When the dinner finally ended, I slipped into Fu Chenyan’s car. Seeing him leaning back against the seat with an exhausted expression, I couldn’t help asking about his relationship with the lead investor. He pulled me into his embrace and explained casually, “His last few projects bled money, so he’s been wanting to collaborate with me.”

I teased him playfully, “A real-life CEO would’ve blacklisted the male lead outright. Why’d you let him off with a slap on the wrist?” Fu Chenyan cut me a glance and actually made a move to reach for his phone. “I was worried you’d complain I was interfering too much. If you want a new male lead… I’ll make the call right now.”

I stopped him immediately. He pinched my nose lightly, affection laced with mild scolding. “Stop reading so many web novels.” It was a tiny gesture, yet it left both of us frozen for a split second, the intimacy had clearly crossed the boundary of our “contract.”

Back at the hotel, I took a long bath to shake off the chill from the water-jumping scene earlier. Just as I was about to step out, I realized I’d forgotten my robe. While I was frantically wrapping a thin bath towel around myself, the door swung open.

Our eyes locked. Before I could even scream, Fu Chenyan closed the distance. A fiery kiss fell on my bare shoulder. In the mirror, my own glistening, tear-bright eyes met his deep, fiercely possessive gaze. He scooped me up and set me down on the ice-cold marble vanity, but his breath against my skin was suffocatingly hot.

As my last shred of sanity began to evaporate, I whispered, “Wait… you don’t have protection…” He paused, his throat bobbing hard as he fought for control, then gathered me into his arms and carried me to the bed.

Everything wrapped up with textbook efficiency: three rounds. Classic “professor” style, precise, productive, no lingering around. Once finished, he slipped back into his customary self-restrained composure, calmly heading into his study to work as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.

I drifted into a restless sleep. In my dreams, Qi Han was screaming at me over my betrayal, high-school Fu Chenyan was staring me down with cold disapproval, and my best friend was smirking mischievously while grilling me about my “two-hour session” with the campus god.

The next morning, the moment I plugged in my charger and powered on my phone, my screen blew up with over a dozen missed calls from my manager. My heart sank instantly.

Something big had gone down.

Last night, Lin Mo had gone live. Though he hadn’t named names, every single word had been targeted straight at me, hurling accusations of “finding a sugar daddy” and “unprofessional conduct.” Netizens instantly turned social media into a public courtroom to tear me to pieces.

However, every good drama has a plot twist. Before I even had the chance to release a statement, Lin Mo’s own closet was opened and thoroughly picked apart: everything from him dating wealthy older women to video footage of his wild, debauched nights in clubs. Public opinion pulled an immediate U-turn; his agency severed his contract on the spot, throwing him straight to the wolves to sink or swim on his own.

Early that morning, I received a barrage of texts from my manager: “Xiao Yu, Lin Mo got blacklisted! But the bad news is, our drama doesn’t have a male lead anymore.” Immediately followed by another bombshell: “Good news! A top-tier superstar just took over the male lead role!”

On the way to the set, fans swarmed like a herd of zombies. The second I stepped out of the car, I froze dead in my tracks when I saw the actor stepping out of the vehicle parked opposite mine.

Tall frame, a straight nose, a side profile carved like a statue. It was Qi Han, my ex-boyfriend whom I hadn’t seen in six years.

Six years ago, after we got back together, he used a family visit to New Zealand as an excuse to gradually cut off contact. The breaking point came during a video call: a girl in pajamas appeared in his room, and he flashed her a gentle smile before hanging up without a word of explanation. His best friend later came to see me, leaving behind only a single phrase: “Qi said to take good care of yourself.”

Now, Qi Han was an international award-winning Film King. He looked at me through his dark sunglasses, the corner of his lips tugging up slightly before snapping back into a cold expression as he strode past surrounded by security guards. My manager whispered in pure ecstasy, “We hit the jackpot, Xiao Yu!” But all I could feel… was that I was completely doomed.

Our very first scene together was a brutal trial: I played the villainous second female lead, Ruan Yanshu, who had to sit on the Imperial Tutor’s (Qi Han’s) lap inside a meditation room to seduce him.

Clad in a thin gauze robe and a crimson camisole, I trembled as I sat on his lap. Today’s Qi Han was no longer the arrogant teenager of the past; he was like a razor-sharp blade freshly unsheathed.

According to the script, he was supposed to shove me off and bark, “Witch!” But in reality, Qi Han did no such thing. He lowered his voice, his hot breath fanning across my ear: — “Don’t be nervous. Just follow my lead.”

This was completely off-script. His fingers tilted my chin up, forcing me to look directly into his dark, heavily possessive eyes. His face slowly leaned closer, closing every inch of space between us…

— “Cut!”

The director yelled cut, his voice still shaken: “Qi Han, the chemistry is mind-blowing, but can we… tone the heat down just a bit?” He then turned around to criticize my eyes for looking far too “naive.”

We retook the scene over a dozen times. And with every single take, Qi Han added his own little “improvisations”: sometimes his fingers would graze the back of my neck; other times his arm would tighten around my waist as if he were terrified I’d run away. I was sitting on pins and needles, my acting performance plummeting straight off a cliff.

The absolute peak of my humiliation came when Fu Chenyan showed up. He stood right there, calmly witnessing me sitting on Qi Han’s lap, a pose that was both “artistic” and exceedingly difficult to explain. On the drive back to the hotel, he didn’t say a single word. The atmosphere in the car was so freezing cold that if there were fish in there, they would’ve flash-frozen on the spot. He didn’t ask, he didn’t show jealousy, and he didn’t even bring up Qi Han, and it was precisely that eerie composure that left me feeling utterly terrified.