It started with a flicker on a student forum.
Someone uploaded a blurry photo of Jason and Son Liying walking together—fingers interlaced, her head gently tilted toward his shoulder, the sunset casting a soft glow over their silhouettes. There was no caption. Just the image.
But it spread like wildfire.
By morning, whispers had turned to obsession.
Some claimed they'd been secretly dating. Others argued it was just a publicity stunt. Some didn't even recognize Liying and speculated she was some mystery heiress Jason had been hiding away.
But what most people noticed… was the look on her face.
Unposed. Unfiltered. Real.
It didn't seem strategic—it seemed sincere.
At the university, students were already gossiping between classes, in cafés, and across social feeds.
"Who is she?"
"She's gorgeous. Never says anything, though."
"I heard she's from one of those quiet families with old money."
"Jason looked different. Like, relaxed-different."
Then someone noticed the outfit.
The cut. The flow. The detailing.
There was no visible brand, no mainstream designer label.
"It looks like something she might've made," one user posted.
"Could be a custom job. The stitching's insane," another replied.
The rumor took off fast.
—
Back in her private studio, tucked behind a quiet lane off campus, Son Liying stood in silence.
The studio was small, but everything inside was arranged with purpose. Her tools were scattered across the table, sewing machine humming faintly in standby, and soft lamplight spilled over two mannequins in the center of the room.
Her dress was finished.
Jason's suit was finished.
They matched—intentionally. Not just in color, but in feel. His was tailored and sharp, hers elegant and flowing, but both carried the same quiet complexity in design. They belonged to the same moment. The same story.
Her story.
Their story.
She hadn't slept. Barely eaten. Her fingers had worked through the night, not out of pressure but purpose. Every stitch was a whisper of a feeling she didn't know how to say aloud.
But now… it was done.
She allowed herself a quiet breath and finally sat down, body heavy with exhaustion.
Then her phone buzzed.
A message. From Janet.
Janet: This you?
Attached was a screenshot of the trending photo.
Jason. Liying. That sunset.
Liying's tired eyes blinked slowly. She hesitated, then began typing.
Liying: …Yes.
Another message came fast.
Janet: Why didn't you say anything?
Janet: Since when are you two close?
Janet: You're seriously dating him?
Liying chewed the inside of her cheek. Then typed carefully:
Liying: We've been spending time together.
Liying: He's different from what I expected.
A pause.
Then Liying added, like it couldn't stay bottled up anymore:
Liying: I'm designing something for us. For an event.
Janet: You mean the Ball?
Liying nodded to herself and typed:
Liying: Yes. Grandfather gave us the tickets.
Liying: They're announcing the engagement soon.
Janet didn't respond right away.
Liying stared at the message window.
The blinking typing bubble appeared… then vanished. Appeared… vanished again.
Eventually, a short reply.
Janet: Engagement?
Liying: Our grandfathers already agreed.
Still no reply.
Liying let her phone rest on the table. The day was too long. The night had been longer. She grabbed her coat, turned off the lights, and quietly locked the door behind her.
She didn't know that it would be the last time she'd see those outfits the way she left them.
Meanwhile, across town, Janet stood staring at the same image on her phone—only she wasn't looking at Jason. She was staring at Liying.
Liying, the quiet little mouse of the family.
Liying, the girl who never spoke, never strutted, never even competed.
And yet here she was. Trending. Glowing. Admired.
And worse than all that?
She hadn't even tried.
Janet's stomach twisted.
She opened their message thread again and scrolled back to the part about the Ball.
The engagement.
The matching outfits.
Her fingernail snapped as she gripped her phone too tightly.
"Matching outfits," she whispered aloud, venom behind her smile.
She stormed away from her vanity and paced across the room.
She had spent years building herself up for this kind of attention. The right posture. The right filters. The right people. She'd curated her entire image to look like she belonged in the circles Jason walked through.
And now her mute little stepsister—who couldn't even speak for herself—was the one wearing the crown?
It felt like a joke. Like the universe was mocking her.
No.
Not happening.
She opened a private messaging app.
Tapped on a contact with no name. Just a red symbol.
Janet: Studio near the university. Sending the address.
Janet: Two outfits inside. A suit and a dress. Matching.
Janet: I want them ruined. Bleach, paint, scissors—whatever.
Janet: Tonight.
The reply came a few moments later.
Contact: Consider it done. You'll get a message when it's finished.
She put down her phone. Stared out her bedroom window at nothing in particular.
Her heart was racing, but her mind was steady.
Ruining the outfits wouldn't stop the engagement. Wouldn't erase the photo. But it would set her back. Knock her off her little pedestal. Maybe even shake her confidence enough to stop her from showing up.
She told herself it wasn't personal.
But it was.
By midnight, her phone buzzed again.
Contact: It's done.
She didn't smile. She didn't say thank you.
She locked the screen, turned off the lights, and slipped beneath the covers.
And in the darkness, Janet stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep—not because she felt guilty, but because part of her still wasn't sure if it was enough.