In the back hallway of the banquet hall, lined with velvet curtains and murmuring servants, Feng Xiao Xiao moved with quiet grace—leaving behind the clinking glasses and poisoned smiles.
But she didn't get far before a cold voice stopped her.
"Xiao Xiao."
She turned slowly.
There he was—Feng Zhong, her father.
Still tall, still dignified in his tailored suit. Still wearing that disapproving expression like a second skin. The same look he wore the day he told her not to cause trouble. The same one he gave her mother on her deathbed.
"Father," she greeted flatly.
He stepped closer, his face tight. "What do you think you're doing? Embarrassing the family in public? Do you think changing your dress and humiliating Feng Ju makes you a star?"
Xiao Xiao didn't flinch.
"What I do," she said calmly, "is finally represent the Feng name. You should thank me."
He scoffed. "You've always been disobedient. And now you're even worse. How dare you speak to me like that?"
"Like what?" Her eyes flashed. "Like someone who's tired of begging for your approval?"
Feng Zhong's brows furrowed.
"You always blamed me," she continued, voice calm but cutting, "for every tear my mother shed. For every decision Grandfather made. For being born. But I see clearly now. You didn't hate me because I was weak. You hated me because I reminded you of the woman you failed."
His hand twitched at his side.
She didn't stop.
"You gave my place to Feng Qian. Let Madam Lin mock my mother's name. You stood silent when I was sent away. So don't act like you care now."
Feng Zhong's mouth opened, but no words came.
Xiao Xiao gave him a smile—cool and devastating.
"I don't need your approval anymore, Father."
And just like that, she turned and walked away.
This time, he was the one left behind.