The Clarity After Fireworks
The following morning dawned crisp and bright, with pale sunlight seeping through gauzy curtains. Birds chirped from the garden's flowering osmanthus trees, and the soft rustle of leaves filled the air as Jia Lan stirred awake.
She yawned lightly, stretching in her embroidered silk robe before slipping on her slippers and heading to the dressing screen. The day after the Lantern Festival was usually quiet, but Jia Lan had long since learned—quiet in name didn't mean peace in reality.
As she washed her face and brushed her hair into a soft braid, a gentle chime echoed in her mind.
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Jia Lan blinked, a small smile curling on her lips.
"Appropriate," she muttered. "After yesterday's circus, we could all use some serenity."
By the time she descended to the breakfast hall, the table was already full. Steamed shrimp dumplings, jujube congee, and golden fried scallion pancakes filled the air with warm scents. Her grandmother beckoned her over immediately.
"Come, come. Eat well. A girl must have strength to swat flies."
"Good morning to you too, Grandma," Jia Lan said wryly, sitting down.
As she poured herself tea, Xu Li leaned closer. "You're not going to believe this. Liu Fenfang was spotted at the Chamber of Commerce this morning."
Yao Jing snorted. "Probably trying to sweet-talk someone into salvaging her reputation."
"She was with that contact she tried to set you up with," Xu Li added. "Except now, he won't even return her calls."
"Serves her right," Grandmother Jia said, not bothering to lower her voice. "Scheming wench."
Jia Lan chewed her dumpling slowly, brows raised. "Is it bad that I don't feel even a little bit sorry for them?"
"You're not supposed to," her father said from the head of the table, flipping through the day's paper. "You're supposed to learn from it—and remember how quickly opportunists show their true colors."
Lin Shunhua nodded. "Lan Lan, you do know that if this becomes too exhausting, you can just leave the social circle for a time. Your happiness is more important than appearances."
Jia Lan smiled genuinely. "I know, Mother. But I'm not running from anything. They walked into my world thinking I'd be easy to push aside. They thought wrong."
Yao Jing leaned her head against her palm. "So what's the plan now? Politely destroy them at the next event?"
Jia Lan shrugged. "No need. They're doing a fine job self-destructing."
At that, even Grandfather Jia laughed.
Jia Lan had just finished her quiet morning routine—rosewater rinse, light stretching on the terrace, and a short calligraphy session in her courtyard studio. She had barely set her brush down when xu li appeared at the side door, slightly breathless.
"They're here," she said.
"Who?" Jia Lan asked, though she already knew.
Xu Li scoffed. "Who else? Your two favorite clowns."
Jia Lan sighed softly, wiped her ink-stained fingers with a linen cloth, and walked with measured grace into the main hall.
Sure enough, Shen Yimin and Liu Fenfang stood there like poorly cast actors waiting for cues. Shen Yimin was in a brown suit far too warm for spring, the collar damp with sweat. Liu Fenfang wore a lavender dress with lace gloves—trying too hard, as usual.
"We came to apologize," Shen Yimin began, his voice stiff, already defensive. "About last night."
"Oh?" Jia Chenghai's tone was colder than the porcelain teacup in his hand. "Which part exactly?"
Liu Fenfang forced a laugh. "Uncle Jia, don't be so serious. It was just a misunderstanding. I thought Lan Lan would benefit from meeting someone influential."
Jia Lan raised an eyebrow. "You thought matchmaking me with a third-rate businessman at a public charity event would be a good idea?"
Liu Fenfang flushed. "He's not third-rate. His family—"
"I don't need his family's connections," Jia Lan cut in calmly. "Or yours. The Jia family has more than enough of its own."
Shen Yimin stepped forward. "We were only trying to help. We didn't think you'd take it so personally."
Jia Lan's voice was still even, but her gaze was razor-sharp. "Then perhaps you didn't think hard enough."
A tense silence fell. Grandmother Jia entered just in time to hear the tail end of it.
"You dare show your faces here after what you did?" she demanded, eyes blazing.
"Grandmother—" Liu Fenfang began.
"No, don't 'grandmother' me. We let you in because of old village ties. But you—" she turned to Shen Yimin—"stood there while your wife plotted behind our backs. And you," she glared at Liu Fenfang, "thought you could play matchmaker with my granddaughter like she's some charity auction prize?"
"It was a misunderstanding—" Liu Fenfang stammered.
Jia Lan's grandfather, unusually silent, now spoke up. "I vouched for you," he said to Shen Yimin quietly. "I brought you here thinking you'd show gratitude, not ambition."
Shen Yimin looked down. "We didn't mean to offend."
"But you did," Lin Shunhua said, stepping into the room with the grace of a swan and the voice of a steel dagger. "You embarrassed our daughter, underestimated her, and insulted our family. If you were truly sorry, you would've left the moment you realized."
Liu Fenfang's eyes darted desperately to Jia Lan. "Lan Lan, we were friends once—"
"We were aren't," Jia Lan corrected with a polite smile. "You never knew me, and clearly, you still don't."
She turned to Sister Li. "Please show them out."
"No—wait," Shen Yimin started, but Grandfather Jia's cane hit the floor with a loud knock.
"You've overstayed your welcome."
As Sister Li guided them out, Liu Fenfang threw a last glance over her shoulder.
"You're making a mistake," she said bitterly. "You think you're better than us?"
Jia Lan didn't respond.
But in her mind, she thought, No, you're just worse at pretending.
Once they were gone, the room exhaled.
Jia Lan took a sip of tea. "I almost feel bad for them."
"Almost?" Yao Jing echoed.
Jia Lan shrugged. "Only because they clearly overestimated themselves and underestimated the consequences."
Grandmother Jia snorted. "Hmph. May all their matchmaking attempts turn into matchmaking disasters."
Jia Lan smiled.
In the quiet afterward, she made her way back to her studio. The sunlight streamed through the lattice windows, and her ink had dried into soft swirls on the rice paper. She picked up her brush and wrote a single line:
Even when clowns dance in the square, the audience remembers who truly owns the stage.