Before the Silver Lake Hotel issued its official clarification statement, Su Tang’s fans were thrilled to see the CP discussions suppressed.
Everyone knew that such a large-scale and rapid cleanup of public opinion had to be backed by serious capital at work. Some busybodies cross-referenced the hotel guest list leaked by the Heartthrob System and quickly pinpointed Song Linyu’s name.
Song Linyu was the chairman and CEO of Dongyu Group, the direct superior of Star Jade Entertainment, the company Su Tang belonged to. Combined with the media photos of Su Tang coming and going from the Dongyu Office Building, his fans were almost convinced that their idol had a “sugar daddy” propping him up behind the scenes.
After all, they knew full well that with Su Tang’s own talent alone, without some maneuvering, it would be hard to push him to his current top-tier status.
But as the saying goes, fans weren’t ashamed of it—they were proud. They reveled in the idea of Su Tang being pampered by such a benefactor and had long been shipping the CP. Even in the “Fu-Su” pairing that Su Tang’s fans had joked about online, Fu Yanzong often ended up getting his love interest stolen by Song Linyu, leaving him to chase desperately after his “wife.”
However, the budding frenzy in Su Tang’s fan circle was doused with cold water by a video posted by the official Silver Lake Hotel account in Shenlan.
“Shenlan Silver Lake V: The employee who leaked personal information has been dealt with. We apologize to Mr. Fu Yanzong @FuYanzong and Mr. Su Tang @SuTang, who were innocently dragged into the rumors. The hotel will negotiate compensation with the staff shortly. Here’s the surveillance video from that night for clarification.”
The link led to unedited footage from the full-floor large-screen monitors, with only the fast-scrolling progress bar indicating its length. It clearly showed that in Fu Yanzong’s original room, aside from Su Tang and Xiao Sun holding a mango, no one else entered or exited until dawn.
The problem was, the adjacent room was empty too.
So someone asked in confusion below: “I believe you didn’t tamper with this video, but where’s Fu Yanzong?”
A reply came: “Maybe, if I didn’t see it wrong, the unblurred mosaic on the topmost monitor shows Fu Yanzong?”
They zoomed in, took a screenshot, and circled it.
If the video’s blurring was sloppy, a few frames could slip through. With Fu Yanzong’s distinctive outfit color blocks standing out, this “Sherlock Holmes of the modern age” quickly traced his movements. Cross-referencing the leaked room list, they declared that Fu Yanzong had gone to Song Linyu’s room that night.
And not just gone—he apparently never came out…?
That made things a bit intriguing.
Su Tang’s fans’ dreams of a sweet sugar daddy pampering his little star celebrity crashed and burned, but they still weren’t buying it. How could the two prime “top” options they’d paired Su Tang with spend a peaceful night together—and seem on pretty good terms?
Before Fu Yanzong’s fans could even decide whether to suppress the news, Su Tang’s fans jumped in to “defend their rights.”
Soft Candy: “@SilverLake, what do you mean clarifying without issuing a lawyer’s letter but posting surveillance footage? Trying to stir up CP hype on purpose? Such dirty tactics.”
“? How many times has Quick-Lie Sister ignored lawyer’s letters to spread rumors? Weren’t you the ones always making stuff up? Why are you melting down now?”
“Who’s melting down? Tell me who’s melting down? Do we care that much about Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu? We only love Tang Tang!!”
“Threw out a couple basic punches, and you already dropped your ultimate. Hilarious.”
…
The debate escalated wildly—from demands for clarification and solo-fan brawls to how to ship CPs and which pair to ship. Fans piled in, while bystanders watched the chaos with glee.
Soon enough, lawyer’s letters stamped with a law firm’s seal were courteously delivered to the hands of Su Tang’s major fans. Fu Yanzong’s studio even kindly announced that they wouldn’t let anyone off just because they were minors—everyone had to take responsibility for their words, online or off.
Su Tang’s fans hurriedly distanced themselves from the CP shippers to avoid the fallout. The two sides tore into each other like dogs fighting dogs, with rhetoric flying everywhere, while fans of other idols watched from afar, enjoying the spectacle.
But what ultimately shut down the discussion was a post from Song Linyu’s account—an account that hadn’t spoken in ages, looking like a brand-new profile, but verified with Dongyu Group’s official blue V badge.
He didn’t even say anything, just casually forwarded the Silver Lake clarification video.
—That was statement enough.
Su Tang’s fans had no choice but to pipe down, leaving him fuming in his room, breaking down as he demanded why the plot wasn’t following the script from the System.
If he had to use an item again…
Spending more points on online public opinion now was just too uneconomical.
The Heartthrob System pondered for a moment before murmuring to Su Tang, “I keep feeling like there’s something off between Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu.”
“Leave them be for now. Snag points from others to exchange for items as backup. As for why the plot deviated, we’ll see later—”
The Heartthrob System thought its plan was flawless. But it hadn’t anticipated that its overly curt tone in issuing the order would make Su Tang toss the main issue aside entirely. Instead, he turned the gun on the System, sparking a huge argument in the room that sent everything into uproar.
Meanwhile, Fu Yanzong, right at the eye of the storm, paid no more attention to the matter.
He didn’t care about Song Linyu’s clarification, Su Tang’s fans’ meltdown, or even ask about the lawyer’s letters.
He was reading a message from Yang Wan—
“Jingyan’s back on the mainland today for a shoot. He said he’d treat us to dinner. Timing worked out for tonight, and the spot’s your Serenity Moon Misty Court. You coming?”
Fu Yanzong glanced lazily at it and replied with a simple “Mm,” adding, “I’ll head over myself.”
He stood, slipped on his jacket, and went downstairs.
The apartment’s basement level was Fu Yanzong’s private garage. In his younger days, he’d loved flashy thrills. Now, as the lights flicked on, the cold white metallic gleam of dozens of race-grade supercars dazzled the eyes.
Fu Yanzong lifted his gaze, skipping over the eye-catching rides to settle on the Pagani Huayra BC Roadster parked at the far end.
He’d never driven it once. Song Linyu had given it to him the year he left—a global limited edition, customized with care, complete with his favorite gray-blue interior. Even the key fob was engraved with his initials.
Fu Yanzong stared at the car for a few seconds, his expression unchanging. He just tossed the keys in his hand, then turned to the other side and fired up a silver-gray Aston Martin to head out.
The engine roared to life cleanly and sharply. He floored the accelerator and sped up the mountain road.
Serenity Moon Misty Court Villa wasn’t far from Lanting Apartment; both were properties under Fu Yanzong’s name that he’d inherited. The villa sat midway up the hillside, surrounded by forest on three sides and facing a lake on the fourth. Its name came from an ancient poem—elegant in sound, but built with a fortune behind it.
The villa had been open for business for years, to the public but with sky-high barriers: membership-only, with single visits costing over a million. Patrons were either rising business tycoons or film industry stars. On the surface, it was for vacations; underneath, it was a web of deals—business talks, resource swaps, intel gathering—all tangled in lavish indulgence.
Fu Yanzong held the shares but left operations to professional managers. So most people knew only that the true owner stayed out of sight, unaware that Fu Yanzong was the boss of Serenity Moon Misty Court.
With that thought, Fu Yanzong slammed on the brakes and pulled up at the villa’s entrance.
The valet recognized his car and hurried over at once, saying respectfully, “Mr. Fu, Mr. Liang and his friends are waiting for you at the lakeside club.”
Liang Jingyan had picked a fine spot.
Fu Yanzong smiled faintly, handed over the keys, and strode toward the lake. In the distance, the courtyard pavilion offered privacy and openness, backed by mountains and fronting the water. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, ancient trees swayed in the wind. Dusk hadn’t fallen yet, and the lake reflected the soft glow of floating warm lights.
When Fu Yanzong pushed open the door to the private room, it was already full. Yang Wan and Liang Jingyan sat by the window, with an unfamiliar young star next to them.
“You’re late—no blaming me for sending the message late. I was busy munching on online drama,” Yang Wan said with a grin as she raised her glass in jest upon seeing him.
Everyone there knew marketing tactics inside out and assumed the hot search was promo for Fu Yanzong and Su Tang’s film Hidden Face. They chuckled in knowing unison.
Liang Jingyan stood right away. “Brother Fu’s the last to arrive. You gotta down three shots as penalty for this table tonight.”
Fu Yanzong’s lips curved slightly. Too lazy to refuse, he walked over, draped his jacket over the chair back, picked up a glass from the table, swirled it lightly, tossed it back in one go, and then turned it upside down to show the bottom empty.
The group hooted for a refill, but the young star beside Liang Jingyan beat them to it, rising to pour him half a glass with a fawning smile.
Fu Yanzong’s gaze lingered on the young star for a moment. Then he tapped the rim of his glass with a finger and commanded in an indifferent tone, “Fill it.”
The kid was clearly in his early twenties, fresh-faced and neatly dressed, but ill at ease. Sitting among this crowd, his eyes kept darting to Fu Yanzong—clearly brought by Liang Jingyan for a glimpse of the big leagues.
Hearing that, he nodded awkwardly and properly filled the glass to the brim.
Yang Wan, ever perceptive, caught on with a glance or two and burst out laughing. She turned to Liang Jingyan. “Rare time hanging with us, and you’re this idle? Dragging a kid like this into the mix for what? Now you’ve really shot yourself in the foot with that lute.”
Liang Jingyan wasn’t upset at all, nor did he rush to explain. A steady smile hung on his face. “Sister Wan, you’re being unfair. We’re all old acquaintances here, so I just brought someone along to broaden his horizons. I’d never dare do anything reckless.”
He glanced at Fu Yanzong, who had already taken a seat, then continued, “Besides, if Brother Fu is interested, how could I say no? It’s not like the guy doesn’t want to.”
Liang Jingyan swept his gaze over the person shivering beside him. His words were straightforward, but his tone carried an unmistakable teasing edge. The young star kept his head bowed nervously, not daring to move a muscle. He could only shoot Liang Jingyan pleading looks.
Liang Jingyan chuckled, his tone half-serious, half-joking. “I’m not mad at you. Why are you so timid? You’re like a scared little rabbit. That’s not going to win anyone over.”
He paused for a moment, then shifted his tone as if something had just occurred to him. Casually, he added, “Oh, right—Brother Fu, what happened to that assistant who was always by your side when you were filming before? I always thought he looked familiar. Haven’t seen him around today.”
The words hung in the air, and the atmosphere at the table seemed to freeze.
Yang Wan’s chopsticks paused midway to her mouth. She looked up at them, puzzled. “Which assistant? I don’t remember anyone like that.”
“Back when you guest-starred in Three Quarters—I remember it clear as day…”
Liang Jingyan trailed off there, without going into details. He just smiled and took a sip of his drink, as if it were nothing.
Then, bold as brass, he leaned toward Fu Yanzong and whispered in the conspiratorial tone of shared gossip.
“Brother Fu, actually, I saw your trending searches the moment I got off the plane. There’s one thing I’ve just got to ask.”
“Don’t you think that little assistant you used to like so much looks an awful lot like President Song from Dongyu lately?”
“It was so uncanny, I almost thought old man Song had more than one illegitimate son stashed away out there…”
He drew out the last word, leaving the implication dangling obviously in the air. Fu Yanzong slowly lifted his eyelids to size him up, his expression lazy and indifferent. But a chill glinted in the depths of his eyes, as if he could see right through Liang Jingyan’s indirect probing.
Liang Jingyan had returned to the mainland this time to star as the male lead in Night Voyage, the film pitted head-to-head against Hidden Face. Hua Cai had signed a high-stakes deal betting on Night Voyage’s success, but it had run smack into Dongyu’s fully backed project, a blatant star-making vehicle.
Sure, a spark needed a push, but true flames came from destiny. Still, with that much money poured in, there was no way it wouldn’t make waves. Hua Cai was deeply wary of Song Linyu and Fu Yanzong—they had to dig up some explosive dirt on them.
Fu Yanzong… His scandals and glowing press releases were split down the middle across the web. For every person who hated him, there was one who adored him. You couldn’t blame a pile of ruins for collapsing, and there was no stopping the public’s obsession with Fu Yanzong.
Song Linyu, on the other hand—the man who had appeared out of nowhere, his very existence a point of contention—was the perfect target.
If there was even a hint of bad blood between them, all the better.
…
Fu Yanzong knew that whatever had happened before, Song Linyu must have handled it by now. Liang Jingyan had only guest-starred in a few scenes before heading back to Hong Kong, so he hadn’t stood out, and no one had paid it any mind.
Looking at Liang Jingyan, whose expression held a touch of tension, Fu Yanzong suddenly curved the corner of his eye in a half-hearted smile. He drawled out a lazy chuckle. When he smiled like that, the mole beneath his eye flickered in and out of view, his face distant and perfunctory.
“No wonder you haven’t seen him.”
Fu Yanzong took a casual sip of his drink.
“I got bored of him.”
His voice was unhurried, his tone flat and nonchalant. He brushed it off so lightly, as if it were truly just some trivial old matter.
Liang Jingyan held his gaze for a long moment before suddenly letting out a laugh. “Ah,” he said softly. “That’s a real shame, then.”
