At Ning Zhijing’s scolding, Ning Anmiao looked up.
“So I designed it. What of it?”
She stared at the filthy feather dress on the sofa and felt a quick, sharp pang. She had sent it out pristine — every stitch in place, the fabric steamed and folded with care. She’d even sprayed her favorite white tea perfume onto the garment bag. To see her work reduced to this mangled thing made her chest tighten.
The instant she agreed to make the dress, it was as if a cloud had dropped over the room; the living room’s air grew unbearably heavy.
“What do you mean, ‘what of it’?” Ning Zhijing’s face darkened. “Since when has the Ning family taught you to scheme? You knew today was Xixi’s birthday and you tampered with her dress!”
Ning Anmiao stood rooted, her gaze fixed on the dress. Slowly, something cold and sharp crept into her eyes.
“I didn’t do it. I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.”
Ning Zhijing paused, his eyes flicking to his daughter. For a moment he wavered; he did not want to believe she could be so shameless, so deliberate as to leave a seam unfinished to embarrass the Jiang family. Yet the tailor who had inspected the gown had pointed out the side seam at the waist was sewn with loose, unfinished stitches — a live seam. A little pressure would make it come apart.
That was why, at the auction earlier, Jiang Xixi had suffered a wardrobe malfunction during her exit. The only reason it didn’t become a disaster was because Jiang Zhou had been quick enough to strip his jacket and throw it over her shoulders, hustling the crowd back before worse could happen. But even a small reveal was enough for the tabloids and the internet. Commentators picked apart Xixi’s figure with crude, merciless language — trampling her dignity and, by extension, insulting the Jiang family’s honor.
“We grew up together, Miao,” Jiang Xixi said suddenly, standing from the sofa where she had been sobbing. Her face was deathly white, her eyes bloodshot. “I treated your uncle and aunt with respect and I thought you were my best friend. Why would you do this to me?”
Ning Anmiao’s feelings tangled. She didn’t know where the seam had failed, but Xixi was the one whose reputation had been stripped in public — the victim of the farce — and her tone softened.
“Xixi, I made that gown with my own hands. I didn’t touch it after I sent it. I checked it carefully,” she said gently. “Could someone else in the Jiang household have taken it? Could a rival have interfered? Maybe you brushed against something sharp just before you walked out?”
She spoke honestly and calmly, searching for any plausible explanation. But to everyone else it sounded like an excuse, an attempt to wriggle out of responsibility.
At her words, Mr. Jiang could no longer sit still. The Jiang family had always liked Ning Anmiao; now they were disappointed, furious even.
“The Jiang family has always minded its business,” Mr. Jiang said, voice grave. “We paint and we live quietly. We don’t make enemies. And Xixi is my daughter — I would never let her be harmed.” His stare hardened. “If you and Xixi have some grudge, we’re all here; let’s put it on the table. There’s no need for such despicable behavior.”
Ning Anmiao clenched her fists but said nothing. She knew how these things worked: once suspicion took root, guilt was presumed. Clean intentions meant little in a room that had already decided.
Her eyes slid to Jiang Xixi and caught a flash of something — a thin, almost triumphant curl at the corner of Xixi’s mouth. The expression vanished in a heartbeat; Xixi ducked her eyes and began shaking again, wiping her face with frantic, pathetic sobs.
A cold realization struck Ning Anmiao so hard her knees went weak. For the first time a sick, disbelieving answer formed in her mind.
“Ning Anmiao!” Ning Zhijing’s voice dropped like a gavel. He brought his cane down on the floor with a sharp, impatient clap. “Explain yourself to Mr. Jiang. Explain to Xixi.”
It was equal parts prompt and an order to apologize. Facing her closest people, she felt suddenly helpless and bereft of words.
She looked at Jiang Zhou sitting on the sofa — he watched her, expression guarded. For a moment her smile trembled and came out pale and brittle.
“I didn’t do it,” she said again. “I won’t admit to it if I didn’t.”
Jiang Zhou had suspected Xixi from the start. Everyone knew Xixi didn’t like Miao; that had always been plain. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe his sister would commit something so self-damaging for the sake of humiliating another. No girl would gamble her reputation like that. In the end, he sided with family.
Ning Anmiao could feel her father’s eyes on her, not warm and knowing but distant — as if she were a stranger. Tears rose before she could stop them, blurring the room.
The atmosphere froze. Mr. Jiang sighed, unwilling to make a scene between the families. “Forget it. This is done,” he said slowly, trying to offer a way out. “We’ve known the Nings for years. Kids have spats. Let Miao apologize and we’ll call it settled.”
Ning Zhijing’s face remained stony but he knew Mr. Jiang was giving them face. “Ning Anmiao, did you hear me? Apologize to Xixi.”
She understood perfectly well that a single apology would smooth everything over, preserve appearances. But she couldn’t force words she didn’t mean.
“When someone is determined to pin a crime on you, they’ll always have an excuse,” she said, chin up, stubborn. “I won’t admit to something I never did. Not in a million years.”
“That dress is my design. It’s my work, my blood and sweat — I couldn’t—” Her voice broke off. Tears spilled down in big, hot drops.
Being suspected by the people closest to her hurt more than she had imagined. The sharp, bitter tide of humiliation and sorrow rose in her throat and left her tasting iron.
She swallowed, squeezing the tremor from her voice. “Xixi, I’m sorry for what happened to you today. I feel for you. But this has nothing to do with me. If you’re pleased that my parents might think worse of me, then — congratulations. You’ve succeeded.”
She tried to force a laugh; her lips trembled but the arc never came. Jiang Xixi flinched, a guilty flicker crossing her features for a single second before she sobbed louder.
“You think everyone is like you?” Xixi snapped between hiccuping cries. “I’m not that calculating — I wouldn’t go to such lengths to play games!”