Chapter 2 — My Foolish Beauty of a Sister

Her voice retained its habitual, fragile delicacy, yet the subtle struggle that had shadowed her eyes just yesterday had entirely vanished.

"Why are you here?"

I refused to accept the thermos she held out toward me. Grace showed no sign of awkwardness, simply setting the container down upon the reception desk instead.

"Mother was so upset last night she couldn't sleep a wink. I realize yesterday's misunderstanding stemmed entirely from my own absent-mindedness, and I am afraid Sir Tu has taken it the wrong way."

She lowered her head slightly, exposing a delicate sweep of porcelain-white neck.

"I simmered some chicken broth this morning, hoping you might bring it to Sir Tu. Consider it my personal apology to him."

Passing colleagues turned their heads, casting curious glances our way. To the outside observer, this was the picture of a gentle, dutiful elder sister striving to mend fences with a prickly, uncomprehending younger sibling. Watching her perform turned my stomach, a sudden wave of nausea rolling through me.

"Save your breath. He doesn't consume things of unknown origin."

Grace's eyelids reddened instantly, tears shimmering at the brim.

"Tear, are you still holding a grudge against me? I know how brilliant Sir Tu is, and perhaps you feared I might take him from you. But I swear I harbored no such intentions."

Her voice was neither too loud nor too soft, pitched precisely so the receptionist and several nearby coworkers could catch every syllable. This was her signature tactic: striking first to claim the moral high ground. Once she planted the seed that I was merely terrified of losing my man, anything I said thereafter would be dismissed as petty jealousy and insecurity. In the past, desperate to save face, I would have dragged her aside to negotiate a compromise. But not today.

I pulled out my phone and activated the voice recorder app, then laid the device flat upon the front desk, screen glowing upward.

"Do go on," I said, fixing my gaze entirely upon her. "Grace us with the exact details of the master plan you intend to use to steal him away."

The expression on her face froze instantly. Clearly, she had never anticipated that I would cast aside all pretense of decorum, let alone openly display the active recording interface right before her eyes.

"Tear... what are you doing?"

Her voice lost its steady cadence, faltering as her eyes instinctively darted toward the illuminated screen.

"If you are so determined to stage a theatrical production before an audience, we might as well see it through to the final curtain."

I leaned back against the reception counter, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Didn't you just claim I was terrified of losing him to you? Very well, prove it to me. How do you plan to snatch him away? Will you rely on that discounted nightgown with the frayed seams, or perhaps this mystery chicken broth spiked with heaven knows what kind of spices?"

The colleagues lingering nearby to watch the spectacle let out a few muffled snorts of amusement. In the fast-paced world of an internet tech company, a keen appetite for office drama was practically a job requirement. Grace caught the biting mockery in my tone, and a furious flush surged up her neck, staining her cheeks crimson.

"Tear, you are going too far!"

She dropped the pathetic act entirely, the manufactured tears vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

"I came here out of pure kindness to deliver something, and you pull out a voice recorder? Who on earth do you think you're trying to intimidate?"

She reached out, attempting to snatch the phone from the counter. My reflexes were faster; I scooped the device up and drew it out of her reach.

"Whatever happened to the tears?" I asked, looking down at her with a chilling composure. "What happened to your innocent, naive beauty filter? Where is the harmless, fragile persona that wouldn't hurt a fly? Are we done acting for the day?"

Grace trembled with suppressed rage, her teeth grinding together. Yet, painfully aware of the curious eyes fixed upon her from all directions, she was forced to swallow her fury and keep her voice down.

"Fine. Very well, Tear. Do you genuinely believe that man surnamed Tu can shelter you beneath his wing for the rest of your life?"

She stepped closer, invading my space, dropping her register to a harsh whisper meant for my ears alone.

"Just what do you think you are? Ever since we were children, whenever I set my sights on something, when has our family ever failed to hand it to me on a silver platter?"

"Your last two boyfriends? It took nothing more than a flick of my finger, and they came crawling back like stray dogs. What makes you think Tu Time is any more noble than they are?"

"All men are pathetic, despicable creatures at heart. Just wait and see—sooner or later, I will have him crawling on the floor, licking my toes."

She assumed I had stopped the recording. She was convinced that lowering her voice provided absolute immunity against exposure. What she did not know was that my phone was the latest flagship model, equipped with studio-grade audio capture. Far less did she realize that the recording application was still running smoothly in the background, its screen merely dimmed to black.

I studied her features, twisted as they were by malice, obsessive envy, and the bitter poison of a pathological need to win. In that instant, she struck me not as a formidable rival, but as a profoundly pitiful creature.

"Very well," I murmured, taking a deliberate step backward to widen the distance between us. "I'll be waiting."

Grace offered a cold, venomous smirk, snatched the thermos off the desk, and turned on her heel, her high heels clicking sharply against the floor as she stormed away. I picked up my phone and tapped the screen to halt the recording, staring down at the file labeled three minutes and twelve seconds. The very first chess piece was now securely in my hand.

That evening, after the office hours concluded, Time arrived to pick me up. His car was pulled over alongside the curb, and he was holding a steaming cup of latte when I opened the door.

"You look rather pale," he remarked, sliding the warm cup across the console. "Did that half-witted sister of yours make you sick to your stomach again?"

I accepted the coffee, taking a slow, grounding sip. "She dropped by the office today bearing chicken broth, and used the opportunity to officially declare war."

Pulling out my phone, I queued up the audio file and pressed play. Grace's shrill, vicious words echoed clearly through the quiet interior of the car:

*Sooner or later, I will have him crawling on the floor, licking my toes.*

Time listened with a look of profound disgust, his brows knitting together in distaste.

"Does she lack even the most basic understanding of hygiene?" he muttered dryly. "Toe-licking is a prime vector for fungal infections. My standards aren't that low."

A sudden laugh escaped my lips, bubbling up into the quiet space between us until I was smiling openly.