The Adopted Girl from the Tea Mountain

I was crouching halfway up the Tea Mountain, my pant legs still wet with morning dew. The moment I pinched the tender tea buds and laid them into the bamboo basket, I heard a car engine roaring at the foot of the mountain. It was a black luxury car, glaringly out of place on the moss-covered mountain path. The man who stepped out wore a tailored suit, pearl cufflinks at his sleeves, yet he frowned at the soil of Tea Mountain. "Ms. Whitney Lynn?" The business card he handed me read "Special Assistant of Lynn Group Tea Industry," his fingertips still faintly smelling of disinfectant. "We are the Lynn family. You are the Lynn family's biological daughter who was lost to the outside world." The bamboo basket in my hand wavered, tea shoots falling into the dirt. It wasn't surprise, but a sense of absurdity—I had lived with my foster father on Tea Mountain for eighteen years and had never once heard the words "biological parents." The special assistant seemed to notice my hesitation and pulled a photo from his briefcase. In the photo, my foster father sat on a hospital bed, clutching the wool socks I had knitted for him, his face as pale as tea leaves left out in the sun too long. "Your foster father's rheumatoid arthritis has worsened; he requires long-term hospitalization." The special assistant's voice was calm, as if quoting the purchase price of tea leaves: "If you come back with us to the Lynn family, they will cover all his medical expenses." My fingers trembled as I held the photo. My foster father never had an easy life; he spent his years planting tea in Tea Mountain, carrying me home from school on rainy days, teaching me to pick tea on sunny ones. His finger joints were swollen like old bamboo knots, yet he never once complained of pain. "I'm coming with you." Sitting in the back seat of the luxury car, my mind drifted to the patch of freshly sprouted Tea at the foot of the mountain. My foster father had said that this season's spring tea would sell for a good price—enough to buy me a new tea-picking basket. As the car left the Tea Mountain behind, I glanced back; the mist-shrouded mountain looked like a piece of dark green velvet, concealing the eighteen years of my life. The Lynn family's villa perched halfway up the city outskirts— compared to our earth-walled house on the Tea Mountain, it was like a jewelry box edged in gold. The door opened to reveal a girl dressed in a silk nightgown, her hair curled like a Barbie doll in a department store; she frowned the moment she saw me. "Mom, is this the one who came from the mountains?" Her voice was sickly sweet, but she took a step back from my bamboo basket. "She reeks of earth and sweat." Only then did I realize she was Willow Lynn—the fake heir daughter the Lynn family had raised for eighteen years. Mrs. Lynn came out of the kitchen, still holding a stew pot. When she saw me, her face brightened with a smile, but she didn't move closer. "Whitney is back? Come, sit down. You must be tired from the journey." Her gaze swept over my worn canvas shoes before quickly shifting away, as if afraid of catching something. Mr. Lynn only returned at dinner. He wore a sharp suit, and as soon as he sat down, he asked the special assistant, "Has the Shaw Family been contacted?" The special assistant nodded. "Mr. Shaw said they will meet this weekend to confirm the marriage." I paused, clutching my chopsticks tightly. So, they called me back not because I'm the 'biological daughter,' but to stand in for Willow Lynn to marry the young master. Willow Lynn put down her spoon and curled her lips. "I'm not marrying that cripple! I heard he's depressed—like a madman." Mrs. Lynn quickly patted her hand. "Willow, don't say such things. The Shaw Family is powerful and prosperous; our Lynn family still depends on the Shaw's cultural tourism projects to thrive." Mr. Lynn glanced at me, his tone firm and unyielding: "Whitney, this marriage was originally meant for Willow, but she's too young and naive. As the older sister, you must take on this responsibility for the family." I scraped the rice in my bowl, saying nothing. I came to the Lynn family only for my foster father's medical expenses; I don't want to be involved in anything else. On the weekend when I met Simon Shaw, the Lynn family specially bought me a white dress. The dress was too long, and in my high heels, I stumbled awkwardly, like a tea tree bent crookedly by the wind. In the cafe's private room, Simon Shaw sat in a wheelchair, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a faint scar on his wrist. When he looked up at me, his eyelashes were long, and his gaze was not, as Willow Lynn had described, "mad," but rather calm. "Whitney Lynn?" His voice was deeper than I had imagined, tinged with a touch of huskiness. I nodded and recited the 'self-introduction' the Lynn family had prepared for me, as if I were memorizing the varieties of Tea Leaves. He smiled after listening, tapping his fingers on the table. 'I know you.'