In March 2018, Shenlan was swept by blustery winds and drenching rains, with greenery bursting forth in vibrant abundance. The entire city was steeped in the sweet fragrance of white magnolias—a season when spring’s allure was more intoxicating than fine wine.
That year, Fu Yanzong was nineteen years old.
When Ji Cheng pushed open the door to Lanting Apartment, he wasn’t remotely surprised by the sight that greeted him.
The living room floor was littered with scattered script pages and Feishu printouts, while Fu Yanzong lay sprawled on the sofa, cocooned in an air-conditioned blanket and fast asleep. His slightly disheveled long hair veiled half his profile, leaving visible only the gentle downward curve of his face and the tiny beauty mark nestled beneath his long lashes.
It was a strikingly serene face from this angle—one that perfectly masked his utterly deplorable personality.
Ji Cheng thought this darkly to himself as he tossed the takeout bag in his hand onto the table. He glanced at the resignation email from the lifestyle assistant on his phone, then sighed helplessly and shook Fu Yanzong awake.
“Young Master, what did that last assistant do to piss you off this time?”
Ji Cheng gathered up the strewn script pages and clipped them neatly together. His gaze naturally fell on the dense annotations scribbled across them in multicolored pens. Fu Yanzong had meticulously categorized the character’s backstory. Judging by the sheer volume of work, he’d clearly pulled an all-nighter.
Ji Cheng let out a sigh. “Jiang Ming handed you the script for Three Quarters first. Looks like you’re pretty interested?”
Ji Cheng flicked on all the apartment lights. The harsh glare of the unmodified incandescent bulbs was merciless, eerily reminiscent of the blinding spotlights on a film set.
The overlapping, blurring light grated on Fu Yanzong’s nerves. He lifted an arm to shield his eyes, and only after a long moment did he rasp out a reply. “Pass.”
Pass, yet he’d taken all these notes?
“You sure about that? Fu Yanzong, honestly, sometimes I have no clue what goes through your head.”
Fu Yanzong cracked his eyes open and shot back indifferently, “Then don’t bother.”
Ji Cheng pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that his relationship with someone like Fu Yanzong could only ever be professional. Without another word, he stood before the sofa as if in an office boardroom and opened his folder to report the incoming schedule.
“If you’re passing on Jiang Ming’s film, that frees up time for the exclusive interview on Jin Zhang’s movie, lead roles in two primetime TV dramas, and an offer to be a mentor on a variety show.”
“I’ve sent you the scripts for the TV dramas. They’re titled…”
“Pass on all of them.”
“. . . Jin Zhang is Dongyu Group’s TV station. Mr. Song was hoping you’d take it.”
Fu Yanzong turned his head, fixing Ji Cheng with a steady stare as he drawled, “Ji Cheng, the one who hired you is me, not Song Wen.”
Ji Cheng fell silent, but his stance spoke volumes.
And he knew full well that Fu Yanzong wouldn’t be capricious about this.
Song Wen was the current helm of Dongyu Group, a close friend and business partner of Fu Yanzong’s late parents—and the man they’d entrusted their son to before their deaths. Even setting aside sentiment, Fu Yanzong held a ten percent stake in Dongyu. There was no cutting ties.
That stake was also the reason Fu Yanzong could be so recklessly indulgent, squandering his acting career without a care in the world.
. . . What a pain Young Master types were.
Ji Cheng thought.
Turning down prime opportunities to star in trash flicks, tossing aside scripts handed right to him.
Even as the media churned out headlines like “The Cost of Fame: Greed Corrupts the Heart, Talent Fades Away” and “Spirit Vanished: Will Fu Yanzong Be Stuck in Garbage Movies Forever?”—even as everyone denounced him—he could still do whatever the hell he wanted.
Others weren’t so lucky.
Ji Cheng paused, then continued impassively. “Not having an assistant isn’t sustainable. Since you don’t have much on your plate lately and aren’t happy with our picks, why not select one yourself?”
Fu Yanzong neither agreed nor refused.
He rose from the sofa, shrugged on his jacket, and commanded curtly, “I’m heading to Dongyu. I’ll tell him in person.”
/
Dongyu Group’s towering headquarters was probably the busiest spot in Shenlan during daylight hours. Even with dozens of receptionists frantically registering visitors and verifying appointments, they could barely keep up.
Yet amid the frenzy, an oppressive tension hung in the air. Every employee operated under relentless pressure, where time was measured in money, deterring countless outsiders.
Of course, Fu Yanzong wasn’t one to be intimidated. He stepped out of his car and hadn’t taken two strides before a gaggle of girls with cameras swarmed him at the entrance.
“Aaaahhh! Baby, we finally caught you! Can you do a heart sign with us?”
Shouts like that rang nonstop in his ears.
Trapped in the crowd, Fu Yanzong helplessly tossed his keys to the valet for parking. He signaled to the approaching security guards with a time-out gesture—give it a few minutes before clearing them out.
“Heart signs done, what’s next? Spit it out quick—I’m in a rush.” Fu Yanzong smoothly grabbed a pen and struck a few poses, adding casually, “No blank pages. Phone cases work fine.”
Onlookers in the lobby kept turning to gawk at the commotion outside, whispers rippling through the crowd.
“Celebrities, huh? No wonder their fans waste their days lurking here instead of getting real jobs.”
“Look at their age—didn’t even finish nine years of compulsory schooling. Hey, wait—isn’t that Fu Yanzong, the award-winning hotshot? That trash movie of his just hit theaters, and he still has the nerve to show his face? Typical celebrity scum . . .”
Fu Yanzong tuned out the murmurs, but his fans wouldn’t stand for it. The girl at the front wiped away tears at the barbs, whirled around to yell back fiercely, then crumpled to the ground in aggrieved sobs.
At a loss, Fu Yanzong crouched down and patted her back gently. His words were rough but the sentiment solid. “What’s there to cry about? I rake in the cash—getting flak now and then is par for the course.”
“But your acting is amazing! They’re just too dense to get it!”
“Not really.” Fu Yanzong chuckled despite himself. “Lately, yeah, I did a stinker. But hey, at least I’ve got this face going for me, right?”
The fans burst into laughter. The girl stood up sheepishly, and her fellow fans didn’t chide her for holding things up. Instead, they chimed in with encouragement.
While chatting and signing the last postcard, Fu Yanzong reminded them, “Don’t come around this month. I’m not going out—don’t waste your time waiting.”
The fans obeyed, nagging him to eat well and stay healthy before reluctantly dispersing. Fu Yanzong watched them go, a faint sigh escaping him.
Fans were the one group who could forgive you unconditionally. They’d trek from afar and wait hours just for a glimpse—that kind of devotion was, frankly, hard to bear.
Because letting them down would only bring disappointment and hurt.
In front of them, Fu Yanzong tried to be gentle, considerate, good-tempered. But in truth, he wasn’t like that at all. Disappointment was inevitable.
Lost in these thoughts, Fu Yanzong suddenly sensed a gaze upon him.
Years in acting had honed his sensitivity to scrutiny. This wasn’t the casual disdain or envy from passersby, nor the adoring stares of fans. It was the intense, probing look of someone appraising a baffling math puzzle.
He lifted his gaze and turned to trace its source. But in the next instant, the shadowing stare vanished without a trace.
Fu Yanzong paused briefly, then strode into Dongyu’s revolving doors without further delay.
The reception lines were long, save for one unusually short queue with just a single teenager in it. No one queued behind him, likely because his conversation with the staff showed no sign of ending.
Fu Yanzong had no patience for orderly lines. He cut straight through the crowd to the lone teenager’s queue, faintly catching snippets of the heated exchange.
“Sir, we’re truly sorry, but I can tell you plainly without involving Director Li. Dongyu’s aid for underprivileged students has strict terms. You didn’t sit for the gaokao or gain admission to an approved university as required, so we can’t offer you employment.”
“Even if you received top-tier scholarships before . . . it doesn’t matter . . . In fact, you’ll need to repay the tuition . . . Yes . . . three years’ worth . . .”
Fu Yanzong frowned and rapped on the reception desk, interrupting them. “Sorry to butt in—what floor is Uncle Song on right now?”
Spotting him, the receptionist’s tone instantly softened with delight. “Good morning, Mr. Fu. President Song is in a meeting on the 32nd floor. It should wrap up in about forty minutes—you can wait for him in the lounge.”
“That’s ages.”
Fu Yanzong tsked softly. Suddenly struck by idle curiosity about someone else’s business, he asked offhandedly, “What were you just telling him? Something about the gaokao? Who’s he looking for?”
As he spoke, Fu Yanzong sized up the teenager beside him. His words trailed off unexpectedly—he was actually pretty good-looking.
Even by entertainment industry standards.
Tall and striking in bearing, with refined, handsome features. Even in a faded plain T-shirt and an outdated, ordinary backpack, he stood out.
He was just painfully thin. Fu Yanzong’s lashes dipped slightly, and from the overly loose neckline of the teen’s T-shirt, he glimpsed the sparse layer of flesh over prominent vertebrae.
It really did look like his financial situation wasn’t great… Fu Yanzong mused to himself, only to suddenly notice that as his gaze lingered, the youth’s Adam’s apple bobbed with excruciating slowness.
The youth then dropped his eyes uncomfortably and murmured a soft refusal. “No… no need to trouble yourself.”
Even as he spoke, he backed away, not bothering to ask a single question. He looked ready to turn tail and bolt at any moment, as if Fu Yanzong were some pestilence to be avoided at all costs.
Usually, other people were the ones chasing after Fu Yanzong—no one had ever taken off running the moment they laid eyes on him.
He was young, after all, and when faced with someone who appeared just a year or two younger than himself, his playful side always emerged. Especially since this fellow seemed a bit strange.
With that, Fu Yanzong reached out directly and grabbed the youth’s backpack. He tugged him closer into his embrace, tilting his head with a mischievous grin as he slung an arm around the youth’s shoulders. Narrowing his eyes, he demanded, “Why are you running? I’m not going to eat you, you know.”
The spring day was clear and bright. Fu Yanzong’s smile was roguish and strikingly handsome—the very picture of playful devilry.
The youth, forced to huddle against his side like that, turned his face woodenly to stare at him.
…And then, after a brief moment of eye contact, a flush of panicked red crept uncontrollably over his entire body.
