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With a well-placed glance, Madam Su ensured that every servant and attendant now saw Yulan as the true daughter—whose sorrow was not an act, but a reflection of her pure heart
Shen Yulan, still on her knees, instinctively lowered her head in quiet agreement, her swollen eyes redder than before, as though her tears were endless, her grief genuine. She choked back another sob, her hand clutched at her chest in an exaggerated display of sorrow, her lip quivering as if the weight of her father's condition was too much for her to bear.
Her voice, soft and trembling, broke through the quiet: "Father... please don't leave us..."
Her words were sweet, innocent, and entirely believable. As Yulan's sobs intensified, a few maids in the room exchanged looks, their faces filled with sympathy. Even the physician hesitated again, his attention momentarily divided between the two sisters—one weeping with unrestrained, dramatic grief, and the other, the picture of quiet concern.
Yet it was Madam Su who led the scene. She looked at Shen Yuhan, her gaze colder now, as if she could see through the act—too well-practiced, too loud to be truly convincing. The corner of her lips twitched in something like frustration before she turned her full attention back to Shen Yulan, ensuring that no one in the room questioned her motherly authority.
For now, the attention was firmly on Yulan, the obedient daughter who cried not for the eyes of others, but for the love of her father. The room, once captivated by Shen Yuhan's act, was now swept up in the purity of Yulan's sorrow. Everyone moved with the rhythm of this orchestrated shift—physician included—now focusing their energy on the youngest daughter who was so tragically concerned.
The balance had shifted. The sympathy, the pity—Yulan had regained what she believed was rightfully hers.
Shen Yulan's eyes glinted, though she kept her gaze lowered, her shoulders trembling delicately in a continued show of sorrow. Yet beneath the surface of those grief-filled sobs, a quiet triumph surged in her chest. She had done it—turned the tide, reclaimed the stage.
Her lashes fluttered, and she dared a sidelong glance toward Shen Yuhan, lips twitching ever so slightly in a shadow of a smile that never fully formed. The message in her eyes was clear—see? No matter how wild your cries or how desperate your kneeling, in the end, I am the one they believe. I am the one they pity.
Her gaze said it all: You might act the part, but I was born for it.
The faintest shimmer of satisfaction gleamed behind her tears, concealed beneath the veil of a dutiful daughter. Her victory, though small and subtle, pulsed sweetly in her chest like a whispered promise—She will always be the outcast, and I, the true pearl of the Shen family.
How could Shen Yuhan not understand what that glance meant? That smug curl at the corner of Shen Yulan's lips, the faint shimmer of gloating in her gaze—it was all too clear. And Shen Yuhan had to admit, Su Wanning was truly skilled. With just a few gentle, well-timed words, she had seized the narrative and wrapped it tightly around her favored daughter like silk.
Still kneeling, Shen Yuhan lowered her head, biting her lower lip just enough to draw the taste of copper. The pain helped fuel the tears welling in her eyes again, though this time they were a mix of frustration and icy calculation.
Then, just as Su Wanning turned her attention elsewhere, Shen Yuhan's voice rang out—soft, breathless, but perfectly timed.
"Yes. Mother is right. Second Sister is truly considerate towards Father," she said, her voice quivering with what sounded like self-reproach. "Unlike me, who never knew how to be filial and always made Father angry…"
She sniffled, her shoulders trembling delicately as she reached up to dab at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. "Of course," she added with an airy, broken laugh, "I will do whatever it takes to show Father how deeply I regret my past actions. He must be in so much pain…"
Her voice faded, leaving a heavy silence in its wake—one that settled over the entire room like a fog.
Several of the gathered servants looked at her with conflicted expressions—some with pity, others with dawning sympathy. Even the physician furrowed his brow slightly, as if unsure which daughter's sorrow was more genuine.
And though Shen Yuhan's words were humble, her tone carried a subtle sting—an insinuation that made Su Wanning's praise of Shen Yulan feel suddenly forced, maybe even a little biased.
Shen Yulan's lips tightened again. She exchanged a glance with her mother.
Even Su Wanning felt a frustration bubbling inside her heart. How could this wretch girl become so smart and so cunning in a matter of few days? She would not let this stand, not when the attention had shifted so abruptly.
The room, the servants, and even the physician all seemed to fall under Shen Yuhan's spell, but Su Wanning would not let her this wretched girl steal what was rightfully her precious daughter's.
Su Wanning forced her smile to remain soft as she turned to Shen Yuhan, her voice gentle but edged with subtle censure. "Yuhan, my dear, you mustn't speak so harshly of yourself. Your father always worried about you because he cared deeply. Of course he did. It's just that… well, his heart aches when he sees you suffer. Perhaps if you were more steady, more gentle like your Second Sister…"
The implication hung in the air, cloaked in kindness but sharp as a blade.
At her side, Shen Yulan lowered her lashes and let another tear slip down her cheek—silent, poised, graceful. Her hands trembled as she clutched at the bed curtain, whispering, "Father, please… don't leave us…"
And just like that, a few eyes began to drift back toward her.
It was a tug of war now—grief turned into performance, sorrow sharpened into weaponry.
But Shen Yuhan was far from finished.