The Heiress's Game

After Gu Zhenxing left, the studio fell silent again.

Julie stood in front of the easel, a pencil in her left hand. She lightly drew a few lines on the unfinished draft, then put the pencil down, took two steps back, and looked at the painting.

The image is a chaotic deep blue, with a golden halo spreading outward from the center, like a match being lit in the darkest moment before dawn.

She stared at the ball of light for a long time, and a smile slowly crept onto her lips.

It wasn't a smile; it was a very faint expression, like the kind you only see backstage when you're removing your makeup after finally finishing a big performance.

Life is indeed like a play, and it all depends on acting skills.

She placed the pencil on the easel tray and rubbed the itchy skin on her right wrist with her left hand, which was bound by gauze.

Two years ago, she was a penniless student.

Her paintings now hang on the walls of auction houses, fetching seven figures at auction.

Although she knew how it happened—the auction was a carefully scripted event from beginning to end, and her reputation was manipulated.

But that doesn't matter. The gavel fell, the numbers are real, the money is real.

The studio moved from a small apartment in Paris to the Marais district, and then from the Marais district to this top-floor apartment with a river view.

The media called her a "rising star Chinese-American painter," and collectors specifically collect her works. Gu Zhenxing served her coffee.

She looked down at her right hand, which was wrapped in gauze. This hand had required six stitches, and in return, the keys to the Clearwater Bay villa were taken back, Ning Limei and her daughter were completely out of the picture, and Gu Zhenxing sat trembling in front of her.

Worth it. Happiness for the rest of his life is coming soon—that's for Gu Zhenxing.

Gu Zhenxing of the Gu Group, whose net worth was so large that she had to count the zeros several times to confirm it, was completely won over by her with a cup of warm water, a few words of history, and a script of an unlikely friendship.

She no longer needs to smell the salty smell of soy sauce and oyster sauce mixed together in the back alleys of Chinatown, nor does she need to see her father's hands, white and wrinkled from being soaked in detergent in the kitchen.

The key to Rome was already in her hands, and the door had been opened.

She walked back to the sofa, sat down, and picked up her phone with her left hand.

There was an unread message on the screen from a number whose name she had never saved.

The message consisted of only four words: Well done.

She glanced at it, deleted the message, and then placed her phone screen-down on the coffee table.

She was never curious about who the anonymous person was.

From the moment she received that unsigned email at the library on the first day, she knew the most important rule in this deal—don't ask what you shouldn't ask, and don't know what you shouldn't know.

She only needs to play her role well and perform each scene well; the rest will be arranged by others.

But she felt a sense of gratitude, a gratitude she never shared with anyone, not even mentioning the anonymous number.

If it weren't for that anonymous person, she would still be living in a small room in the back alley of Chinatown, with two beds just outside the curtain, and her mother would be taking pictures in front of the plastic wishing tree at the restaurant entrance every Lunar New Year, wearing her best coat and smiling respectably.

The anonymous person gave her a map, a road, and an opportunity.

This opportunity changed the course of her entire life. She will be grateful for the rest of her life, not just in words, but in the real sense that if one day the anonymous person needs her to repay this favor, she will.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Gu Yunjin discovered that Ning Weier was the epitome of someone who was all looks and no brains.

Gu Yunjin spent several nights going through all of Ningweier's publicly known social media accounts—from when she was fifteen to twenty-five, ten years of online traces, there was nothing she couldn't find if she wanted to.

After reading it, she had only one thought: the resources that Gu Zhenxing has poured into Ningweier over the years are enough to support ten Gu Yunjins.

Cullinan, Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, apartment in Paris, all the expenses for six years of studying abroad, and red envelopes transferred from a private account every Chinese New Year.

Gu Zhenxing went to Qingshui Bay more often than he returned to the old house. Ningweier called him "Dad" for twenty-three years, and every time he called him that, it was louder than when she, his biological daughter, called him that.

When she was thrown into London at the age of fourteen, she only had two nannies who were paid to take care of the family. Ningville's fourteenth birthday present was a thoroughbred horse.

Gu Yunjin thought that Ningweier would at least turn these resources into something.

And what was the result? Besides eating, drinking, and having fun, it was all about buying bags and showing them off, changing cars and showing them off, and exchanging compliments with young girls in the comments section, saying things like "Sister is so cool."

She doesn't read, work, or cultivate connections; she hasn't even learned a fraction of Ning Limei's "not competing is the biggest competition" philosophy.

She lived her life as the template for a wealthy heiress—no, as the template for a wealthy heiress in her imagination.

Has she lost her mind? She wasn't even born into a wealthy family.

Anyone with a clear head wouldn't have personally used a secret account to insult Gu Zhenxing and Julie as they grew closer.

Gu Yunjin scrolled to Ningweier's latest posts on his alternate account and a slight smile appeared on her lips.

It's always the same few phrases over and over again—"Women who study art are all sluts," "Pretentious artsy bitches," "They climbed to the top by sleeping their way to the top."

Their vocabulary is so limited it's appalling; they can't even come up with anything new when they're cursing.

She typed a few times on the keyboard and logged into an anonymous account that had never posted anything before.

The profile picture is a leaf, the bio is blank, and the registration time is more than two years, so it doesn't look like a temporary shill registration at all.

She stored photos of art exhibitions on this alternate account and occasionally forwarded a few public news articles, making it appear like a real user.

Then she clicked on Ningweier's latest post, "Women who study art are all bastards," and sent a private message below it.

"Art students are all good students. They put in a lot of effort, what makes you say that?"

Ningweier replied almost instantly: "Girls who study art are all bastards, every single one of them."

Gu Yunjin looked at the line of text on the screen but did not reply immediately.

She waited for about half a minute, as if considering her words, and then typed: "Wei Xi also studied art, she's a good girl."

Ningweier had no idea who Wei Xi was.

She only vaguely remembered seeing the name somewhere before, but it didn't matter.

She didn't even bother to search on Baidu, and simply replied: "Wei Xi is a slut too, what are you pretending to be innocent for?"

Gu Yunjin was happy.

She took a screenshot of the conversation, cropped out her alternate account's profile picture and ID, leaving only Ningweier's alternate account's homepage information and the sentence "Wei Xi is also a slut."