# Chapter Thirty: Reap What You Sow
The air froze—then shifted.
The terrace was now filled with people, all of them beaming with curiosity and wanting to know the full details of the scandal.
An Zhiguo’s face was calm but his hands that were clasped tightly behind his back said otherwise.
"Yanming," he said evenly, trying to think of a way out of this situation. "Tell , this isn’t what it looks like."
The question was asked most calmly, but the silence that followed was anything but that.
An Yanming stiffened and swallowed, he knew this was his chance to clarify. "It’s a misunderstanding. Things were taken out of context."
"Out of context?" An Yancheng’s voice carried from the other side, he had expected that both his uncle and dear cousin would play this off as a misunderstanding. "Is that the new saying for leaking company data and using it for personal gains?"
A ripple passed through the crowd—family gossip was the best kind of gossip.
"Would never?" An Yancheng’s smile was small but sharp. "Then maybe you can explain to how my bidding proposal ended up in a shell company your son controls?"
For a heartbeat, the older man said nothing—he had no idea the extent of evidence that An Yancheng had in his hands. While it was considered normal to steal confidential data in businesses, to be exposed publicly like this was a humiliation none of them could afford.
An Zhiguo’s composure faltered for the briefest second before he caught himself, his gaze flicking toward the gathered guests.
"Yancheng," he said slowly, his tone asured, "you’ve misunderstood. I’m certain there’s so confusion here. Yanming would never risk the family’s reputation. Clearly, this... must be the result of soone’s manipulation."
His eyes shifted toward Song Qingwan, the aning sharp enough to draw blood. "Miss Song, perhaps you were careless with your handling of the docunts? Or maybe you did it out of love? I believe that Yanming would never ask you to steal confidential data."
The attention of the crowd turned instantly. The whispering surged—hungry, delighted.
Song Qingwan froze, her face draining of colour. "Uncle, I—I didn’t—"
"Didn’t what?" Yancheng’s voice cut in, polite but deadly. "Didn’t forward the proposal? Or didn’t realise your little leak was traced back to Yanming’s company?"
The crowd collectively drew in a breath. Sowhere in the back, soone stifled a gasp that ca out as a laugh.
An Zhiguo’s eyes narrowed. "Enough," he said, his voice rising a fraction. "This is not a matter to discuss publicly."
"Publicly?" An Yancheng’s tone softened, amusent threading through the words. Whatever was left of familial ties was now shattered into nothing. "Uncle, forgive , but you brought it to the public the mont your son used family resources to undercut . I’m rely clarifying what the audience already witnessed."
There was no raising of voice, no open fury—just calm, devastating precision.
An Zhiguo opened his mouth, but An Yancheng continued before he could. He had enough of his excuses and was no longer willing to let them slide so easily this ti.
"Still, since you insist on protecting your son, I’ll be reasonable. The engagent between and Miss Song will end tonight. However—" his gaze swept to Yanming and Qingwan, who flinched under the weight of it, "—if they’re so fond of each other, I won’t stand in their way."
Murmurs broke out again, swelling like a low tide.
An Zhiguo’s lips pressed into a line. "You can’t simply make decisions like this, Yancheng. Business alliances aren’t toys."
"I agree." Yancheng’s expression didn’t waver. "Which is why we’ll adjust it, not end it. The Songs will retain their partnership with the Ans—through Yanming instead of . Otherwise," his voice dipped just slightly, "he’ll need to be responsible for the loss of profit if the union between the Ans and Songs fell through."
A hush fell over the crowd; even the clinking of glasses seed to stop. Across the terrace, An Zhiguo’s expression flickered—shock, disbelief, then calculation.
"You can’t—"
"Don’t try to test ," An Yancheng said coldly. "I can and I will. If not, I can always submit the evidence to the police and we see how it goes."
An Zhiguo gritted out. "Fine. I agree to the marriage between Yanming and Qingwan."
The words landed like stones in water—rippling outward, heavy with resignation.
For a mont, there was only silence. Then, slowly, all eyes turned toward the Songs.
The elder Song exchanged a long glance with his wife. His expression was drawn, grim, and reluctant. It was the look of a man resigned—aware that it was too late to change anything.
Yancheng’s gaze swept toward him. His voice, though mild, carried enough weight to press through the quiet.
"And what about the Songs?" he asked, as though he were rely inquiring about the weather. "Do you agree as well?"
Song Zhiyuan, the patriarch of the Song family, forced a laugh that sounded far too brittle. "Yancheng, this...this is truly an unfortunate misunderstanding."
He paused, his throat working before the next words ca out—each one deliberate, each one tasting of bitterness. "But since both families had too much on the line for the union, the wedding will go as planned, only between Yanming and Qingwan. "
His wife nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line. "Of course," she added quickly, "our families have always cooperated well, we wouldn’t want this to affect our relationship."
It was the kind of sentence ant to save face—but it fooled no one.
The crowd understood perfectly well: the Songs weren’t agreeing out of goodwill. They were agreeing because they had no choice. They couldn’t afford to break the engagent; while the Ans would make a loss but the Songs would suffer an even greater one.
Yancheng smiled faintly, the picture of civility. "Good. Then it’s settled."
He turned his gaze back to the pair in question—An Yanming and Song Qingwan, both pale as ghosts, both too stunned to speak.
"Congratulations," he said lightly. "Since you’ve already been working so... closely together, I’m sure this marriage will be seamless."
A few scattered chuckles rippled through the guests—uneasy, but impossible to hold back.
Song Qingwan’s fingers clenched tightly around her skirt, her knuckles white.
An Yanming stood rigid beside her, his face blank but his eyes storming.
And then, for just an instant, his gaze flicked—quick and instinctive—toward the crowd.
Toward Sun Qiaolian.
It was brief, so brief that anyone else might have missed it. But Song Qingwan didn’t.
She caught the look, saw the faint shift in his expression—the softening, the faint hint of warmth not ant for her. There were also the slightest bit of longing, bitterness, and regret.
Sothing inside her twisted sharply.
The air seed to thin, heavy with a quiet that pressed against her chest. Even the music from inside sounded distant, hollow.
Her lips parted, but no sound ca out. She could only taste the bitterness of her own silence.
Beside her, Yancheng’s tone was polite, smooth as ever. "We’ll have the paperwork revised. Congratulations again, Yanming."
He inclined his head to the Song elders, all formal grace. "Mr. and Mrs. Song, I trust you’ll make the proper arrangents."
Song Zhiyuan’s forced smile looked painful. "Of course," he said again, his voice thin and strained.
The orchestra from the ballroom resud faintly in the background, its elegant notes washing over the wreckage of pride, dignity, and everything that once held them together.
The night moved on, but the damage had already been done.
As the guests began to murmur among themselves and drift away—so whispering, so smirking—An Ning watched quietly beside her brother.
Her eyes flicked once toward Song Qingwan, whose face was an exquisite mask of despair and humiliation.
This ti, Song Qingwan got exactly what she wanted—just not how she wanted it.
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