Liu Fenfang paced the length of her small apartment, her heels clicking irritably against the scuffed tiles. The potted plant in the corner had withered, mirroring the tension in the room.
"I don't understand," she muttered for the third time, flipping through a slim address book. "I RSVPed weeks in advance. I always attend the Chamber of Cultural Advancement meetings."
"But you weren't on the final list," said Shen Yimin, not bothering to look up from his papers. "Take the hint, Fenfang."
"A hint? Are you joking? You think I'm just going to roll over because of some silent treatment?" Her voice pitched upward, brittle with frustration. "They're treating me like an outsider again!"
Shen Yimin finally glanced at her. "That's because you are one. You forget yourself too often."
Liu Fenfang's mouth fell open, but no retort came. Not because she didn't have one, but because it stung too close to the truth.
She turned away and grabbed her purse. "I'm going to talk to Madame Qian at the poetry society. She owes me a favor."
"You mean she used to take your gifts."
Liu Fenfang slammed the door behind her.
—
The poetry society's courtyard garden was brimming with irises and laughter, but the laughter hushed slightly when Liu Fenfang entered. Women with painted nails and silk fans turned their heads just enough to avoid acknowledging her.
Madame Qian, an older woman with a hawk-like gaze and robes that always smelled faintly of jasmine, smiled thinly as Fenfang approached.
"Comrade Liu," she greeted coolly. "What brings you today?"
"I came to inquire about this weekend's symposium. I haven't received the program sheet yet."
Madame Qian's smile didn't waver. "We decided to keep this one small—only those with ongoing mentorship work were invited."
Fenfang blinked. "But I've submitted two poems and helped organize last month's exhibit!"
"Yes," Madame Qian said, tilting her head. "And that effort was… noted."
The implication stung like vinegar in a paper cut. Fenfang forced a brittle laugh. "Surely this has nothing to do with that luncheon… I mean, everyone seemed to enjoy the poetry."
Madame Qian's fan paused mid-wave. "Comrade Liu. One must know the difference between being present and being welcome."
That night, Liu Fenfang tore the silk bow off her best handbag and cursed under her breath.
"It's Jia Lan's fault," she hissed, pacing again. "She must have said something. She's turning people against me."
Shen Yimin didn't bother responding.
So she tried a new approach.
—
Two days later, Liu Fenfang "bumped into" Xu Li near the East Market, arms full of produce, her hair perfectly curled.
"Oh! Sister Xu! What a coincidence!" she chirped.
Xu Li gave her a languid once-over. "Mm. Is it?"
Fenfang ignored the cold tone. "I've been meaning to reach out. You know, clear up any misunderstandings. I think things between me and Lan Lan got… tangled."
Xu Li smiled sweetly. "Lan Lan didn't mention any tangling. She's too busy with real affairs."
Fenfang flushed. "Still, I thought maybe we could—"
But Xu Li cut her off, voice sharp beneath the sweetness. "Let me be direct, Comrade Liu. No one in our family appreciates social maneuvering dressed as friendship. And if you attempt to use our Lan Lan to elevate yourself again, I won't be the one to warn you next time."
She turned gracefully, leaving Liu Fenfang standing amid wilting radishes and plum bruises.
—
That evening, Liu Fenfang flung open her wardrobe, pulling out dresses, scarves, and makeup boxes in a frenzy.
"She thinks I'll just fade away?" she snapped to her reflection. "She thinks she can step on me?"
She pulled out her best cheongsam—the one with the gold-thread phoenix. If people wanted spectacle, she'd give them spectacle.
"Let's see how refined she looks when I outshine her at the Lantern Festival."
She didn't notice the way her voice trembled—or how Shen Yimin shut the door to his study just a little too hard.
Liu Fenfang sat in front of her vanity, swiping on rouge with quick, angry strokes. Her fingers trembled slightly as she applied the final touches—gold earrings, a lacquered hair comb, and the phoenix cheongsam she'd been saving for a moment of triumph.
"This time," she muttered, staring at her reflection, "I'll be the one they look at."
But the silk, though bright, was snug at the seams, and the phoenix embroidery twisted oddly when she moved. Her cheeks, too flushed, betrayed her desperation no matter how expensive the powder.
Behind her, Shen Yimin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "This is unnecessary," he said coolly.
Liu Fenfang spun around. "You're just jealous you're not the one invited."
"I was invited," he said flatly. "I chose not to make a fool of myself."
Her lip curled, but she turned back to the mirror.
This wasn't about love or loyalty. This was about image, visibility, belonging.
And if Jia Lan wouldn't move out of her way—then she would just have to shine so brightly, the crowd couldn't help but look.
Even if it scorched her in the process.