It was a sleepless night for both Wen Ying and Chen Ru.
In the morning, Wen Ying’s eyes were puffy, and Chen Ru’s dark circles were even more pronounced. They asked the hotel for two boiled eggs to soothe their eyes.
The award ceremony was in the afternoon, leaving the morning free for contestants. Wen Ying asked Chen Ru if she wanted to go out, but Chen Ru was listless.
“Go wander nearby, but don’t go far,” Chen Ru said.
She was clearly still upset.
“I’ll be back before the ceremony,” Wen Ying replied.
Chen Ru didn’t respond.
Knowing many contestants were likely pulling strings behind the scenes, Chen Ru had lost hope in Wen Ying winning first prize after she rejected Wu Chunqin’s help. The afternoon ceremony felt pointless.
Wen Ying tiptoed out of the room, taking deep breaths in the hallway.
She knew she should stay by Chen Ru’s side, sweet-talking her to ease her anger.
Rationally, that was the move, but emotionally, Wen Ying felt a strange hesitation, like homesickness despite being close.
After her rebirth, Wen Ying thought she was clever, blaming her strained family ties in her past life on her parents.
This life, she’d mended those ties and credited herself—her improved emotional and social intelligence, her tolerance of Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong. But meeting Wu Chunqin made her reassess herself and her mother.
Maybe she needed to rethink her father, Old Wen, too.
Chen Ru had secretly arranged help for her in her past life, unbeknownst to Wen Ying. Did her father know?
She had no chance to uncover that truth now.
After a night of reflection, Wen Ying decided to stop casting her parents as “villains.” She’d let go of past life grudges, seal away those arguments, and stop judging the present through that lens.
Wu Chunqin’s existence untied a knot in Wen Ying’s heart.
For that alone, she owed her parents more understanding.
She put effort into helping her friends improve, so she shouldn’t be so harsh on her own parents.
Everyone had flaws.
Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong had them, and so did Wen Ying.
Admitting mistakes was hard. Wen Ying needed to cool off. Since her mum wasn’t going out, she could use the time to look at houses.
In the elevator, she ran into Song Chan.
Song Chan was with a mixed group of contestants, already chummy.
No avoiding it—Wen Ying greeted her, “Senior Song.”
Song Chan smiled and nodded, introducing her to the others, “This is Wen Ying, my junior from the same school. She’s in Group B, unlike me.”
“Your Chengdu school sure produces talent!” someone remarked.
It was rare for two students from the same school to reach the semifinals in the same year.
A boy invited Wen Ying to join them.
She was tempted but, with no other free time to view houses, declined, “Sorry, I have something to do.”
The boy didn’t press.
At the ground floor, Wen Ying waved to the group.
She didn’t walk fast enough to miss someone saying to Song Chan, “Your junior’s kind of aloof, not a team player.”
“She probably has plans. I should’ve asked her earlier,” Song Chan explained.
Wen Ying ignored the chatter.
Writing was solitary. She needed to focus on creating good work, not socializing. Fame and success weren’t her concern now.
At this age, teenagers were naturally proud. They might talk nicely, but deep down, no one truly admired anyone else.
Wen Ying took a taxi to a nearby real estate agency.
In 2005, Shanghai’s property market was heating up. While Chengdu’s high-end properties cost around 4,000 yuan per square meter, Shanghai’s prices were already over 10,000.
With a booming market, the agency was busy. Wen Ying, looking too young to be a buyer, was ignored.
She stood at the agency’s entrance, studying listings posted on the glass door. A young female agent, likely new, approached her, perhaps out of optimism, asking if she wanted to rent.
Wen Ying’s calm demeanor made her age hard to pin—maybe 15 or 16, or as old as 17 or 18.
At that age, some girls might’ve left school to work.
Some jobs provided housing; others required renting.
The agent assumed Wen Ying was looking to rent.
Rentals earned commissions, though far less than sales.
“No, I’m not renting,” Wen Ying said, shaking her head.
The agent looked disappointed, but Wen Ying pointed to a listing, “I want to see this house. Can you take me now?”
The agent froze.
“That’s for sale…”
Great location, good layout, not cheap—890,000 yuan!
Wen Ying nodded, “I know it’s for sale. I want to buy it. If it’s fine, I can pay the deposit today.”
Another agent couldn’t hold back a laugh.
“Oh, Yao Xiaojia, did you hear magpies chirping today? You’re finally closing a deal! Take this big client to see it—she buys, you get your commission!”
Wen Ying was familiar with such workplace jabs.
They seemed like jokes but dripped with malice.
Exposing Yao Xiaojia as a rookie who couldn’t close deals in front of a client could make them want someone else—a vicious move.
The jab targeted Yao Xiaojia but dismissed Wen Ying as a serious buyer.
Wen Ying ignored the taunter, asking Yao Xiaojia, “Can you get the keys?”
Yao Xiaojia’s eyes reddened. She glared at her colleague, then smiled at Wen Ying, “Sit for a bit, have some water. I’ll check with the manager.”
Some listings were exclusive, with keys held by the agency. Others weren’t, or owners still lived there, requiring coordination.
Time was what Wen Ying lacked.
Sensing her urgency, Yao Xiaojia made her wait only five or six minutes.
“Little…”
Unsure how to address her, Yao Xiaojia hesitated. Wen Ying smiled, “I’m surnamed Wen. Call me Xiao Wen.”
“You look young, so I’ll call you Xiao Wen. The house you want doesn’t have keys available now, but based on your budget, we can recommend three others in nearby complexes, within a two-kilometer radius. You could see all three this morning if you’re up for it.”
Yao Xiaojia didn’t get the keys but wasn’t ready to let Wen Ying go.
Despite Wen Ying’s youthful appearance, her colleague’s taunt spurred Yao Xiaojia to take her to see houses, escaping the office’s tension.
The houses she suggested cost 870,000, 900,000, and 910,000 yuan—close to Wen Ying’s target of 890,000 and in the same area.
Whether Wen Ying prioritized price or location, these fit her needs.
Wen Ying grinned, “Sister Yao, you’re made for this job.”
With such professionalism, Yao Xiaojia’s lack of sales was just bad luck or sabotage. She wouldn’t stay empty-handed long.
Flattery worked. Yao Xiaojia smiled, “Want to see them?”
“Of course. Let’s go now.”
Yao Xiaojia grabbed the keys, and they left briskly.
The colleague who mocked her sneered, “Yao Xiaojia’s desperate. That kid probably can’t even afford rent, let alone buy. Waste of time!”
Another agent chimed in, “Let her try. Success or failure, it’s experience. We all started there.”
Veteran agents develop an eye for clients. They might not spot a buyer instantly, but they’re right seven or eight times out of ten.
Wen Ying didn’t look like a buyer from any angle.
An 890,000-yuan house, viewed and deposited today? Ridiculous.
That’s 890,000, not 89 yuan!
With her youthful face, what could she buy with? She might not even be legally able to sign a contract.
…
The agents’ instincts weren’t wrong—Wen Ying, as a minor, couldn’t sign a contract independently. Yao Xiaojia would be deflated if she knew.
Wen Ying’s calm confidence fooled her.
On the way, Yao Xiaojia made small talk, probing Wen Ying’s background and financial capacity.
But Yao, the agent, was no match for Wen, the lawyer. Yao only learned what Wen Ying wanted her to. What Wen Ying didn’t share, Yao couldn’t pry out.
Meanwhile, Wen Ying learned plenty about Yao Xiaojia.
Yao even mentioned a few hot new developments.
“Xiao Wen, if you’re planning to buy, don’t wait. Act early—Shanghai’s prices will keep rising.”
Of course they would.
Shanghai’s market would surge through mid-2005, with prices peaking at 20,000 yuan per square meter.
By year-end, prices would dip, some by up to 40%. Developments opening at 10,000-plus would drop to 7,000 or 8,000.
Year-end 2005 was a good time to buy.
But it was January now. Prices weren’t as wild as mid-year, nor much pricier than year-end.
For building ties with Xie Qian, Wen Ying couldn’t wait. Saving a few tens of thousands wasn’t worth the risk of delays. She wouldn’t make that mistake.
Wen Ying’s clear memory of 2005’s housing market came, ironically, from Wu Chunqin. In her past life, Wu wasn’t just her client but her landlord.
Wu rented Wen Ying a small apartment, claiming they clicked. The rent wasn’t much below market rate but was stable—Wu didn’t suddenly demand she move out, unlike other landlords.
Wen Ying lived there for two years, only moving to shorten her commute.
As her client, Wu’s financial status was partly known to Wen Ying. Wu owned multiple properties, mostly bought between 2005 and 2007. Wu once remarked that her 2005 year-end purchases were the best deals.
Wen Ying had listened casually then.
Now, back a decade earlier with a chance to buy, that information was gold.
