Marry by Relying on Favor: Chapter 7 - She took the initiative to text Wen Shuchen

June 13, 2025 Oyen 0 Comments

Happy Reading~

Chapter 7: She took the initiative to text Wen Shuchen

 

At 6:40 a.m., He Qingchi woke up.

 

After lying in bed for a while, she finally got up, walked from the bedroom to the kitchen, and made herself a cup of hot milk. Sipping it slowly helped her clear her head a little. Then she retraced her steps back to the bedroom.

 

She had barely slept a few hours the night before. There was a faint bluish tinge under her eyes, which made her fair complexion appear even paler. She reached out to turn on the desk lamp, sat down on the soft sofa with her hot milk in hand, and picked up her phone.

 

The screen lit up with a tap of her finger. One unread message was sent at 6:30 a.m.—likely from Wen Shuchen before his flight. In it, he mentioned what had happened the previous night and said he would apologize and explain in person once he returned from his business trip.

 

He Qingchi rested her chin on her knees, staring at the screen for a long while without replying.

 

Whether the contraceptives pack was something Secretary Song had bought on his own initiative, or something Wen Shuchen had instructed later, the fact remained—until their relationship was clearly defined, any such mention was awkward and embarrassing.

 

Her gaze shifted to the red string bracelet on her wrist.

 

She looked closely at the prayer bead on it—its crystal-clear texture was beautiful.

 

Actually, when she was very young, she had a similar bead. The old man at home was worried she might swallow it while the nanny wasn’t paying attention, so he had tied it to her tiny wrist with a red string.

 

She couldn’t remember how or when she lost it.

 

That was probably why Wen Shuchen’s bracelet had caught her attention in the first place.

 

She hadn’t expected the man to generously give it to her, his gentle demeanor leaving her no room to refuse.

 

He Qingchi lifted her hand, letting the light shine through it, watching the prayer bead dangle like a red bean against her pale wrist.

 

—

Morning, 8:30 a.m.

 

He Qingchi, hugging a soft pillow, had dozed off lazily against the sofa.

 

She was startled awake by the sudden ringing of her phone. When she answered, her voice was still slightly nasal from sleep: “Hello?”

 

“Have you checked Weibo yet?”

 

The cold voice of her agent, Li Ling, instantly brought her to full alert.

 

She didn’t respond, thinking the company might be calling to pressure her into terminating her contract.

 

As if reading her mind, Li Ling didn’t keep her guessing: “Director Guo posted on Weibo announcing that there will be no additional scenes in the film. You are still his top choice for the lead role.”

 

Ever since she had been publicly criticized by fans and trended for the wrong reasons, He Qingchi had stopped using Weibo.

 

She had shut herself off from updates and really didn’t know about this.

 

“Your negative buzz disappeared overnight. Since Director Guo still wants to work with you, the media won’t be allowed to stir things up around you again. The production team should be in touch with the company soon to schedule your shooting dates.”

 

Li Ling didn’t mention that the company had been considering terminating her contract as a final warning.

 

There were far too many newcomers like He Qingchi—signed before they had even officially debuted. If they had popularity, the company would spare no expense to promote them. If not, even if the whole internet turned against them, they would end up like He Qingchi.

 

The company hadn’t even bothered to hire PR to reverse public opinion. They’d simply let her get trampled by gossip accounts.

 

Li Ling had managed more than one artist in her time. He Qingchi was probably the most beautiful—and the one with the least ambition.

 

After delivering the update, she offered some pointed advice: “The company’s giving you a few days off to get yourself together. I’ll let you know when the shoot starts.”

 

He Qingchi stared at the call log after it was disconnected. Aside from that initial "hello," she hadn’t said a single word.

 

Truthfully, the company’s stance didn’t matter that much—whether they kept her or not.

 

But the news Li Ling brought did shake her.

 

Overnight, Director Guo had changed his mind about rewriting the script, and the hot search slandering her was gone.

 

All she’d asked Wen Shuchen for was a small favor—just to put in a word with Vice President Fu. She thought having a connection might help. But in just one night, he had resolved all her problems.

 

He Qingchi suddenly owed Wen Shuchen a massive favor. Her feelings were complicated.

 

It didn’t feel real. Everything had gone too smoothly.

 

*

Two days passed in a flash. As Li Ling predicted, Director Guo reached out to the company again to finalize her schedule.

 

Thankfully, the filming wouldn’t begin for another week, so He Qingchi still had some time.

 

She hadn’t forgotten she still owed Wen Shuchen a shirt. On Saturday morning, she hailed a taxi to her grandmother’s town.

 

It was less than a two-hour drive, but rain and traffic slowed the trip. Sitting in the back seat, He Qingchi caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window—plain black knit sweater and jeans, the top clinging slightly to her body, outlining her slender waist. A baseball cap shadowed her face, and her silky black hair hung down to her waist, revealing only half of her fair profile.

 

She had dressed like this just in case someone recognized her—so far, the ride had been quiet and uneventful.

 

The taxi driver glanced at her several times through the rearview mirror and casually said, “You look like a celebrity.”

 

He Qingchi pulled the brim of her hat lower.

 

The driver, clearly a candid sort, added, “Roads to Wushan Town are bad on rainy days. Taxi fares are high too—taking a bus would only cost a few dozen yuan. Are you going there for a vacation?”

 

“My grandma lives there.”

 

He Qingchi hadn’t visited her grandmother in a while. And she also needed better fabric and tailoring tools to make the shirt for Wen Shuchen, which her apartment in Jiangcheng didn’t have.

 

The driver, realizing she was a local, didn’t press further.

 

He Qingchi closed her eyes, listening to the sound of rain growing heavier outside.

 

It had only been a light mist when she left in the morning, but now it was pouring straight down.

 

She took out her phone to check the time. Her fingertips paused as she opened a message.

 

The last conversation with Wen Shuchen was two days ago.

 

She scrolled through the chat history and stopped at his business trip itinerary.

 

Right now, He Qingchi seemed to know Wen Shuchen’s schedule like the back of her hand, yet she hadn’t contacted him once. Ever since the man left for his business trip to the U.S., he had practically vanished, leaving behind only a few words that brushed lightly through her world, leaving a subtle trace.

 

These past couple of days, whenever He Qingchi felt bored, she would pull up their messages and stare at them. She often hesitated about whether to text him and thank him for helping her out so much. But every time she finished typing, she’d delete the message word by word.

 

She realized she didn’t really have anything to talk about with Wen Shuchen.

 

If he replied with just a simple “Mm” again, wouldn’t that be awkward? She figured it’d be better to wait until he returned from his trip and thank him in person when she gave him the shirt.

 

Putting away her phone, He Qingchi brushed her hair behind her ear and looked out the car window.

 

The taxi had been driving for two and a half hours before finally reaching Wushan Town.

 

The rain had eased. After paying the fare, He Qingchi got out of the car, carrying a delicate suitcase, and stepped into the familiar alley. Water pooled over the bluestone pavement and soaked her shoes. She turned a corner and walked a bit further until a vermilion-painted door came into view.

 

Walking inside, she saw her grandmother quietly resting on a wisteria chair beneath the corridor in the courtyard. She wore a deep-red cheongsam, her silver hair neatly tied up in a bun. Though her face was covered in wrinkles, there remained an air of grace and tranquility shaped by time.

 

He Qingchi set down her suitcase and approached, bending down to pick up a nearby blanket to cover her grandmother, but was stopped by a gentle hand on hers.

 

The grandmother opened her eyes and looked at her, her aged voice kind and warm: “You’re back.”

 

He Qingchi nodded and finished placing the blanket over her. She said softly, “I’ll be staying for a few days.”

 

Hearing this, the grandmother asked Aunt Zhang, the housekeeper, to thoroughly clean up a room and instructed her to prepare a few more homemade dishes for dinner.

 

He Qingchi had spent most of her childhood with her grandmother, and their bond was naturally close. But her grandmother’s household was no less strict than the He family. Seeing He Qingchi bare-faced and simply dressed, she couldn’t help but comment: “Whose daughter walks out looking like this? Your father still hopes to find a good match for you—he’ll be worried sick.”

 

He Qingchi winced the moment she heard the words “good match.”

 

“Go change your shoes. I made you a new dress,” her grandmother added, noting the water on her shoes. After giving her instructions, she quietly lay back in her chair, gently waving a folding fan.

 

Obediently, He Qingchi went to change shoes while Aunt Zhang had already cleaned every corner of the room. She carried her suitcase inside.

 

The newly made cheongsam was placed in the wardrobe, but He Qingchi didn’t try it on immediately.

 

Her grandmother had stopped taking clients for custom cheongsams two years ago, even refusing high-paying requests. Occasionally, when she was in good spirits, she would make one or two for her granddaughter—each a top-tier piece.

 

He Qingchi lay down beside the bed, taking in the familiar yet long-unused room.

 

The house in Wushan Town was old and usually only housed her grandmother and Aunt Zhang.

 

She had come to live here when she was about five or six. At that time, her father’s love life was a mess, and his marriage with her mother had completely collapsed. They had agreed to divorce, but her mother died in a car accident shortly after.

 

He Qingchi had fallen seriously ill around the same time and was sent to her grandmother’s home to recover.

 

After her health improved, she was brought back to the He family a few years later, but would occasionally return to Wushan for short stays.

 

She could barely remember what had happened during those early years and sometimes asked her grandmother about them.

 

But her grandmother’s answer always matched her father’s: “We were busy handling your mother’s affairs and didn’t have time to care for you properly. That’s why you fell ill. It’s normal for a child to forget things when they’ve had a fever.”

 

Eventually, He Qingchi stopped asking.

 

*

She lay quietly on the bed, listening to the sound of rain trickling from the eaves outside.

 

At noon, He Qingchi had lunch with her grandmother, then went to another room to search for fabric.

 

Her grandmother stuck to her usual daily routine and didn’t interfere.

 

Even though He Qingchi had only met Wen Shuchen a few times, she could tell he had refined and understated taste. She sorted through several colors of fabric, going back and forth, and eventually decided that porcelain white would suit him best.

 

That overly clean, cool tone could perfectly bring out Wen Shuchen’s gentle, jade-like quality, while also enhancing his refined and distant elegance.

 

After picking a color, He Qingchi spent another two hours digging through the room to find just the right grade of fabric.

 

By late afternoon, her grandmother brought her a freshly roasted sweet potato.

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

The grandmother noticed she had pulled out a mountain of fabric, now piled everywhere.

 

Reclining on a chaise longue without a care for her image, He Qingchi took the sweet potato and took a bite. Her silky black hair was messily tied up, revealing her delicate features. Tilting her head back, she replied, “I’m picking fabric, Grandma.”

 

“None of these suit you?” Her grandmother had collected an impressive range of high-quality fabric over the years.

 

Right beside He Qingchi was a piece of pure cotton fabric. She ran her fingers over it and silently shook her head.

 

Her grandmother walked into a side room, and after a moment, opened a long black walnut chest and called He Qingchi over.

 

“Come pick for yourself, sweet girl.”

 

The chest was securely placed and even locked—clearly where her grandmother stored her treasures.

 

Inside, the top layer was neatly arranged with over a dozen shades of fabric. He Qingchi picked up a piece of ink-blue cloth, examined it, and carefully placed it back. Then she pulled out a bolt of porcelain-white silk.

 

It seemed to be made of mulberry silk, with a pearlescent sheen. It felt incredibly smooth and comfortable against the skin.

 

“You're set on this one?” The grandmother asked when she saw her make her choice. “This is the last piece.”

 

He Qingchi nodded, smiling with her eyes. “Yes, this one. Thank you, Grandma.”

 

The grandmother didn’t ask what she planned to do with the silk fabric. Her kind eyes seemed to understand everything without needing words.

 

The next three days passed in a simple routine.

 

She either ate and walked with her grandmother or shut herself in her room playing the role of a little tailor.

 

It was almost as if she had completely disconnected from the outside world.

 

Making the shirt for Wen Shuchen took a lot of effort.

 

Considering the pure white fabric might look too plain for a dress shirt, she used white thread to embroider delicate patterns into it, one stitch at a time, spending two full days and nights on the embroidery.

 

Just as the shirt was nearing completion, Qin Chuan sent her a message: [Young Miss, have you been abducted?]

 

He Qingchi rested on a rosewood couch, the nearly finished shirt on her lap. She lazily tapped out a reply with her fingertips: [I'm at my grandma’s place.]

 

Qin Chuan: [What are you doing in the countryside?]

 

[Making a shirt for Wen Shuchen to thank him for helping me.] She sent back, along with a photo.

 

Qin Chuan laughed: [A white dress shirt? Could you be any more perfunctory? You can buy those at any store.]

 

He Qingchi: [Are you blind?]

 

—This one shirt had practically ruined her hands, okay?

 

Later, Qin Chuan asked when she’d be returning to Jiangcheng.

 

He Qingchi thought for a moment: [In a couple of days.]

 

She added: [Once the break's over, I have to join a shoot.]

 

Qin Chuan: [Have you and Wen Shuchen kept in touch?]

 

After all that chatter, that was what he really wanted to gossip about.

 

He Qingchi: [Why would we be in contact?]

 

Qin Chuan: [Aren’t you at least curious when he’s coming back to the country?]

 

He Qingchi hadn’t mentioned she already knew Wen Shuchen’s itinerary—she didn’t want Qin Chuan to overthink it and start spouting nonsense.

 

Her instincts were spot on. The next second, Qin Chuan sent a gleeful emoji: [Your dad and I have a running bet on when you—our noble flower of the mortal world—will finally fall for someone. I gave it three months. Don’t forget to split the winnings with me, alright?]

 

He Qingchi: [Drop dead!] 

 

She ignored him after that. The next evening, she finally completed the shirt.

 

Qin Chuan’s teasing had actually reminded her: a white shirt was something easily found in any store.

 

Sitting quietly at her desk, lit only by a soft desk lamp that cast a gentle glow on the shirt’s cuff.

 

He Qingchi picked up her needle and thread and embroidered the character “温” (Wen) on the inside of the cuff.

 

Just a few strokes, yet they captured the elegant and composed aura of the man himself in that small space.

 

“Sweet girl,” came grandmother’s gentle voice at the door, accompanied by a soft cough.

 

He Qingchi jumped, too late to hide the men’s shirt in her hands.

 

“Grandma, why aren’t you asleep yet?”

 

Wearing her reading glasses, her grandmother patted her hand. “You’re leaving for Jiangcheng tomorrow to start filming. I wanted to talk to you a bit.”

 

He Qingchi helped her sit down. The shirt remained plainly visible on the table.

 

Her grandmother looked at it, fell silent for a moment, then asked, “My sweet granddaughter—have you taken a liking to some young man?”

 

Her grandmother’s kind smile made He Qingchi a little flustered. She shook her head. “No…”

 

She explained dryly about the shirt: “Just someone I knew for less than three days helped me out with something. I’m making this to return the favor, that’s all.”

 

How could she possibly have someone she liked...

 

Even if she did have a faint sense of attraction to Wen Shuchen, it was likely just because he was good-looking and pleasant to the eye.

 

Besides, someone of his status had surely seen countless women—no way he'd fall for her at first sight.

 

Her grandmother didn’t press further, though her heart was clear.

 

These past few days, He Qingchi had stayed in Wushan Town, only stepping out to accompany her on evening strolls, otherwise locking herself in the room all day, focused solely on that man’s shirt. Her grandmother had never seen her so committed to anything before. Every single stitch on that shirt had been done by her own hand—no one else’s.

 

If it was merely to return a favor, it was quite a significant one.

 

Her grandmother’s thoughtful gaze softened into warmth. “Next time, bring this friend who helped you by to meet me, alright?”

 

He Qingchi's long lashes fluttered slightly. She knew the more she tried to explain, the messier it would get, so she chose silence.

 

The next day at noon, the sun was shining brightly.

 

He Qingchi called Qin Chuan and had him send a driver to pick her up. She walked out of the alley, suitcase in hand just like when she arrived.

 

But now, that suitcase only held two things—her grandma’s newly made cheongsam, and the men’s shirt she had sewn with her own hands.

 

Two garments, light in weight, yet heavy in meaning.

 

After returning to Jiangcheng, she arranged to have dinner with Qin Chuan that evening.

 

First, she went back to her apartment and dropped her suitcase in the walk-in closet. Her pale fingers reached behind her to unzip her dress, and she stepped into the bathroom for a shower.

 

When she came out, she was wrapped in a thin towel. 

 

She bent down and picked up her phone from the coffee table with a slender, fair hand. Pulling up the contact she had saved for Wen Shuchen a few days ago, she finally took the initiative and sent a text: [Mr. Wen, the shirt is finished. When are you free to come pick it up?]

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