In An Ning's opinion, a perfect morning began with silence—preferably the kind unbroken by the tyranny of alarms.
It was made even by the fact that she was lying on her super-sized bed—large enough for two or three versions of herself to roll around comfortably.
And the finishing touch? Breakfast, where all she had to do was decide what cuisine she wanted, then wait for the family's chefs to bring it to life.
This life of depraved luxury—
the kind others envied and novels romanticised—
was now hers.
She was now part of the group people mocked with disdain—
and just a hint of envy—
the filthy rich.
It wasn't as if she'd never lived like this before. Before she transmigrated, she was at the peak of her career, luxury had been something she'd earned.
Through sleepless nights on set.
Through endless reshoots under blinding lights.
Through every glass she raised at industry dinners she hadn't wanted to attend—each sip another price of survival.
But this?
This comfort hadn't come from effort—at least not her effort.
It had been handed to her, wrapped in silk sheets and affection.
There were no contracts to fight over, no tabloids to dodge, no directors to please.
Only people who loved her—too much, perhaps—and a home that felt almost too gentle, too careful, as if afraid she might break.
An Ning stared up at the chandelier above her, light scattering like fragments of glass.
Fine. Not her, but the original An Ning.
The quiet stretched. Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, warm and forgiving.
And then—
[Ding! Aftermath of Han Yichen's scandal]
An Ning exhaled through her nose. "Of course."
The little melon materialised mid-air, bobbing excited above her blanket.
"Host! You won't believe this! Han Yichen's scandal is everywhere! Every channel, every platform—it's trending number one ever since the live-broadcast ended!"
An Ning blinked up at the ceiling. "Isn't that supposed to be expected?"
The little melon nodded so hard its crown nearly fell off. "Hashtags, compilation, remixes! Someone even made a slow-motion clip of the cake smash with dramatic music—people are calling it the 'sweetest revenge."
An Ning hummed. "Appropriately so."
"Oh, and get this—his company just issued a statement saying that they 'deeply regret any oversight.' Netizens are dissecting every word!"
"That," An Ning said, sitting up and stretching, "is the problem with other people's talent—It never fits quite as neatly as your own."
[Ding! Ongoing Consequence Detected!]
[+ 10 Luck Value]
[Current Luck Value: 15]
"Not bad," An Ning said with a faint smile. "At fifteen, I might finally get a hot shower this time instead of another test of endurance."
The same morning sunlight spilled elsewhere—through half-drawn blinds, onto a desk scattered with untouched takeout and silence thick enough to drown in.
Han Yichen sat there, unshaven, still in yesterday's clothes.
His phone lay face-down beside him—its screen lighting up now and then, as if the world refused to notice he'd already gone quiet.
Somewhere, his name was still trending.
Somewhere, fans were deleting posts faster than they'd once praised him.
Somewhere, everything that he'd built had crumbled into ash.
His company blamed him—for money wasted, the contracts suspended, the album that would never see daylight.
His manager blamed him—for being careless, for not burning the right drafts, for trusting the wrong woman.
His fans blamed him too—because betrayal was always teh hardest when it came from someone you'd believed was perfect.
And Han Yichen?
He blamed everyone else.
Because in his mind, he had only taken what the world already owed him.
But now—who cared?
Survival of the fittest.
And he was no longer among them.
This day of well-deserved rest—courtesy of Han Yichen.
After all, it was impossible to continue filming after that confrontation.
No one was in the mood anyway—not the cast, not the crew, and certainly not the director, whose soul had visibly left his body between "Cut!" and "We're still live."
He'd tried to salvage the schedule, of course—mumbling something about "adjusted timelines" and "temporary hiatuses"—but in the end, even he had to admit defeat.
And so, with the weary resignation of a man clinging to his sanity, he'd waved them off.
Everyone could "go home early," he'd said.
An Ning considered that the most sensible decision he'd ever made.
After breakfast, she'd decided to explore the house.
By her own standards, she'd been remarkably productive.
She had watched a movie in the private screening room with perfectly sweetened popcorn and a glass of Coke that never seemed to lose its fizz.
She had lounged by the pool while attendants handed her drinks in tall, frosted glasses—the kind that made even water feel like luxury.
And she'd tried the spa room next, where a butler politely asked if she preferred rose, lavender, or any other scent they could concoct on a whim—as though fragrance itself were a matter of imagination.
After all that, she'd found a cozy corner and settled in, wondering whether this level of idleness counted as spiritual healing—or the first signs of early-stage decadence.
Before she could come to a conclusion, there was a polite knock at the door.
The butler's voice floated in, gentle but practiced.
"Miss, dinner will be served shortly."
An Ning sighed, stretching like a cat who had done absolutely nothing all day—and done it exceptionally well.
Everyone was already seated when An Ning arrived at the dinning room—except her youngest brother who was, unfortunately, still staying in school.
"Ning ning," her mother called softly.
Her gaze swept over her from head to toe, lingering just long enough for emotion to catch up with composure.
"Didn't they feed you well on set?" she asked. "You've lost weight."
Ah—the ever popular phrase.
No matter the era, no matter the world, mothers seemed born with an instinct to measure love in weights.
"It's only been a week," An Ning said lightly. "I'm quite certain I weigh the same as before I left for filming."
Her mother frowned, unconvinced. "No, I am certain you lost weight."
Across the table, her father folded the newspaper—a subtle but unmistakeable sign of attention.
"You're back now," he said mildly. "Work can wait. Stay home for a few days."
"Unfortunately, I have to go back to the company tomorrow for a meeting with my manager," An Ning sighed.
She had already begun to miss this day—the rare luxury of doing absolutely nothing, unless one counted contemplating life as a form of labour.
Dinner at the An residence that night was far livelier than usual—largely because its quietest member had, for once, decided not to be quiet.
Her parents exchanged glances, the kind that said something's different, though neither dared to name it aloud.
The original An Ning had been polite to a fault—soft-spoken, agreeable and so restrained that even laughter had seemed like a carefully measured act.
But perhaps it was only natural. After all, the original An Ning had only just been accepted back into the An family—after spending the first twenty-four years of her life as an orphan.
However to the current An Ning, that kind of caution felt foreign—almost too painful to inhabit.
Love, she thought, should have been warm, not something one had to tiptoe through like a room full of glass.
And yet, when she saw the way the original An Ning's parents looked at her now—careful, gentle, as if afraid a single wrong word might drive her away again—she almost understood why she had been so restrained.
It wasn't the fear of rejection.
It wasn't even the fear of not belonging.
It was the fear of being too much, too soon, after a lifetime of not belonging anywhere at all.
Most people feared reaching for the light after emerging from darkness—
because sometimes, brightness hurt more than shadow ever could.
After all, one only learns how to love
once she had been loved.
Fortunately for her, An Ning had known love.
Despite being an orphan herself, she had met good people—friends who had stayed, who had taught her kindness, laughter, and they were generous with their love.
Unfortunately, for the original An Ning,
she was only just about to learn how to love herself.
A soft clatter of porcelain pulled her back.
Her mother was reaching for the soup ladle, her father reminding her to eat before it got cold.
Warm laughter ripped across the table—familiar, unhurried, and almost startling in its simplicity.
For a brief moment, An Ning simply watched them,
a quiet smile tugging at her lips.
An Ning understood now why the original An Ning hadn't wanted this second chance at life.
Because this family had been too good—too kind, too giving—and she had known she would be powerless to stop the tragedy waiting at the end of their story.
The original An Ning had made a choice, a desperate kind of faith—entrusting her fate, and this family's future, to her hands.
An Ning lowered her gaze, the quiet murmur of dinner conversation washing over her—soft, ordinary, and achingly precious.
She would see to it that this trust was not misplaced.
Whatever fate had written for the An family,
she would rewrite it.