Chapter 4: You'll Pay for the Button
Qin Yan drove herself.
Under the car seat she kept only a small pistol, though there was always a dagger in her handbag for self-defense.
She brought no adjutant, no attendants.
When she reached the newspaper office, Qin Yan first called Ling Manyun into her office.
“Deposit this into my account.” She handed the check to Ling Manyun.
Ling Manyun came from a good family and never made a fuss over money. But today she was a little surprised. “From the divorce?”
It was more than she’d expected.
“It’s living expenses from my husband,” Qin Yan said. “The divorce was a misunderstanding.”
Ling Manyun said, “All right, I’ll take care of it right away.”
Then she added, “Since you’re not divorcing, you’d better pay attention to the Nancheng Daily poaching your people.”
“Go on and get busy,” Qin Yan said.
Her newspaper employed over forty people and rented a three-story building facing the street, with her office on the third floor. At first she’d written news herself, but later realized she was better at management—at creating opportunities and building up lead writers.
When it came to a sharp, biting, entertaining pen, she always fell a little short.
Things hadn’t been busy lately. The paper was running smoothly.
If not for Du Zhuojun trying to poach her lead writers...
Qin Yan turned it over in her mind. “Four lead writers. Keeping even one counts as a victory.”
Whenever trouble or disaster struck, so long as she kept a single spark, Qin Yan could rise again. She had never truly been defeated.
As for which of the four famous lead writers would stay, Qin Yan had no idea.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know her own people—it was that until interests truly clashed, human nature stayed opaque.
She was preparing, drafting her approach to speak with each lead writer one by one, when a commotion erupted outside the door.
“You can’t go in there!”
Another clerk’s voice.
Qin Yan looked up to see several burly men in blue short shirts pushing open her office door, while her clerk tried to block a young woman from entering.
“Editor-in-Chief, Miss Ling went to the bank, and they just barged in...”
The young clerk was on the verge of tears. With Ling Manyun gone, she couldn’t stop these fierce-looking men.
Qin Yan waved a hand. “Go on downstairs.”
Six burly men stood in the doorway, surrounding her office. Each had a bulge at his waist—they were armed.
The young woman wore a pale yellow trench coat over a simple cream-colored Western dress, standing before Qin Yan’s desk.
Qin Yan pulled open a drawer as she rose. “Miss Du?”
“Madam Cheng. So you know me.” Du Zhuojun smiled faintly. “Thanks to my reflection, you’ve lived well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You still don’t know? It seems none of the ladies and young misses of Nancheng tell you the truth. You have a three-tenths resemblance to me—that’s why you married into the Governor’s residence.
Otherwise, how could someone of unknown origin marry Cheng Tianxun? You rode my coattails. Is that clear enough?”
Du Zhuojun spoke with a serene face, her voice low.
Not smug, not angry—calm, as though stating a simple fact.
She carried herself like a lady of quality.
“Since Miss Du knows who I am, making such a scene—are you trying to set yourself against the Governor’s residence?” Qin Yan asked.
“You’re worthy of the person who stole my teacher’s idea. Your talent for twisting black into white is first-rate,” Du Zhuojun said.
Qin Yan looked at her, puzzled.
“My teacher was Mr. Yu Shuhong,” Du Zhuojun said.
Yu Shuhong was the first scholar to propose founding vernacular newspapers to promote the written vernacular.
“Promoting the vernacular and founding vernacular newspapers have been discussed for years—it wasn’t Mr. Yu’s original idea. If you insist on crediting him alone, ask the rest of the cultural circle whether they agree,” Qin Yan said.
“That’s sophistry, Madam Cheng.”
“Miss Du, why not just tell me plainly what you came here for today?” Qin Yan watched her quietly.
“I came to tell Madam Cheng that since you stole another’s work and made a fortune from it, you ought to feel ashamed.
Lead writers Song and Ge want to leave, but you threaten their safety. I’m here to ask Madam Cheng not to be so overbearing—not to interfere with the lead writers’ freedom,” Du Zhuojun said.
Qin Yan said, “They haven’t spoken to me about resigning. The moment they do, I’ll agree.”
Du Zhuojun couldn’t help laughing. “Excellent. I knew anyone with a shred of conscience would have some self-awareness.
In that case, I won’t breathe a word about how you used me to get into the Cheng family, or how you stole my teacher’s ideas.”
She turned to go.
Qin Yan called after her. “Miss Du...”
Du Zhuojun turned back. “Something else?”
“You barge into my office, sling mud at me, accuse me of theft and of using underhanded means to trap my own staff—and then you just walk away?” Qin Yan asked.
Du Zhuojun frowned slightly.
Qin Yan came around the desk, stepped up to her, and in one lightning movement slammed Du Zhuojun’s head onto the desktop.
The shift came so fast that Du Zhuojun couldn’t help but scream.
Her attendants swarmed forward, working their bolts and aiming at Qin Yan.
Qin Yan’s pistol was pressed to Du Zhuojun’s head.
“Let Seventh Miss go!”
“Madam Cheng, don’t be rash!”
Du Zhuojun was shaking. “Y-you—put the gun down.”
“Apologize in tomorrow’s paper,” Qin Yan said.
Du Zhuojun gritted her teeth.
One of her attendants, calmer than the rest, spoke up. “Fine. Seventh Miss will apologize to you tomorrow. Madam Cheng, just let her go first. If this really blows up, even the Governor’s residence can’t clean up after you. Why—”
Qin Yan raised her hand.
A shot struck the speaker in the shoulder. His pistol dropped, and the impact knocked him off his feet; he landed sitting on the floor.
Qin Yan’s aim was fast and true.
As she fired, she pinned Du Zhuojun down with her elbow, then racked a fresh round in an instant.
The barrel stayed on Du Zhuojun’s forehead.
“Tell your men to put down their guns,” Qin Yan said to Du Zhuojun. “Or I’ll put a bullet through your leg first and leave you a cripple. Then through your hand...”
“Put them down! Put them down!” Du Zhuojun screamed.
She was a wreck.
All her poise and nobility had vanished.
Pinned under Qin Yan’s hand, her dignity was ground beneath Qin Yan’s heel.
“You know who my father is, who my uncle is. If you dare hurt me—” Du Zhuojun tried to frighten her off.
“And you know who my husband is, who my parents-in-law are,” Qin Yan cut her off.
Du Zhuojun trembled from head to foot.
That was when Secretary Ling Manyun returned.
She took in the scene, startled. “What’s going on?”
Five burly men with their hands up, one attendant with his shoulder soaked in blood, pistols scattered across the floor, and a woman pinned down by Qin Yan.
Without a word, Ling Manyun kicked the guns across the floor toward Qin Yan, leaving only one behind.
She picked it up, fired a neat shot out the window, then reloaded with practiced ease. “On your knees!”
The attendants exchanged glances, then all knelt.
They were unarmed, and both women clearly knew how to shoot. No point in a stubborn fight—better to lose face than lose their lives.
“All right, kill her.” Ling Manyun turned to Qin Yan. “End it for good.”
At those words Du Zhuojun seemed to go mad with fear, thrashing desperately. She wanted to live—to claw out a sliver of a chance.
Just as Qin Yan was about to lose her grip, she fired.
The office went silent.
Du Zhuojun slumped softly to the floor.
Only the echo of the gunshot lingered.
The wounded attendant’s eyes nearly split with rage; the other five shook so badly they could barely stay on their knees. If Seventh Miss died, the Master and Madam would flay them alive.