The production team for Hidden Face had scheduled the start of filming for mid-April, so the script read-through was naturally set for early April.
Fu Yanzong received a group notification just as he emerged from the hotel gym. It announced that the entire cast and crew had arrived and everyone should gather in the conference room on the first floor.
In the group chat, Su Tang sent an emoji to acknowledge the message. Right after, he posted a selfie of himself sticking out his tongue and flashing a peace sign as he rushed over from the airport.
Tang Tang: “Happy April Fool’s, everyone! Bet you didn’t expect this, but I’m still on the road! The music festival was so exhausting, so exhausting, SO EXHAUSTING~”
Once the message went out, several staff members—reeking of overtime drudgery—flooded the chat with lengthy complimentary essays about his selfie, gushing things like “Teacher Su is so cute and gorgeous.” Su Tang responded with a couple of syrupy voice messages thanking them.
Fu Yanzong, seeing the group messages: …
He couldn’t fathom why Su Tang was posting this kind of thing in the work group. Was he going for that viral “new student reporting in” spotlight-stealer vibe?
He scrolled through the chat as he made his way to the conference room, pocketed his phone, and pushed open the door.
The hotel booked by the production was Eastern Brocade Leisure Residence, owned by Dongyu and right next to the film city. It typically hosted all sorts of film crews, so the conference room had been specially equipped with wide mirrors on all four walls. This allowed actors to see everyone’s reactions during script read-throughs.
Thus, when Fu Yanzong pushed open the door, everyone spotted him at once.
Even dressed low-key, he was instantly recognizable.
His hair was casually half-tied back in a refreshingly neat ponytail, and his plain short-sleeved shirt paired with cargo pants accentuated his lean, powerful build. A black face mask and baseball cap covered most of his face, revealing only half of his high-bridged nose, and beneath his dark eyes, a vivid tear-shaped mole in crow-black.
He stood out like a sore thumb.
No wonder on this April Fool’s Day, most of the actors’ fan accounts had collectively switched allegiances, posting all sorts of event photos of Fu Yanzong. Clearly, that face had ensnared them plenty in the past.
The director and screenwriter were already in the conference room, and nearly all the other actors had taken their seats. They rose almost in unison to greet him. Fu Yanzong politely bowed to them and shook hands with the director.
The director for Hidden Face was Zhou Rang, who hadn’t helmed a project in ages. In some ways, he was the polar opposite of Jiang Ming on set, yet both were equally brilliant. This was Fu Yanzong’s first time working with him, though he’d long admired his reputation.
Fu Yanzong took his seat, and a staff member approached with a bouquet of flowers. He thanked them, set the flowers aside, and glanced at the empty spot next to him.
Su Tang still hadn’t arrived.
According to the novel plot provided by the Self-Rescue System, Hidden Face would take a full year to shoot, largely because of the lead actor Su Tang.
One day he’d have a concert, the next he’d jet off to Paris for a fashion show. In between, he’d squeeze in filming a sugary idol drama or even hit a few dating variety shows with his ambiguous fling.
His commitments spanned wider than the Pacific, and his multi-project overload was outrageous. Even at Fu Yanzong’s busiest, he couldn’t match it. One had to wonder who the real Movie Emperor was.
To single-handedly slow down the progress of an otherwise well-staffed, well-resourced production required ironclad nerves and serious backing.
The original novel explained it as Su Tang being backed by Dongyu, untouchable due to his supreme talent, playing the role of entertainment industry’s golden boy.
If “supreme talent” meant burning cash for Song Linyu, then Fu Yanzong had to admit Su Tang was indeed exceptional.
No one knew how much longer Su Tang would make the crew wait, but Fu Yanzong didn’t care. He struck up a chat with the screenwriter about the character bios.
Mid-conversation, two bottles of low-sugar drinks suddenly appeared before him.
“Teacher Fu, Teacher Cheng, you’ve been working hard. Care for a drink to relax?”
The speaker’s tone was exceedingly friendly. An outsider might mistake him for Fu Yanzong’s assistant, Xiao Sun.
Screenwriter Cheng Shuangshuang looked up, adjusted her glasses in bewilderment, and politely thanked him. “Thank you, Producer Ren. You’re too kind. Really, no need to fuss over us—look, even Teacher Fu’s assistant has nothing to do.”
She ended with a light joke, but it was true enough. Producers held far more sway than screenwriters. They oversaw the budget directly and could swap out leads with a word.
Sometimes, even with stellar directors and scripts, a production turned into a muddled mess because the producer shoehorned in “outsider suggestions” to favor some investor’s nepotism hire.
“Oh, no, no—I’m just staff like everyone else.”
Ren Haoran flashed a wide grin, which only made Cheng Shuangshuang find him stranger still.
This Ren Haoran had been appointed producer by Dongyu. Rumor had it his past dealings weren’t exactly clean. Yet here he was, acting so…?
Linking it to the production’s resident princeling Su Tang, though, Cheng Shuangshuang started to get it.
Everyone knew Su Tang had landed the role because Dongyu threw money at it…
But that didn’t explain why Ren Haoran was buttering up her and Fu Yanzong… Asking her to boost Su Tang’s screentime? As if he couldn’t just snap his fingers for that.
Or was she an afterthought, and his real aim was to ship Fu Yanzong and Su Tang for the fans?
Fu Yanzong’s reputation for doing his own thing was legendary; money alone wouldn’t make him play ball.
Cheng Shuangshuang’s mind buzzed with odd theories until she saw Fu Yanzong across from her push the drinks away slightly. In a calm tone, he said, “Thanks, but I just worked out. Not convenient to drink this now.”
Ren Haoran jumped in immediately. “What does Teacher Fu need, then? I’ll have someone fetch it right away.”
This went beyond polite—it was fawning.
Fu Yanzong, who had been reviewing the script, frowned slightly. With a hint of puzzlement, he looked up and eyed Ren Haoran, who had circled over from the adjacent seat.
That glance jogged his memory of exactly who Ren Haoran was.
…Song Linyu’s man.
Fu Yanzong vaguely recalled his face, but Ren Haoran clearly hadn’t clocked it. Instead, he beamed at Fu Yanzong with polite amiability.
“No need to trouble yourself, Producer Ren. My assistant has it covered.”
As Fu Yanzong spoke, he recalled his prior brief encounter with this “Producer Ren.”
He hadn’t forgotten: calling Ren Haoran’s past methods “not clean” was putting it mildly. Bluntly put, the man was a pimp capitalist.
Before Fu Yanzong went abroad, spots for discreet insider deals were few and trusted—like Serenity Moon Misty Court.
But Serenity Moon Misty Court didn’t offer “special services” for princesses or young masters. Guests bringing their own for play could pass as dates with a blind eye turned, but anything more crossed the line. Fu Yanzong wanted the estate open for years, not testing legal limits.
So the fallback spots for those unspoken business talks were limited, and the most notorious was Ren Haoran’s Deer Garden.
Deer Garden—its name alone dripped with sleazy innuendo. Unlike ordinary clubs, it was members-only. No invitation, no entry, even if you desperately wanted to play “deer.”
Once inside, if you had the pull, trading certain “resources” was easy. Plenty in the industry had climbed that way.
Ren Haoran always claimed it was all consensual business. Fu Yanzong neither endorsed nor planned to dip in.
But back then, Song Wen—the manager smooth as silk in deals, sharp as a tack—had ties with this President Ren. Even talks for his agency’s new project landed at Deer Garden, not Serenity Moon Misty Court.
Managers typically lacked the clout for Deer Garden entry. After mulling it over, Song Wen somehow roped Fu Yanzong into it.
So in the end, Fu Yanzong took Song Linyu there.
Song Linyu shouldn’t have gone at all, but he stubbornly insisted on sticking by Fu Yanzong’s side.
Had Song Linyu known that Fu Yanzong had witnessed everything he did that night, he never, ever would have set foot in Deer Garden.
…
The night rain wove like threads, the city’s neon blurred by mist into a haze of crisscrossing lights. At the entrance to Deer Garden club, the ground lay slick, lamps reflecting in puddles to cast distorted shadows of the crowd.
From afar, a sharp engine roar sliced the darkness. A red LaFerrari streaked down the street like an arrow loosed from a bow, rain whipped up by its speed into a razor arc.
Tires chewed the pavement, spraying fine droplets. Knuckle-prominent hands cranked the wheel hard over; tires screeched, followed by a flawless drift in the downpour, landing precisely.
Headlights winked out. Scissor doors lifted. Fu Yanzong rested one hand on the wheel, casually removed his sunglasses with the other, and hooked them on his shirt collar before unfolding languidly.
He wore a impeccably tailored black SL wool suit, paired with a smoky gray silk shirt underneath. The top two buttons were casually undone, revealing a sharp line of collarbone—a rigorous sensuality that suited the decadent glamour of the evening perfectly.
The inertia from the drift still lingered, and the man in the passenger seat swayed slightly. In the next instant, just as Fu Yanzong had anticipated, he tumbled right into the open space of Fu Yanzong’s embrace.
Song Linyu braced himself awkwardly against Fu Yanzong’s shoulder, his breaths filled with the man’s cool woody scent.
From this angle, Song Linyu’s profile was soft and gentle, his black hair slightly damp, his lips pale under the rainy night lights. He truly resembled a canary, quietly perched beside its owner.
Fu Yanzong glanced at the doorway, where men and women mingled with bright laughter and elegant attire, then looked down at the person in his arms. He lifted a hand and, without a word, straightened Song Linyu’s open collar.
His cool fingertips trailed along the skin at the side of Song Linyu’s neck, applying just enough pressure.
“If you’re insisting on tagging along, then stick close,” Fu Yanzong said as he released his hold, casually ruffling Song Linyu’s tousled black hair in the process.
Song Linyu nodded and obediently pulled back from his embrace, though his fingertips still clutched the hem of Fu Yanzong’s jacket.
Fu Yanzong had only brought Song Linyu along out of sheer helplessness. Once Song Linyu learned what kind of place Deer Garden was, he’d spent the entire day sulking quietly in the apartment.
It wasn’t obvious, but when Fu Yanzong was getting ready to leave, the leopard-print suit and mismatched jumble of accessories Song Linyu had pulled out had utterly shattered Film Emperor Fu’s sense of style.
Fu Yanzong could hardly imagine such items lurking in his own closet… Wasn’t that some kind of talent on Song Linyu’s part?
He’d bent down, bringing his handsome face slowly close to Song Linyu, who was holding up the clothes. Aware of his mistake, Song Linyu instinctively stepped back twice, only to be yanked back by the nape of his neck.
Fu Yanzong’s eyes curved in amusement. He kneaded Song Linyu’s nape none too gently, his beauty mark glinting wickedly as he murmured, “Assistant Song, tell me—how did you manage to pick these out, hmm?”
He was too close. Song Linyu’s expression faltered into panic, but he forced himself to stay composed, lowering his hands and mumbling something under his breath.
Fu Yanzong didn’t catch it clearly, only vaguely making out a couple of reluctant, intimate-sounding grumbles along the lines of “Who told you to be so damn good-looking…” It made him chuckle despite himself. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Song Linyu’s, and voiced the question whose answer he already knew.
“Were you jealous?”
Song Linyu’s long lashes trembled faintly. He said nothing, simply setting the clothes aside. Like a child who knew he’d done wrong, he lifted his arms to loop around Fu Yanzong’s shoulders, nuzzling into the crook of his neck like a puppy seeking forgiveness.
Fu Yanzong’s long hair tickled him a little. He paused for a second, and seeing Fu Yanzong remain unmoved, he couldn’t help but whisper a plea. “Can you… not go?”
“No.”
Fu Yanzong refused without hesitation.
“…Oh.”
Song Linyu fell silent after that. After all, he was just Fu Yanzong’s assistant—or, to put it bluntly, his kept lover. Neither role gave him the right to interfere with Fu Yanzong’s work.
He shouldn’t care about such things in the first place, Song Linyu told himself. He quickly convinced himself otherwise with the thought that if Fu Yanzong took a liking to someone else, all their efforts would go to waste. When Fu Yanzong returned to the dressing room for a new outfit, Song Linyu followed.
Fu Yanzong selected another suit and changed without shying away from him.
Song Linyu’s gaze darkened slightly as he stared at the red marks on Fu Yanzong’s pale lower back—marks he’d left last night in the heat of passion, unable to hold back.
Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Fu Yanzong suddenly felt a pair of cool hands wordlessly cup his lower back. Song Linyu’s soft palm covered the kiss marks, rubbing over them lightly, lingering with reluctance.
He paused, then reached up to tilt Song Linyu’s chin. In a lazy drawl, he said, “What, want to cry while you kiss it some more?”
It was just a casual remark, but Song Linyu’s fingertips tightened abruptly, pressing hard enough into the skin to leave fresh red imprints.
Song Linyu stared at the marks he’d made, his obscure gaze hidden behind his dark forelocks. An inexplicable air of gloomy obedience emanated from him.
A moment later, he murmured in a barely audible, voice, “Gotta leave a few more… that way, no one with eyes will dare touch.”
Song Linyu’s words were so soft they slithered out like a venomous snake lurking in the mud—cold and thick. Fortunately, Fu Yanzong was busy fastening his buttons and seemed not to hear, merely humming in confusion to prompt him to repeat.
A few minutes passed before Song Linyu reverted to his obedient self. He withdrew his hand and looked up with pleading eyes, asking earnestly, “Then… can I come with you? I’ll be good. I promise.”
Fu Yanzong didn’t agree or refuse, merely giving him a meaningful look. Unhurriedly, he asked, “A promise, huh… What if someone else gets too close? Will you be good then?”
Song Linyu gazed at him in silence for a moment, his head tilted back, amber pupils capturing a shard of icy light. For some reason, they took on a strange, obsessive glint.
Then, he nodded slowly. He rose slightly on his toes, casually adjusting Fu Yanzong’s tie as if it were nothing, lowering his eyes as he softly echoed, “I’ll be good… I promise.”
