That morning, as usual, An Ran waited before she was even allowed to eat.
The dining table was long and polished to the point where the chandelier above cast distorted lights across its surface. Silver trays and porcelain bowls covered it—steaming dumplings, congee, pickled vegetables, dishes that would have made anyone's stomach growl. But to her, they were just ornaments. Food that always looked perfect, never meant to comfort. She sat quietly, hands folded on her lap, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose.
The maid passed by, setting down a new pot of soup, her expression cold and perfunctory, as though An Ran were invisible. She never smiled. She never spoke. Only moved in silence, her eyes empty.
By the window, Mrs. An's voice was low but sharp on a business call. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed her silhouette, tall and commanding. A black fitted skirt clung to her slim form, the slit in the back revealing the deliberate arch of her heels. Her blouse was crisp, ivory, sleeves buttoned to her wrist. On her lips—red, so vivid it looked cruel in the morning light.
Her aura was suffocating.
When she finally ended the call, Mrs. An didn't move immediately. She stayed at the window, the phone still in her hand, as though the silence itself was hers to command. Then, unhurriedly, she turned and walked toward the table. The sound of her heels echoed against marble floors. Click. Click. Click.
She sat down with her usual grace, her long neck tilting slightly as her eyes swept the dishes. Her face betrayed no hunger, no softness, only scrutiny. Taking up her chopsticks, she moved a single piece of food to her plate.
An Ran quickly followed suit.
"Come home early today. We have somewhere to be," Mrs. An said, her tone level and cold.
"Yes, Mum." An Ran lowered her head.
The meal was silent. Only the clatter of chopsticks and the faint hum of city traffic beyond the glass accompanied them.
When they finished, the driver opened the door of a gleaming black car. Mrs. An entered first, already pulling out her laptop, the faint glow reflecting against her flawless, stone-carved face. She did not look at her daughter. She never did in these moments.
An Ran slid in beside her. She sat straight, though her body longed to curl in on itself. Her uniform was pressed neatly, but her long hair—dark and soft—fell slightly over her cracked glasses, which clung desperately to her small nose. The crack wasn't deep, but it glared at her like an exposed wound.
Her mother noticed.
"What happened to your glasses?" Mrs. An's eyes flicked to her, cold and sharp.
An Ran froze, air caught in her throat. She remembered the thud of her head against the classroom floor yesterday, Huang Ling's hand pressing her down until the glass had snapped against the ground.
"I… I dropped them," she whispered, stuttering.
Mrs. An's gaze lingered for a beat too long, then returned to her screen. She didn't press further. The silence that followed was heavier than accusation.
An Ran's hands curled into her skirt. She turned her face toward the window. Outside, the city blurred by, cars sleek and expensive, the kind of world where she felt like a ghost drifting between giants.
The car finally stopped in front of the school. It loomed tall, glass walls and modern architecture, pristine gardens trimmed like palace grounds. Expensive cars lined the entrance—black sedans, shining SUVs, imported sports cars. Students emerged with designer bags and polished shoes, their laughter sharp and confident.
This was a place for elites. For heirs and heiresses. The kind of place where teachers bowed their heads to parents, never daring to scold their children. A place that left her constantly trembling at the edges.
An Ran stepped out, her cracked glasses catching the morning sun. Her mother didn't glance up from her laptop as the door closed behind her. The car drove away, leaving her small figure standing at the gates.
---
By the time she entered the classroom, everyone else was already seated. A low murmur filled the air—students chatting, laughing, waiting for the first lesson to begin. Heads turned briefly as she walked in. Their eyes were sharp, some mocking, others indifferent.
The teacher, standing at the front, only gave her a slight nod, no reproach for her lateness. Teachers never did here. An Ran walked quickly to her seat, her heart beating faster under their gazes.
"Students," the teacher said, clearing her throat. "For next week's Literature assignment, you'll be preparing performances in groups of six. You may select any scene from the texts we've studied."
A ripple of excitement moved through the class.
The class erupted into a frenzy the moment the teacher announced groupings. Chairs scraped back, shoes scuffed against the polished floor, and voices overlapped in a chaotic scramble. Students were already flocking together, each choosing their own orbit — best friends clinging, alliances forming, the ambitious eyeing the smartest to secure their grades.
An Ran remained rooted to her seat. Her fingers dug into the wood of her desk as her pulse quickened. She knew this moment too well — the invisible wall that always went up around her when groups were formed. No one approached. No one asked. No one wanted her.
Her eyes flickered helplessly toward Lin Ruoyi's corner. The blonde bully was already laughing, tossing her hair as she and her circle drew in the center of attention. Beside her sat Jiang Cheng, effortlessly magnetic as always.
He didn't need to say anything — he just was. The tall posture, the faint smile playing at his lips, the natural light that seemed to fall on him alone. His shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, his movements unhurried, his gaze calm but unreadable. The golden boy of the class. Admired, envied, untouchable. Jiang Cheng was the type who didn't even need to try; perfection clung to him like a second skin.
And then—
"An Ran!"
The voice cut through the chatter. Heads turned.
Xu Haoran, the class president, leaned lazily back against a desk, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other pointing straight at her. A crooked grin tugged at his lips.
"My group's short one," he drawled, voice light but carrying. "Come save us, won't you?"
A ripple of laughter spread across the room. Some boys smirked, some girls giggled, others whispered behind their hands. An Ran felt heat crawl up her neck. Was he mocking her? Or—was this his way of including her?
Haoran tilted his head, dark eyes glinting with something she couldn't name. "Don't just sit there like a statue," he added with mock sternness, lips quirking upward. "President's orders."
Her stomach twisted. The attention pressed on her from all sides like a suffocating weight. But refusing would only make her stand out more.
So she stood, slowly, stiffly, her cracked glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of her nose. Every step toward him felt like wading through water. She could feel the stares burning into her skin.
By the time she reached Xu Haoran's desk, her shoulders were already hunched, her fingers gripping the straps of her bag tightly. He, on the other hand, greeted her arrival with a mock flourish, stepping aside as though welcoming royalty.
"See? Balance restored," he said lightly, shooting a wink at his teammates, his tone playful enough to draw a few more laughs.
Xu Haoran was every inch the opposite of Jiang Cheng's polished perfection. Where Jiang Cheng looked like he had stepped out of a textbook , clean lines, neat uniform, effortless composure , Haoran wore chaos like it was charm.
His dark brown hair curled in loose, untamed waves that brushed just over his brows, as if he had rolled out of bed and still managed to look annoyingly good. A small silver hoop glinted at the edge of his ear, paired with another piercing higher up. His tie hung loose, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the careless confidence of someone who never feared rules.
And yet, despite the rumors, the scandals whispered in hushed tones, the accusations of flirting with every girl who smiled his way, Xu Haoran still did his job. He carried the air of a troublemaker wrapped in a leader's coat — equal parts charm and menace, a contradiction people couldn't quite pin down.
"Relax, it's just a group project, not the end of the world," he murmured as An Ran slid awkwardly into the empty chair beside him. His tone was light, but his eyes lingered on her a moment too long , as though he was trying to read something behind her lowered lashes.
From across the room, Jiang Cheng's gaze flickered their way. For the briefest second, An Ran caught it, the calm, steady eyes of the golden boy landing on her. His expression didn't shift, not even slightly, but the look was enough to twist her insides.
Lin Ruoyi laughed at something beside him, her hand brushing his arm as if claiming territory. Jiang Cheng didn't push her away. He didn't encourage her either. He remained exactly as he always was: unbothered, enigmatic, a figure too perfect to decipher.
But to An Ran, in that instant, it felt like he had seen her.