrogance slipping. "This isn’t the place to discuss family matters."

"I agree," Yancheng said pleasantly, though the sharpness beneath the words could have cut glass. "But since my fiancée and cousin chose to have their family matters here, in full view of half the city’s elites..." He let the words trail off, as though the implication amused him. "It seems discourteous not to acknowledge them."

Song Qingwan’s face drained of colour. "No—please, I—"

An Yancheng’s gaze flicked toward her, his tone softening—too soft. "I can’t possibly stand in the way of true love, can I? If you and my dear cousin have found each other..." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Then by all means, I’ll grant you my blessing."

Gasps rippled through the crowd—quick, sharp, and unrestrained.

An Ning, standing a few steps behind her brother, watched the entire scene unfold with the calm of someone who had seen this play before. Her expression gave nothing away, but her eyes—sharp, assessing—missed nothing.

Yancheng turned slightly, his voice carrying just enough to reach the guests behind them. "Everyone, please—bear witness. The engagement between the An family and the Song family is hereby dissolved."

He looked back at Song Qingwan, who stood frozen, tears threatening but unfallen. "And in the spirit of fairness," he added, "I’ll leave the replacement arrangement to the two of you. After all, it’s only fitting that love should find its way."

His smile was courteous. The words were not.

An Yanming’s jaw tightened, though he tried to maintain his composure. "There’s no need to make a scene," he said coolly. "You’re overreacting."

"Am I?" An Yancheng’s smile didn’t falter, but his tone shifted—calm, deliberate, and dangerous. "If memory serves, you were the one plotting with my fiancée behind my back. I’d say the scene made itself."

Laughter—thin and nervous—fluttered at the edge of the crowd before dying quickly.

No one wanted to be caught on the wrong side of this spectacle.

An Ning took a step forward then, her expression mild, her tone deceptively light. "Ge," she said softly, "maybe you shouldn’t be too harsh. After all, they did put on quite a performance. It would be cruel not to let them take the stage officially."

Her words slipped in like silk—and cut just as deep.

An Yancheng chuckled, glancing down at her. "You’re right. It’s only proper."

He turned back to the pair, his smile polite once more."Congratulations, Cousin. Miss Song. The An family wishes you both all the happiness your hearts can handle."

The sound of crystal glasses clinking faintly from the hall felt almost obscene against the silence here.

An Yanming’s face darkened. Song Qingwan stood trembling beside him, her fingers curling tight around her skirt.

Whispers spread—low, sharp, impossible to contain. Every gaze fixed on them, hungry for the next move.

An Ning’s gaze flicked briefly toward her brother, sensing the tension coil tighter in the air. Something was about to give.

And then—

A new voice cut through the murmurs. Deep. Cool. Commanding.

"What," said An Zhiguo, An Yanming’s father, his expression calm yet edged with something cold, "is going on here?"

The air froze—along with every polite mask on that terrace.