Oops, I’m the Scumbag Ex in Her Storyline - Chapter 42

Most people who knew Jing Chu and Xin Yan assumed one thing—Jing Chu must hate Xin Yan.

But in truth, Jing Chu didn’t actually dislike her all that much.

Yes, Xin Yan could be unbearably pushy sometimes. She liked to meddle in affairs that had nothing to do with her, and that drove Jing Chu crazy. But beyond that, Xin Yan hadn’t really brought her much trouble.

In Jing Chu’s memory, Xin Yan had always been busy. Even though everyone knew she had feelings for her, she hardly ever showed up in front of her—at most two or three times a year.

Two or three days out of three hundred and sixty-five. Anyone who heard that would think it absurd.

Absurd or not, Jing Chu never doubted Xin Yan’s affection for her.

After all, Xin Yan only cared about her. She would call whenever she had spare time, and every now and then she sent gifts—each one lavish and costly. At first, Jing Chu went through the trouble of returning them, but later she couldn’t even be bothered.

Jing Chu had always been famous. As a child, she was a nationally known piano prodigy; as an adult, she became an internationally renowned “piano goddess.” With fame came not only fortune but also an early maturity.

She knew well that the kind of price tags that stunned ordinary people were, to others, nothing more than meaningless numbers. To outsiders, Xin Yan seemed to shower her with gifts that others couldn’t dream of receiving in a lifetime.

But to Jing Chu, all it meant was that once a month, Xin Yan took a moment to send her a pile of numbers.

The public only saw the surface. Those actually involved knew better, and grew cautious and sensitive about what lay beneath.

Xin Yan was beautiful and accomplished, wealthy and composed. They had known each other since childhood, knew each other inside out. To outsiders, she was a dream partner—yet Jing Chu had never once been moved. It baffled people. Some said Jing Chu’s standards were too high. Some said Xin Yan’s temper was too poor. Some said she didn’t know a blessing when she had one. And so on.

In her early twenties, Jing Chu still bothered to defend herself. Now, when she heard such remarks, she just smiled and let them pass.

It was her private matter. Why should she explain herself? And besides—how could she say it aloud?

Should she tell everyone that Xin Yan wasn’t as devoted as they imagined, that her affection was in truth only a little?

Should she admit that, when she was younger, she too had been moved, had even extended a tentative olive branch—only to be disappointed?

Though they met only a few times a year, Xin Yan remained like a question mark lodged in Jing Chu’s heart. She didn’t like her, not anymore. The spark from years ago had long burned out. But she could never understand why Xin Yan acted the way she did.

On one hand, Xin Yan pursued her relentlessly—sending flowers, recording every single one of her concerts. On the other hand, she never did what a genuine pursuer would: reaching out just to talk, or yearning to see her.

When she was younger, Jing Chu obsessed over this contradiction, thinking it over again and again. Later, she grew used to it, accepted it. She concluded some people were simply like that—naturally reserved, their emotional ceiling capped not at “deep love” but merely at “like.” For her, feelings took up only a small corner of life; other things were far more important.

Before coming to terms with this, she would lose her temper at Xin Yan, sometimes telling her to stay away, other times impulsively wanting to call her. Afterward, her attitude evened out. She treated Xin Yan like a distant acquaintance: answered her calls, accepted her gifts, but nothing more.

Life went on steadily. Jing Chu had her own relationships—Kong Zhiluo wasn’t the only one. Each time she had a new girlfriend, Xin Yan would throw a tantrum, but only over the phone, before going silent for a month or two. When she called again, it was as if nothing had happened.

Jing Chu considered herself perceptive, clear-eyed. She had seen through Xin Yan, and so she stopped caring. Kong Zhiluo, equally perceptive, understood that whatever bound Jing Chu and Xin Yan was only nominal. She too didn’t mind Xin Yan’s existence.

Wasn’t this just fine? Nobody interfering with anyone. Jing Chu could live her life peacefully with Kong Zhiluo, while Xin Yan popped in and out of her world as always. Eventually, once her own life settled, Xin Yan would fade out completely.

Jing Chu had thought about this possibility. What she hadn’t expected was for it to happen so soon.

The longest Xin Yan had ever gone without contact was a month and a half—because she was terribly busy, and sick on top of that. Now it had been more than two months.

To be honest, if Xin Yan had truly let go, Jing Chu should have felt relieved. Between them, she had always thought of herself as the mature one, patient and tolerant, like an adult waiting for a child to grow up. She endured her noise, forgave her faults, and always made space to deal with this eternal child. If the child had finally grown up, then she too was free.

That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

And no matter what outsiders believed, even if she didn’t love Xin Yan in that way, they had still known each other for so many years. She couldn’t help but wish Xin Yan well.

That was what Jing Chu told herself.

________________________________________

Xin Yan had set her business trip at five days: one for travel, one for rest, two for meetings, leaving just one tightly packed day for herself.

She spent one night in the hotel memorizing the speech An Zhiyuan had written. The next day, when it was her turn, she smiled with poise and delivered it effortlessly—completely off script.

Abroad, she wasn’t representing only herself. Even sleepless, she was determined to present flawlessly.

Fortunately, the speeches were one-off. Had it been a roundtable, where anyone could speak and interrupt, she would have needed far more preparation.

The World Environmental Conference lived up to its name: over a hundred countries, more than eighty represented, some with multiple delegates. After two days of smiling nonstop, Xin Yan finally retreated to her hotel room. She called Bei Lanlan, sighing.

“I’d much rather be back at the company,” she said. “Increasing productivity is what matters. These conferences are just icing on the cake. Without solid technology or unique products, even if I attend a hundred of these, no one will choose to work with me.”

Bei Lanlan nodded. “Technology must grow, but so must your image. You can’t start building a reputation only when you suddenly need one.”

Xin Yan propped her chin on her hand. “Strange.”

Lanlan asked, “What’s strange?”

Xin Yan said, “When An Zhiyuan tells me something like that, I want to send him swimming back home. But when you say it, it suddenly makes sense.”

Lanlan laughed, for once defending An Zhiyuan. “He’s very loyal.”

Xin Yan gave a nonchalant hum. “For now. He was planning to quit not long ago.”

She had once stumbled on his resignation letter while searching his desk. She never mentioned it, only checked later to find it gone. She still didn’t know why he had changed his mind.

If it happened now, she admitted, she would be caught off guard.

That was why she often found fault with him—so that, if he ever left, she could convince herself she didn’t care.

She didn’t say any of this, but Lanlan seemed to sense it. Curling under her blanket, phone pressed to her ear, she said softly, “Maybe something was going on back then. He wouldn’t do it now. He can’t bear to leave.”

Xin Yan chuckled. “How do you know? You two aren’t even that close.”

Lanlan blinked. “Because if it was me, I couldn’t bear to.”

Xin Yan lowered her eyes, gazing at the carpet. A faint smile tugged at her lips—not a warm smile, nor a dismissive one, but a knowing one, as if she had expected Lanlan to say exactly that.

After a pause, she murmured into the receiver, “Good night, Lanlan.”

The words were abrupt, catching Lanlan off guard. She hesitated, then softly replied, “Good night.”

Lanlan drifted to sleep. Only later did Xin Yan leave the hotel.

It was still afternoon there. She had dinner, then dragged An Zhiyuan to browse local antique shops.

In Florence, she had no interest in factory-made souvenirs. She wanted the little vintage stores beloved by artists—perhaps she’d stumble upon a true treasure.

An Zhiyuan sighed. “Boss Xin, don’t think only our people know how to do business. Locals here know the value of rarity too. What you think is a treasure might just be one of hundreds in someone’s backyard…”

She had to admit he was right. “Download a local app, find one with good reviews.”

“…Yes, boss.”

Half an hour later, they entered a corner shop. The window gleamed with neatly arranged trinkets, each unique, cramped together yet exuding antique charm.

As they stepped inside, An Zhiyuan read from his phone: “Four and a half stars. Popular with tourists and locals. Plenty of celebrities have taken photos here—see that wall?”

Xin Yan glanced over—faces she didn’t recognize. …She barely kept track of her own country’s celebrities, much less foreign ones.

Uninterested, she turned back to the displays. An Zhiyuan dutifully followed, occasionally pointing something out. She always shook her head.

Until she saw a fairy statue. She picked it up, reluctant to put it down.

“What angel is that?” An Zhiyuan asked cautiously, clueless.

Xin Yan looked at him in surprise. “She’s the fairy who turned Pinocchio into a real boy. You don’t know?”

“…No.” He was already impressed he remembered Pinocchio at all.

The statue was painted, white specks on the wings shimmering like fairy dust. Xin Yan brushed her fingers over it. “Other fairies help princesses marry princes. But this one gave Pinocchio life, taught him what it means to live. I don’t remember the rest of the story, but this always stayed with me. I’ve always liked her. She’s different. When I was little, I used to wish I had a fairy like that. Do you think Lanlan will like it?”

An Zhiyuan glanced at her, then said honestly, “If it’s from you, she’ll like it.”

Xin Yan raised a brow. “Then I’ll take it. Let’s pay.”

She didn’t lift a finger at the counter, of course—An Zhiyuan handled the bill. Xin Yan only stood aside, caressing the delicate lines of the statue until the shopkeeper brought out a box. Carefully, she placed it inside.

With the gift secured, she left without browsing further, missing entirely that the shop had a back door—or that among the customers who entered behind her were a few Asian faces.

Jing Chu, disguised in sunglasses and a silk scarf, had been to this shop many times without ever being recognized. She stood staring at the empty spot on the display, unmoving for a long while. Only when her companion called did she finally turn away.