The morning light, like molten amber, flowed gently and slowly through the tranquility of the "Chronological Restoration Studio." The air was filled with a unique scent blending sandalwood and aged paper—the smell of time carefully sealed away. Su Qingyuan leaned over her workbench, a quiet sculpture, her entire focus concentrated on her fingertips.
She was working on a fragment of a Ming Dynasty local chronicle; the worm-eaten, mold-damaged paper was as fragile as a butterfly's wings. Holding a pair of special flat-tipped tweezers, she moved with the slowness of a breath, returning a curled, raised fiber no larger than a grain of rice to its original position. Her gaze was intense, and her world narrowed down to the texture of the paper, the depth of the ink, and the scars of history. On the workbench, her long-time companions—slender tweezers, scrapers of varying curves, and a smooth bone press—glowed with a silent, reliable sheen under the lamp. In this moment, she was a healer of time, a guardian of history, her heart filled with a near-sacred peace and contentment.
Yet—
This deep-seated tranquility was shattered, without warning, in the pause between one heartbeat and the next.
Sight, hearing, smell, touch... All sensory signals were brutally switched and overwritten in an instant. The workbench, the fragment, and the tools before her twisted and merged like an oil painting doused in turpentine, collapsing into a blinding darkness before being forcefully replaced by a new scene.
The reassuring ink fragrance was replaced by the cold, heavy scent of mahogany furniture and a faint, stale perfume that carried hints of rust and authority. The warm side light gave way to the cold, pale glow of a massive ceiling chandelier. She was no longer sitting; instead, she stood in the center of an extraordinarily spacious, high-ceilinged room dominated by dark mahogany.
A cold, slippery sensation came from beneath her feet—it was an expensive yet unwelcoming hand-woven Persian carpet. An invisible, heavy sense of oppression pressed in from all sides: from the towering mahogany bookshelves that loomed like silent giants, from the sharp-eyed portraits of the Shen family's past leaders on the walls, their frames glinting with metallic cold. At the center of the room, a 2.2-meter rosewood desk lay like a dormant beast of power. On the left side of the desk, an exquisitely bound document with a gilded cover lay open—The Double Agreement. On the right, a silver fountain pen (its cap engraved with the intricate Shen family crest) and a minimalist-designed miniature monitor (its lens staring at her like a dark, deep eye) sat side by side. A faint red indicator light on the monitor flickered rhythmically in the shadow of the curio shelf, like a secretive heartbeat.
"Miss Du, Qin Zhong showed you the agreement last night, didn't he? Sign it if there are no issues."
A cold, toneless voice—yet heavy with unshakable authority—hit the carpet like a chunk of ice, a dull thud that still rang in the ears. Su Qingyuan—or rather, from soul to body, she was now a vessel forced to take on the identity of "Du Ying"—jerked her head up toward the sound.
Shen Zhenting. The ruler of the Shen family, the sole decision-maker behind the "Double Plan." He sank into a wide leather armchair, his body leaning back slightly with the relaxed ease of someone who had held power for decades. At sixty-five, his temples were touched with carefully groomed hoary white, and he wore a dark gray haute couture suit ironed to perfection without a single wrinkle. Most striking was the emerald ring of intense green on his left ring finger—its deep hue glowed dimly under the cold light, silently declaring unparalleled power and control. His eyes, which betrayed no emotion, were fixed on her. His left index finger, resting on the edge of the desk, tapped the polished surface in a precise, heart-wrenching rhythm: once per second.
Thud.Thud.Thud.
This sound eerily merged with the heavy, slow "tick-tock" of a vintage 1920s wall clock in the corner of the room. Each beat seemed to strike directly at Du Ying's exposed nerves, amplifying the suffocating feeling of this "invisible cage" to its limit.
Instinctively, she clenched the cotton fabric of her off-white dress tightly. The rough texture helped her regain a sliver of clarity from the violent disorientation of time and space. The memories of Su Qingyuan, a top modern cultural relic restorer, and the fate of Du Ying—the orphan from The Heiress Double: The Bloody Marriage Contract—clashed and merged like two violent torrents of metal in her mind. She clearly remembered that in the original story, the moment this seemingly glamorous agreement was signed, Du Ying became a caged bird stripped of all autonomy, eventually discarded like trash amid the family's power struggles.
She couldn't sign it! At the very least, she couldn't sign it so easily!
Forcing herself to lower her head, her gaze—guided by an invisible thread—raced over the dense clauses of the agreement: "Must accept 24/7 accompaniment by Shen Mansion's personal servants," "Prohibited from accessing Shen family antiques and core areas (including the attic and AI laboratory)..." Every word was a carefully woven chain. Even more chilling was the fact that there was no blank space at the end of the agreement for "additional terms," a tyrannical declaration that no negotiations would be tolerated.
At the same time, within three seconds of entering the room, Su Qingyuan's professional instincts had been fully activated. Her peripheral vision, like the most precise scanner, had silently locked onto three surveillance points: the shadow in the upper left corner of the curio shelf, an imperceptible gap under the desk, and a tiny hole above the doorframe disguised as decoration. Omnipresent surveillance and a non-negotiable document—this was no agreement; it was a carefully decorated indenture.
Pressure, like a tangible, thick liquid, wrapped around her and squeezed her chest. It was the instinct to survive, and the most primal desire for freedom, that gave birth to a tiny bud of resistance in the soil of despair.
Just then, her left thumb unconsciously rubbed hard against the small patch of hard, slightly uneven callus on the side of her middle finger—a mark from years of holding carving tools.
That tiny, insignificant touch!
It was like a one-of-a-kind key, inserted and turned in a lock deep within her soul. A familiar sense of certainty, unique to Su Qingyuan, spread like cold spring water from the point of contact, piercing through the panic and chaos that filled Du Ying's body. Her thoughts, which had been scattered by fear, were gathered and settled by an invisible force. The core creed of a restorer—"Restoration is tracing origins"—meaning not only repairing the form of an object, but also tracing its roots from the tiniest traces and most unusual details to find a crack to break free—reclaimed absolute control over her consciousness.
She lifted her gaze again. This time, she looked past the suffocating agreement, past Shen Zhenting's imposing face, and fixed her eyes precisely on the most prominent spot on the curio shelf behind the desk—a bronze pattern plate about half a foot tall. Its surface was covered with incredibly detailed, intricate patterns that glowed with a dark, ancient metallic luster under the cold light. On the edge of its base, there seemed to be an extremely faint triangular scratch that clashed with the overall pattern.
That's it! In the original story, this was the core object hiding the highest encryption key for the Shen Group's AI project—and the critical bargaining chip the Shen family was eager to gift to the Luo family in exchange for the rare medicine to treat their real daughter, Shen Zhiyi!
A bold, meticulous plan to break free—one that walked a knife's edge—took shape instantly in her calm mind, awakened by the "calluses on her fingertips." She had to exploit the Shen family's greatest weakness at this moment: their extreme fear that the "Double Plan" would be exposed, disrupting the marriage alliance with the Luo family and thus dooming Shen Zhiyi's chance of survival. Only then could she pry open a tiny crack for herself.
She didn't take the silver fountain pen that Qin Zhong had silently handed to her—a symbol of submission and branding.
Qin Zhong, the head butler of the Shen Mansion and Shen Zhenting's most trusted enforcer. He was around forty, wearing a black butler's uniform that fit like a second skin, with the Shen family crest embroidered in silver thread on his cuffs, every stitch perfect. His left hand clutched a black leather notebook tightly. His gaze, like the most precise detection equipment, remained locked on Du Ying's hands, guarding against any attempt to hide a recording device or tiny tool.
Instead, Du Ying looked up,her eyes fixed timidly on the bronze plate. Her voice was soft and gentle, with a hint of uncertainty: "Granduncle, this plate... its shape is simple and ancient, and the patterns look like they're from the Qing Dynasty craftsmanship? Back in my hometown, I learned a little about antiques from my grandfather. Wouldn't it be a pity if such a precious thing is left here to gather dust?"
Shen Zhenting's tapping finger paused, almost imperceptibly. A flash of surprise—gone in an instant—crossed his bottomless eyes. Clearly, he hadn't expected this orphan, described in the background check as "ignorant and timid," to speak about antiques. But his long-held authority quickly suppressed that flicker of emotion, and his tone turned even colder and harsher, with the impatience of swatting away a mosquito: "Don't ask about things that don't concern you. Sign the paper—Shen family antiques are none of an outsider's business."
Du Ying followed his lead immediately. Her fingertips trembled slightly—just the right amount—as she brushed gently over the cold words "personal servant accompaniment" in the agreement. Her tone was filled with cautious worry: "Granduncle, I don't mean to meddle. It's just... I'm slow and shy around strangers. I'm really afraid of troubling the servant sisters. Besides... if people outside find out that the Shen family needs to 'personally attend' to a distant relative who's come to stay, they'll inevitably guess: 'Is the real Shen daughter seriously ill, forcing the family to find an excuse to cover it up?' If... if this reaches the ears of the Luo family, who we're about to form an alliance with, it will only harm the marriage. I'd never be able to atone for that..."
"How dare you mention Zhiyi?" Shen Zhenting's fingers, which had been resting on the desk, tightened suddenly, his knuckles turning white. His tone dropped to freezing point, and his gaze, sharp as a tangible ice pick, stabbed straight at her.
Du Ying immediately bowed her head deeply, her shoulders hunching slightly to look frightened. But her words were as clear as if carved into the air: "I wouldn't dare! It's just... I'm afraid that because of me, I'll bring unnecessary rumors to you and the Shen family. If I live alone in the second-floor guest room, without a servant accompanying me personally, Steward Qin only needs to make a routine check every hour. This way, it won't interfere with your arrangements, and it will make outsiders think 'the Shen family treats their relatives with kindness and generosity.' Isn't that the best of both worlds? What do you think, Granduncle?"
The study fell into a silence even more dead than before. Only the unrelenting "tick-tock" of the vintage wall clock and the almost inaudible hum of the monitor's rhythmically flickering indicator light lingered in the empty space, stretching every second into an endless torment. Du Ying could clearly feel Qin Zhong's scrutiny and evaluation, like a searchlight, fixed firmly on her.
Shen Zhenting was silent for a full five seconds—seconds that felt long enough for the potted plant on the desk to sprout new shoots. His imposing gaze lingered on the top of Du Ying's bowed head, then swept over the pattern plate on the curio shelf, and finally fell back on the agreement.
Finally, he spoke again. His voice held no hint of emotion—only pure weighing of interests: "What do you want? Don't push your luck."
Du Ying knew this was the moment that would decide the direction of her fate. She took a silent deep breath and rubbed her thumb hard against the callus on her fingertip again. That hard touch was like a weight that forced her churning heart to calm down. She lifted her eyes, trying her best to keep her gaze clear and sincere, and spoke her well-thought-out, step-by-step plan:
"Granduncle, I only want to be obedient and not cause trouble for the family. I beg you to add two notes to the agreement: First, I will live alone in the west guest room on the second floor, without any personal servant accompaniment. Steward Qin can make a routine check every hour according to your instructions to ensure safety and compliance. Second, I can help the family organize some non-core old items—like these damp, brittle thread-bound books in the study," she said, her gaze earnest as it fell on the moldy-smelling bookshelf next to the desk. "I can repair them using the simple methods I learned from my grandfather back home. That way, we can save the trouble and expense of hiring an outside restorer."
She deliberately paused here, as if summoning up her courage, before dropping the carefully wrapped "bomb" that struck directly at the heart of the matter: "Granduncle, you might not know this, but outside restorers... their skills vary greatly. Last year, a respected family in my hometown hired an outside master to repair their genealogy. But that person had sticky fingers—he secretly copied several key pages that recorded the family's secrets. Later, it became a scandal known to everyone, and it almost ruined the family's reputation... I was just thinking, what if the old books in the Shen family also contain family records or correspondence that shouldn't be seen by outsiders? If someone unrelated gets their hands on them, the consequences... Just thinking about it makes me terrified, Granduncle."
These words perfectly packaged her real purpose of "touching old items" as "loyalty and caution for the sake of the family's information security." They hit precisely at two of Shen Zhenting's most sensitive spots: his extreme protectiveness of "family privacy" and his absolute commitment to "protecting the marriage alliance's reputation."
"You are not allowed to touch the antiques!" Shen Zhenting interrupted almost immediately, his tone firm and unyielding, marking an inviolable boundary. "You don't need to worry about organizing the old books either—the Shen family has professional servants for that."
Du Ying cut in at once, humbling herself as much as possible while blocking any chance of refusal: "Granduncle, rest assured! I would never dare to touch any of the treasures on the curio shelf! I will only organize the thread-bound books within the scope designated by Steward Qin, and I will follow every item on the list he provides step by step. I would never dare to cross the line!"
Just then, Qin Zhong—who had been standing silently like a shadow—stepped forward half a pace. He looked down at his black notebook, his voice low and steady, yet loud enough for everyone in the study to hear: "Master, the representative from the Luo family in charge of the pattern plate handover will arrive the morning after tomorrow. At this critical juncture, if any gossip spreads about 'the Shen family excessively monitoring a distant relative,' the Luo family... will inevitably have unnecessary doubts and misgivings. From this subordinate's perspective, Miss Du's proposal does not affect the family's established surveillance and security measures, and it can also create a reputation of being kind to subordinates to the outside world. It may indeed be beneficial for the smooth handover of the pattern plate later."
He took no sides, merely stating the pros and cons calmly. And the "stakes" he pointed out were the one price Shen Zhenting absolutely could not afford: the marriage alliance with the Luo family was tied to Shen Zhiyi's life—it could not be jeopardized.
Shen Zhenting's gaze snapped to Qin Zhong, sharp with scrutiny and consideration: "Do you think she's trustworthy?"
Qin Zhong's tone remained steady and unemotional, with no hint of personal bias: "If we implement the revised inspection schedule strictly, checking the room's status every hour, she won't be able to cause any trouble. Besides, her background is clean and simple—she's just an orphan with no family or connections. Even if she does have other intentions, with the Shen family's control, she'll never be able to break free."
Another heart-wrenching silence followed. Shen Zhenting's gaze returned to Du Ying, heavy as a thousand jin, as if trying to shatter her pretense and peer into the deepest secrets of her soul. Du Ying summoned all the focus and calm Su Qingyuan used when restoring national treasures, struggling to maintain the determination in her eyes and the obedience on her face. She held his gaze steadily, enduring this trial of her soul.
In the end, Shen Zhenting seemed to make a choice between the two sides of the scale: absolute control over this "tool" and the urgent need to save his granddaughter. His fingers left the desk completely, stopping their tapping. He said coldly: "The notes can be added. But the scope is limited to thread-bound books. The range of antiques she is allowed to approach will be strictly defined by Qin Zhong. The inspection times and frequency will follow Qin Zhong's plan—" He paused, his gaze locking onto Du Ying like a falcon's. "Don't let me catch you playing any tricks."
He picked up the heavy silver fountain pen. Its nib scraped across the open blank rice paper, making a rustling sound that decided Du Ying's short-term fate. Qin Zhong stepped forward immediately and wrote the additional clauses neatly according to Shen Zhenting's instructions.
When the agreement—now with the notes "lives alone" and "assists in organizing non-core old items (limited to thread-bound books)"—was finally pushed in front of Du Ying, she took the cold fountain pen.
The pen's barrel was icy cold, a stark contrast to the warmth accumulated in her palm from her calluses. She deliberately held the pen with her right hand, adjusting to a slightly stiff posture. Her wrist moved with unnatural hesitation, making every stroke as steady and even as possible—completely concealing Su Qingyuan's smooth, rhythmic handwriting, which came from being left-handed. When the two characters "Du Ying" were finally written on the paper, she thought silently: This is the first step to survival.
Shen Zhenting took the agreement, flipped through it quickly to confirm the notes were correct, and handed it to Qin Zhong for filing. He gave Du Ying one last look, his tone a warning without a hint of warmth: "Be obedient, and the Shen family will not treat you badly. Thirty million will be paid quarterly. If anything goes wrong, you won't get a single cent."
"Thank you, Granduncle. I'll remember your teachings and cooperate well." Du Ying bowed her head and replied meekly.
As she left the study, Qin Zhong followed behind her. Du Ying could clearly hear the "rustle" of his pen sliding across the paper as he flipped through his notebook. It sounded like the drawing of a new, invisible surveillance wall around the tiny territory of freedom she had just fought for.
At the door, Du Ying turned back unconsciously. Her gaze passed over Shen Zhenting's cold profile and fell on the bronze pattern plate again. A dark luster flowed over its surface, and the triangular scratch was like a silent riddle.
"This is the pattern plate hiding the AI key... At least I've avoided the surveillance trap Shen Manni set up in the name of a tutor." She thought silently. A faint glimmer of hope, like a candle flame in the wind, burned tenaciously. "Next... I need to find that tutor, Lin Wei—someone else who's pushed aside. Maybe she can be an ally."
Qin Zhong stood beside her, his tone as rigid and meticulous as always: "Miss Du, the west guest room on the second floor will be ready tomorrow. I'll have someone send the list of old books to your room this afternoon. The old bookshelf in the study is in the east area, far from the curio shelf. Please make sure to stay within the designated area and not wander off."
Du Ying stopped, turned around, and gave Qin Zhong a smile that suited her identity as an "orphan"—one that held a hint of gratitude and timidity: "Thank you, Steward Qin. I'll follow the list and your instructions strictly. I won't touch anything I shouldn't."
Her tone was gentle and obedient, but her eyes, in a moment of inattention, etched the position of the surveillance camera in the corridor outside the study door into her mind once more.
The chess game for survival had only just placed its first piece.