“Happy?”
On the bus, Wen Ying and Xie Qian blended in as ordinary teens—no one could tell they’d just turned the music college upside down.
Well, Wen Ying might pass as ordinary; Xie Qian stood out anywhere.
Wen Ying’s cheeks were flushed, sweat beading on her forehead, eyes gleaming. “Of course I’m happy! I’ve wanted to do this for ages!”
No one knew she’d endured not weeks or months, but over a decade!
In her past life, Chen Li’s quiet misery, Deng Jie’s inability to form lasting bonds with women, Deng Hao’s constant troublemaking—even Deng Shangwei, both victim and culprit—her four loved ones’ lives, riddled with holes, all tied to Pan Li.
Pan Li wasn’t her only target. Getting her expelled was just collecting a bit of interest.
Even so, Wen Ying felt pure joy.
Revenge should feel this good!
If it left you scared and gloomy, better not bother.
Her genuine delight lifted Xie Qian’s mood too.
Whatever else, their raid on the college was a smashing success.
They’d done it alone, dragging no one else in, and still threw Pan Li into chaos.
They hadn’t compromised themselves either. Xie Qian had to admit Wen Ying’s brilliance.
He wouldn’t have done it this way.
But Wen Ying wasn’t him—her approach was blunt, brutal, and fast.
Seeing her so thrilled, he held back any buzzkill remarks.
She’d aimed to get Pan Li expelled—mission accomplished. No need to overreach.
Whether the baby was Deng Shangwei’s, or how he’d prove his fidelity, was his mess. Why should Wen Ying, a minor, bear the full weight of his mistakes?
Pan Li, though—she’d hate Wen Ying’s guts now. That woman struck Xie Qian as a brainless fool, skilled only at seduction. He stayed wary.
Smart foes were predictable; idiots weren’t.
They’d left that morning, returning in the afternoon. Splitting at the neighborhood gate, Wen Ying carried tutoring books bought on the way, humming home.
Chen Li was alone—Deng Jie and Deng Hao were with Aunt Deng Yaomei at another house. After Pan Li tracked them here, Chen Li deemed the complex unsafe. She didn’t want her sons disturbed or arguing with Deng Shangwei in front of them.
This morning’s scene at the gate was already neighborhood gossip—Lin Lin had texted Chen Li, delicately offering help. Good news stayed quiet; bad news flew. Chen Li was half-ready to move.
Seeing Wen Ying, she waved her to the couch.
Side by side, Wen Ying leaned her head on Chen Li’s shoulder.
Chen Li ruffled her hair. “Feeling better now?”
She knew.
She’d let Wen Ying “run wild.”
Wen Ying mumbled, “Auntie, I’m happy if you are. Today confirmed that woman’s kid isn’t Uncle’s—they’re scamming him. But whether he did anything with her… do you still trust him?”
Trust meant the marriage could hold.
They’d fight the monster together.
No trust? Even without divorce, cracks would form. Given Chen Li’s devotion, those cracks wouldn’t heal.
Women like her—loving deeply, caring deeply.
Wen Ying had tried her best, reborn to save Chen Li and Deng Shangwei’s bond, but she couldn’t control everything.
Last life, He Zhen’s take made sense—shaped by his own experiences, he’d distilled a “best” approach.
But it didn’t fit Chen Li.
Everyone’s past forged unique temperaments. Wen Ying just wanted Chen Li happy—divorce or not was secondary.
If they split, she’d shield Chen Li from despair, watch her cousins closely, shower them with love, and keep those saplings straight!
She stared at Chen Li, braced for “I don’t trust him,” ready to hug her and lend strength.
But Chen Li chuckled.
Wen Ying blinked, baffled.
Chen Li poked her cheek. “Silly girl, why wouldn’t I trust your uncle? I met him younger than you are now. We dated in high school, hiding from parents and teachers. Your mom thinks I suffered marrying him, but she didn’t see us starting out in Rongcheng—broke, sharing a single bun he’d insist I eat first. Over a decade together, two sons, all his earnings handed to me—should I doubt him for some malicious woman trying to wreck us?”
Wen Ying clutched her cheek. “Stop poking! Let me process… Oh, you reached Uncle, didn’t you?”
Chen Li nodded slightly. “Yep, his call got through at noon. He’s almost at the airport—home tonight.”
Wen Ying studied her.
Chen Li’s eyes brimmed with love.
This life diverged from the last.
Back then, when Deng Shangwei’s fling with Pan Li blew up, he’d likely fallen for the trap. Men—once they sneak a bite unnoticed, a clingy Pan Li could lure a second, third time. Sex and love blur easily. Chen Li’s pain wasn’t just physical betrayal, but emotional—pity or guilt, Deng Shangwei had felt something for Pan Li before her mask slipped.
That flicker of feeling, to some women, was a forgivable lapse in a long marriage.
To Chen Li, it killed a love born at sixteen, cemented at twenty with kids, built hand-in-hand.
Wen Ying’s heart softened.
Her rebirth’s timing was perfect.
Auntie still trusted Uncle; Uncle hadn’t morphed into a stranger.
She whispered, “Then let’s wait for him together.”
