Did the Tsundere Miss Get Slapped in the Face Again Today? - Chapter 90

Chapter 90: “I’m Not Eating. It’s Annoying.”

Lin Anran had made a friend. Jiang Zhi had learned about it by chance during a conversation about half a month ago.

This friend was a business partner Anran had met through work, and apparently, they got along famously. At first, Jiang Zhi didn’t think much of it. She felt it was good for Anran to have new friends; she deserved more social circles and more people to keep her company.

In the beginning, Jiang Zhi truly felt that way.

However, as the frequency of Anran mentioning this friend increased, a subtle sense of discomfort inevitably began to creep in. It was a very delicate, nagging feeling.

That discomfort reached its peak when, during yet another chat, Anran brought her friend up for the umpteenth time. Jiang Zhi scrolled up through their chat history: they had been talking for thirty minutes, and the friend had been mentioned five times.

The frequency was becoming a bit alarming.

Jiang Zhi typed: “Can we stop talking about her? Let’s talk about something else…”

Her finger hovered over the send button, but she hesitated. Ultimately, she chose to delete the text in silence.

Right then, another message popped up from Anran: “She got a Maine Coon. It looks exactly like the one in my profile picture. It’s actually really pretty.”

Jiang Zhi stared at the message blankly, then looked up at Zhaocai, who was perched on a ceiling beam.

Is a Maine Coon that much prettier? Zhaocai is pretty too. Tabby cats are great.

Why did Anran like the friend’s Maine Coon but dislike the tabby Jiang Zhi raised? A bitter wave of jealousy rose in her chest. She didn’t want to reply anymore, so she tossed the phone aside and retreated into her own quiet mood.

It was all small things. Jiang Zhi knew she was being temperamental—it was likely just jealousy. She shook her head, unwilling to over-analyze the source of her feelings, and walked outside.

She needed to film the process of planting vegetable seedlings today—tilling the soil, planting, watering, and various other shots. She set up her tripod as usual and aimed the lens at the vegetable garden.

Perhaps because of her foul mood, even the tripod seemed to be picking a fight with her. Usually, it stayed steady the moment she set it down, but today, it refused to level. Every time she let go, it tilted or collapsed.

After several failed attempts, Jiang Zhi’s temper flared. She gave the tripod a sharp kick.

Bang!

The tripod tumbled to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. Jiang Zhi stared at the fallen equipment, dazed for a moment. She wasn’t an emotionally unstable person; usually, she was the definition of patience.

It was just a wobbly tripod. If it didn’t stay, she could try again, or find something to secure it. Was it worth a tantrum? Was it worth kicking it over?

Clearly not. The real reason for her outburst wasn’t the tripod; it was the conversation with Anran that had left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. She thought it was just a minor “mood,” but looking at the tripod, she realized it had escalated into a “major” one.

This couldn’t continue. She had to ask Anran. She had to ask how important this friend really was. Was the friend more important than her girlfriend? Why did she keep mentioning her in every chat? And was Zhaocai pretty, or was the friend’s cat prettier?

She had to vent the things she was holding back. Such questions might seem childish, but when a major emotional wave hits a relationship, they become vital.

She gave up on filming, went back inside, and picked up her phone. This time, she didn’t text; she chose a phone call for a more direct connection.

The phone rang three times before it was answered.

“Hello? Jiang Yi? What’s wrong? Why the sudden call?” Anran’s familiar voice came through the line. Hearing it, Jiang Zhi’s irritation smoothed out slightly.

Jiang Zhi: “It’s nothing big. I’m just feeling a little bit unhappy all of a sudden. Your friend—”

Before she could finish, she was interrupted by noise on the other end.

“Miss Lin, that’s a bit much! We’re in a meeting and you’re taking personal calls?”

The voice sounded somewhat familiar. Jiang Zhi thought for a moment and remembered. The person speaking was likely Anran’s new friend.

They’re in a meeting together? They hang out after work, and they’re partners during work? What a close relationship. Out of 24 hours in a day, they probably spend half of them together.

“Be quiet! I’m talking to my wife. A ‘single dog’ like you wouldn’t understand. A call from my wife is very important.”

“Oh, look at you! So important! Believe it or not, I’ll go find a partner today. Think you’re so great just because you have a wife?”

“I am great. Just stay jealous.”

The two bickered back and forth, their tone full of intimacy. It reminded Jiang Zhi of the way she and Anran bickered—the same tone, the same atmosphere.

“Alright, I’m done with you. Don’t make a scene here. The meeting won’t die if we pause for a bit. I want to talk to my wife. Jiang Yi, what were you saying? You’re unhappy? Why are you unhappy?”

The words Jiang Zhi had prepared were stuck in her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to say them. Her friend’s voice drifted through the background again, and the two traded a few more quips.

Jiang Zhi’s lips parted, but all that came out was: “It’s nothing. I just missed you a little and wanted to hear your voice. If you’re busy with a meeting, go ahead and finish up.”

Anran hummed. “Okay, I’ll hang up first then. I’ll call you back as soon as the meeting is over.”

“Okay.”

Beep—beep—

The call ended. Jiang Zhi stared at the screen and sighed. She had called to resolve her emotions, but after the call, not only were they unresolved, they felt magnified.

Why were they so close when they bickered? Close enough to make me uncomfortable.

Jiang Zhi knew there was nothing wrong with their banter, and it wasn’t necessarily “intimate” in a romantic way, but it was a subtle, indescribable feeling. She tucked the phone back into her pocket and took a deep breath, trying to suppress her irrational pettiness.

Her filming wasn’t done; she didn’t have time for this nonsense.

Returning to the yard, she set the tripod back up. Everything went smoothly this time; the tripod stayed level. Jiang Zhi calmly filmed shot after shot—tilling, planting, watering—capturing medium, long, and close-up angles for each. Sometimes she’d retake a shot repeatedly until it was perfect. A single day of filming was often exhaustive.

When she first started making videos, she was clumsy. Now, after years of practice, she knew exactly how to get the best results. By the time she finished and imported the footage to her computer for editing, she looked up to find the sky had turned dark.

In her busyness, she had forgotten to eat lunch. Rubbing her flattened stomach, she got up to go to the kitchen to make a bowl of noodles. Halfway there, she froze as if suddenly remembering something.

She pulled her phone out. The screen was silent—no message notifications, no missed calls.

Jiang Zhi’s head slumped. She muttered to herself, “Didn’t you say you’d call after the meeting? Didn’t you say you’d call when you were finished?”

Is she still not done? It’s already dark.

Her hunger seemed to vanish, replaced by a series of sharp cramps in her stomach. She clutched her midsection, her brow furrowing in pain. She sank into a chair, cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. It took a long time for the cramping to subside.

Throughout the pain, she waited for Anran’s call. Anran used to be so clingy, but lately, the texts had become fewer and the calls less frequent. Things were settling into a plateau.

It was normal. It didn’t mean there was a problem with the relationship; it just meant that time had passed. Passion gives way to the mundane; life can’t be a grand spectacle every day. The only abnormal thing was that Jiang Zhi hadn’t adjusted to this “normalcy” yet.

When her stomach felt better, Jiang Zhi forced her weak body to the kitchen and made a bowl of noodles. It was a bland clear-soup dish that tasted like nothing as she ate distractedly.

Why do I have to wait for her to call back? I can just call her.

Jiang Zhi suddenly had a moment of clarity. She set down her chopsticks and dialed Anran. The phone rang seven or eight times. Just as Jiang Zhi thought it wouldn’t be picked up, the line connected.

Hearing that familiar voice, Jiang Zhi’s lips curled up unconsciously. Her unhappiness and sadness dissolved by half in an instant. If she had known it would go away this quickly, she wouldn’t have been so stubborn; she should have just called immediately.

“What are you doing?” Jiang Zhi asked.

“Still working! We took on a new project. It’s so busy!” On the other end, Jiang Zhi heard the sound of papers flipping.

Jiang Zhi realized that she hadn’t called back simply because she wasn’t finished. She felt better. She realized she was actually quite easy to coax; she didn’t need a grand gesture, just a simple reason was enough to comfort her.

Jiang Zhi: “Did I disturb you by calling now?”

Anran laughed. “How could you? I want to hear your voice. You should call me more! Do you know how rarely you call? Are you trying to save money on the phone bill? You can’t be that cheap, can you?”

Jiang Zhi chuckled. “I know I’m a bit of a miser in your eyes, but I’m not that bad.”

“Who knows? You’re so stingy.”

“It seems you really dislike me. What can you do? It’s useless to complain; I’m already your wife. You can’t exactly swap me for another one,” Jiang Zhi said with a smile in her eyes.

“Swapping is impossible. But if you aren’t good… then it’s hard to say,” Anran teased with a childish threat.

Just as Jiang Zhi was about to reply, she was cut off by a voice on the other end: “Wait a second, Chu Yuening is calling. It must be something important.”

Beep—beep—

The call was abruptly disconnected.

Jiang Zhi froze. Her newly softened mood flared back up.

Chu Yuening was calling her—it was most likely about work. They had worked together all day; there was probably something left to handle that needed a phone discussion. It was normal.

But Jiang Zhi was feeling petty again. She knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t help it.

“What? She calls and you hang up on me immediately? Is my call not as important as hers? Do you have any idea how much I struggled before making this call? Do you care about your friend more than your wife?”

Jiang Zhi grumbled to her phone screen, though Anran couldn’t hear her. She tossed the phone aside and picked up her chopsticks to continue eating, only to find the noodles had turned into a soggy, clumped mess.

Her already bad mood worsened. She threw the chopsticks down.

“I’m not eating. It’s annoying.”

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