Here’s the English translation of the passage you provided. I’ve kept the tone polished and novel-like, so it reads smoothly in English while preserving the atmosphere of the original:
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Before long, the manager quietly approached Shen Zhaoyi, his expression deeply apologetic.
“Miss Shen, I’m terribly sorry. The shipment of Vietnamese mangoes was delayed by the typhoon, so we’re unable to serve mango sago tonight. May we replace the dessert with red bean soup instead?”
Shen Zhaoyi thought for a moment, whispered a few words to him, and the manager nodded quickly before hurrying away.
As the banquet drew to a close, Lan Yu grew impatient that Shen Zhaoyi still hadn’t made a move. Frustrated, he personally carried a glass of wine over to her, patting her shoulder.
At times, he thought she was exceptionally clever; at other times, unbearably slow. She would go to great lengths behind the scenes, fussing over every detail, yet she lacked the courage to simply step forward and say, “I’ve long admired you.”
Those nearby turned their heads at the sight, greeting Lan Yu warmly. Since he stayed, Shen Zhaoyi had no choice but to rise as well, take up her glass, and reluctantly follow him.
What she had imagined as a galaxy’s distance was, in truth, only a few short steps.
When Lan Yu led her over, Lu Yanzhou was still speaking with Shen Nian.
The Shen family’s casino empire reigned supreme in Jingshi, and the family’s ties to the Lu clan ran deep.
When the two men finished their exchange, Lan Yu finally said, “Yanzhou, this is Shen Zhaoyi.”
That evening, Lu Yanzhou had already endured countless such introductions and self-recommendations—beautiful faces, illustrious pedigrees, eager and reverent smiles.
He lifted his eyes with little interest, glanced briefly at Shen Zhaoyi, raised his glass out of courtesy, and that was the end of it. His gaze was calm, not lingering for even a second.
Shen Zhaoyi wasn’t surprised. She raised her glass in turn, greeted him politely with a simple, “Mr. Lu,” and did not speak further—not even a redundant self-introduction.
She didn’t feel particularly disappointed either. Lu Yanzhou had met too many people; she was neither the most beautiful nor the most remarkable.
Back in school, countless girls had written him love letters. Of course, he had never torn them up or tossed them away like some crude protagonist in a cheap novel—his upbringing and refinement would never allow that.
On the contrary, as far as Shen Zhaoyi knew, Lu Yanzhou was a man unfailingly courteous, but with a strong sense of boundaries. He would thank you politely—and then refuse.
He likely remembered none of them.
Rather than fretting over whether she could leave a lasting impression on him, Shen Zhaoyi’s attention drifted instead to the glass of herbal tea beside his watch.
The cup was already empty—clearly, it pleased him. That was enough.
Jingshi, with its tropical climate, was hot and oppressive. With dessert no longer available, she had asked the manager to fetch herbal tea from a nearby street vendor—something to cool the heart and clear the heat. To her surprise, it was well received.
The ladies all assumed it was a new specialty from the restaurant, and many asked for refills.
Shen Zhaoyi had no wish to linger. Yet Sun Ming, seated on Lu Yanzhou’s left, struck up casual conversation with her.
“Zhaoyi, let’s play bowling tomorrow. I was planning to show Yanzhou the Hangan Bridge anyway.”
The Hangan Bridge—the city’s landmark, its first cross-sea bridge—linked the mainland to the island, where land was worth its weight in gold.
The project bore official red seals, jointly funded by the Lu and Sun families.
Shen Zhaoyi smiled and replied, “The Sun residence is just across the bridge. Once the typhoon passes the day after tomorrow, we could go there to bowl and camp. The scenery is lovely.”
“Oh, right—this damned weather,” Sun Ming cursed under his breath. “Trust you to think of everything.”
Shen Zhaoyi only smiled. She didn’t add more. The young masters provided the whims; she provided the execution and the aftermath. Weather, geography, personal preferences—she had to know them all.
She had nothing else to say. Not wishing to draw attention by overstaying, she raised her glass lightly.
“I’ll go ask the manager to bring more tea. Please, everyone, enjoy.”
Lan Yu sighed inwardly again. For someone usually so adept at social maneuvering, she seemed utterly ineffective when it truly mattered.
If Shen Zhaoyi wished for someone’s favor, she could obtain it easily—it was only a matter of whether she chose to.
But Lu Yanzhou was not included in that list.
Lu Yanzhou glanced at his tea, then at Sun Ming waving goodbye to Shen Zhaoyi. He said nothing.
Sun Ming sighed helplessly, lowering his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with her.”
Lu Yanzhou leaned back in his chair, took a sip of tea, and gave no comment.
Sun Ming had known him for years, and still found him unfathomable. Even as a child, he had been prematurely mature, aloof, and taciturn. Now, he was even more inscrutable.
Jingshi was rife with factions, and their circle had rarely admitted newcomers—least of all a beautiful woman. Yet Shen Zhaoyi truly was an excellent person: capable, composed, and of good character. Sun Ming could only cast a glance at Shen Nian.
Even the taciturn Shen Nian spoke softly: “She’s fine.” His tone carried no warmth at all.
Lu Yanzhou’s doubts had been instinctive, nothing more. But with both Sun Ming and Shen Nian stepping up to vouch for her, that alone was unusual.
Still, Lu Yanzhou didn’t care. He arched a brow. “I never said otherwise.”
Sun Ming was left speechless. After so many years, Lu Yanzhou’s ability to infuriate with a single remark had only grown closer to perfection.
When the banquet ended, Shen Zhaoyi had already arranged for her car to be brought to the entrance.
Outside, the crash of waves against the mountain’s base grew louder. Raindrops clung to the eaves, and the night wind swept hard from the sea, tearing down clusters of white azaleas blooming in the dark.
She hadn’t brought a coat. The sea breeze tossed her dress askew, revealing long, slender legs—pale enough to dazzle the eye.
She heard footsteps behind her. Without turning, her ears and nose told her who it was.
Her spine straightened slightly, her head lowered a fraction. She stepped aside, blending almost into the night.
The doorman handed keys to each driver. Shen Zhaoyi overheard Sun Ming telling his chauffeur, “To Ocean Manor.”
The grandest den of indulgence in Jingshi.
Lu Yanzhou, just off the phone, murmured something she didn’t catch.
Something in her chest gave a faint sting, as if an ant had pressed on a nerve—just a trace of weakness, no more. She steadied her umbrella and quietly watched them depart.
Sun Ming leaned out the car window, calling to her to come join them.
She smiled warmly. “Next time, Young Master Sun. There are still many guests tonight.”
Sun Ming let it go.
Standing tall, Shen Zhaoyi watched the Bentley—flanked by a Maybach and a Cayenne—speed off into the storm, until it vanished into thunderclouds lit by lightning.
She blinked once, snapped her umbrella shut, and turned back into the glittering arena of vanity and power.
The typhoon did not last long. By the third day, the clouds had broken and the rain had ceased. Early that morning, Shen Zhaoyi was summoned back to the family’s ancestral residence.
It had been three months since her last visit. Distracted, she even took a wrong turn on the way, arriving close to eleven.
The second and third branches of the family were already there—cousins, nephews, uncles, a crowd of relatives clustered around Old Master Shen playing mahjong, with two more tables of card games in full swing. The air was boisterous.
One glance told her Song Miao was absent. Shen Zhaoyi went straight up to the third-floor wing.
At the head seat, Shen Renxin rapped his cane, his face stern.
“Don’t you know to greet your elders?”
Shen Zhaoyi paused on the stairs, nodded calmly at those below, and said, “Good morning.”
Only then did the card players notice her. The illegitimate daughter of the fourth branch had always been nearly invisible—aside from her strikingly beautiful face.
Now, standing midway on the stairs, her gaze lowered in polite deference, the contrast of her elevated position lent her an oddly unsettling presence.
But Shen Zhaoyi had always been peculiar. Even the feng shui masters said she had the hardest fate among three generations, cursed to bring misfortune. After that incident, the family had locked her in a psychiatric hospital until she was fifteen.
No one responded. Everyone kept playing. Shen Zhaoyi simply continued upstairs.
The third-floor wing was narrow. Being the top floor, years of Jingshi’s damp climate had left the white walls flaking and water-stained.
Most of the Shen family lived on the second floor. Only Song Miao resided up here.
Having drifted through the circles of many wealthy men in Jingshi, she had used her wiles to stay with Shen Zhaoyi. Unable to rid himself of her, Shen Renxin had eventually brought her back.
Shen Zhaoyi knocked. Rustling sounds came from inside.
“Who is it?”
“Me.”
The lock clicked. A head poked out. “Baby.”
Shen Zhaoyi responded with her usual soft “Mm,” and slipped inside.
The old wooden floorboards creaked. It hadn’t been cleaned in days; dust lay thick, and the edges were curling.
With poor weather and little natural light, the room was dim. The ceiling lamp gave off a feeble glow.
Several empty jewelry boxes lay scattered across the vanity.
Shen Zhaoyi recalled treating her to dinner just last week and gifting her a Chanel limited edition set she’d gone to great trouble to acquire.
Every time they met, she had transferred money as well—never a small sum.
Looking at the empty boxes, Shen Zhaoyi pressed her lips together, and said quietly, “Didn’t you say you were done with all this?”
Song Miao fumbled awkwardly, lighting a cigarette. The ashtray overflowed with butts, never emptied.
“Wu Hong withheld my dividends. And Jiang Liu cheated me out of a two-million-yuan set of jewels at the card table. I was so furious I wanted to kill someone.”
She wasn’t a native of Jingshi, but had been sold here, her speech still carrying the lilting accent of Jiangnan, her tone toward her daughter tinged with girlish innocence.
Looking vexed, Song Miao propped her head on the vanity, the bronze mirror reflecting her graceful figure.
She was one of those women who scarcely aged—almond eyes, pearly whites, full crimson lips. Alluring and pure at once, her long black hair still suited her, even at her age.
