Qin Yancheng was already tall, and his aura made him stand out even in a crowd. Shi Zhou watched as the man walked over with his usual expressionless face, trailed by someone from the event organizers—likely a high-ranking executive tasked with entertaining this VIP.

Someone in the crowd suddenly slapped their forehead. “I remember now! That watch on Shi Zhou’s wrist—Mr. Qin was the one who bought it at last year’s auction!”

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The crowd gasped in realization. If that was the case, Shi Zhou was truly done for. Qin Yancheng was infamous for his cold, unfeeling demeanor, so no one even considered the possibility that he and Shi Zhou might have an unusual relationship. Instead, they speculated about how Shi Zhou could have gotten his hands on the watch—perhaps during some drunken business dinner, where Shi Zhou, playing the obedient hanger-on, had seized the opportunity to steal it.

Jiang Song privately agreed with this theory and was secretly pleased with himself. Someone of Qin Yancheng’s status would likely find calling the police beneath him, so he’d come personally to handle the matter. By reporting the theft, Jiang Song had spared Mr. Qin the trouble while ensuring Shi Zhou got what he deserved. Surely, Mr. Qin would spare him a second glance for this.

Who knew? Maybe that second glance would turn into genuine appreciation for my exceptional qualities.

The more Jiang Song thought about it, the more delighted he became, as if he’d already been chosen by the emperor himself. He leaned in and hissed at Shi Zhou with vicious glee. “You should’ve known this was coming when you stole my role by whoring yourself out!”

Shi Zhou rolled his eyes, too annoyed to bother responding. His mind was screaming, Qin Yancheng, you absolute bastard! He had no idea Qin Yancheng was even attending tonight. Judging by the eager crowd of good looking men and women around them, he must have been the last to know.

The crowd murmured and pointed, eagerly awaiting the unfolding drama.

Qin Yancheng’s gaze swept over the gathered crowd, landing on Shi Zhou, who stood in the center with his back turned, expression unreadable.

Shi Zhou was already in a foul mood after being ambushed by Jiang Song’s ridiculous accusations. Now, Qin Yancheng had the audacity to show up without warning—after living under the same roof, he still hadn’t bothered to mention his attendance?

As Qin Yancheng approached, Shi Zhou deliberately pretended not to recognize him. While others scrambled to greet him with elaborate charm, Shi Zhou remained lazily indifferent.

Qin Yancheng took in Shi Zhou’s bristling attitude, then glanced at Jiang Song standing opposite him. His voice was cool, “What’s going on here?”

Qin Yancheng was notoriously cold and aloof. Jiang Song, oblivious to the other’s displeasure, was thrilled at being addressed. Out of all the eager men and women vying for Qin Yancheng’s attention, he was the first one he spoke to! That had to mean something! Meanwhile, Shi Zhou’s pathetic attempt at playing hard-to-get was laughable—did he really think feigning disinterest would work? What a joke!

But Jiang Song was different, he had no problem throwing away his dignity. He eagerly stepped forward, oozing flattery, “Mr. Qin, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself with this! We’ll handle it shortly—we won’t let this thief get away!”

Just as he finished speaking, the police arrived. Given the high-profile nature of the event, several patrol cars had been stationed outside, so their response time was mere minutes.

The media, always hungry for drama, immediately began snapping photos, eager to capture the chaos. The organizer’s expression darkened, his tone turning sharp. “Who called the police?”

Jiang Song eagerly recounted Shi Zhou’s “crime,” painting himself as the righteous hero—though he carefully avoided admitting he’d orchestrated the whole thing. He claimed ignorance, insisting it was all Shi Zhou’s fault for being a thief.

In an industry that worshipped status, the organizer couldn’t help but look down on a nobody like Shi Zhou. Outside, Jiang Song’s fans waved their signs, while Shi Zhou was just an uninvited guest Qixing Entertainment had shoved in at the last minute. And now he’d caused trouble? Disgraceful.

Meanwhile, Shi Zhou’s coat, draped over his arm, was slowly changing color. The spot where Jiang Song had touched it was turning yellow, then black, as if oxidizing.

Shi Zhou stared at it, torn between laughter and fury. What a fucking lowlife. If he weren’t worried about punching Jiang Song’s silicone-filled face into mush, he’d have beaten the little bastard senseless by now.

The organizer’s expression grew increasingly impatient and disgusted. “Mr. Shi, perhaps it’s best if you skip tonight’s event. Cooperate with the police investigation first. The red carpet is about to start, and we can’t delay everyone else.”

Since Qin Yancheng was the “victim” in this scenario, the organizer turned to him for confirmation. Qin Yancheng looked at Jiang Song and said flatly, “Mnn. You won’t be walking the red carpet. Or attending the gala.”

Jiang Song nearly cheered. This was exactly what he wanted! Where was Shi Zhou’s arrogance now? His sharp tongue? Too scared to even speak in front of Qin Yancheng, huh?

His triumphant grin was barely containable—until Shi Zhou sighed, shaking his head in mock pity. “Why are you smiling? He’s talking to you.”

Jiang Song froze. “W-What?”

Then his smile shattered completely.

Qin Yancheng, in front of everyone, removed his own coat and draped it over Shi Zhou’s shoulders. “This’ll have to do for now.”

Silence.

Three full seconds of stunned disbelief.

Everyone gaped at the two of them.

Someone suddenly realized their outfits tonight looked like they’d been designed as a pair—one black, one white, styles eerily similar.

Jiang Song’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Finally, he choked out:

“N-No… Wait, Mr. Qin, there must be some mistake! You’ve got it wrong—Shi Zhou is the one who—”

Shi Zhou rolled his eyes and theatrically gasped. “Yeah, Mr. Qin! What’s wrong with your ears? You deaf or something? They’re trying to arrest me!”

Qin Yancheng sighed. Shi Zhou’s audacity wasn’t new—no one else would dare mock him like this in public. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry.

While Qin Yancheng was used to it, everyone else looked like they’d just witnessed a pig sprout Jiang Song’s head—complete with bulging eyes and a slack jaw. The sight was equal parts horrifying and hilarious.

The “human head” stammered: “Wh-Why?!”

Qin Yancheng turned to the police. “The watch is mine. I lent it to Shi Zhou. As for Jiang Song, your ‘help’ is not needed.” He glanced at his bodyguards.

The burly men immediately seized Jiang Song, roughly searching him. Whether by accident or design, they tore his flimsy outfit to shreds, leaving him half-naked in the cold wind.

The police exchanged glances. This was likely not the first time they had come across something like this. As long as no one was hurt, they wouldn’t interfere.

Moments later, a disheveled, trembling Jiang Song was found with a half-empty bottle of clear liquid in his pocket. Qin Yancheng examined Shi Zhou’s stained coat, then took the bottle—

And dumped the entire contents over Jiang Song’s head.

The dye would soon oxidize, turning his face, hair, and clothes pitch black.

Jiang Song’s assistants were next. The loudest, most obnoxious one—the very one who’d accused Shi Zhou—was found with the “stolen” watch in his possession.

Jiang Song, struggling to regain his composure, somehow mustered the audacity to slap the assistant hard across the face. “You stole it?! What grudge do you have against Shi Zhou to frame him like this?!”

The assistant was stunned, and suddenly realized why Jiang Song asked him to do everything, whether it was destroying the surveillance camera or taking away the watch. It turned out that he wanted to make him a scapegoat if the matter was exposed!

Shi Zhou tilted his head and interrupted, “Tsk, two hundred thousand, little assistant, you have really great prospects these days.”

The assistant gritted his teeth, losing his job was more important than going to jail, he blurted out, “No! Jiang Song told me to do it! He made me disable the cameras, take the watch, and trick Shi Zhou into the dressing room! I didn’t want to steal anything!”

This farce was instigated by Jiang Song to call the police to arrest people, but when the police arrived, they ended up arresting him. If he hadn’t shamelessly begged to at least wait until the gala was over, he would have been taken away on the spot to make a statement along with his assistant.

The crowd’s attitude shifted instantly. In just ten minutes, Jiang Song became the laughingstock:

“This is hilarious! The clown is actually himself!”

“I actually believed him earlier. Ugh, wasted my sympathy.”

“What a disgusting person. Framing someone for theft? Just because they’re poor? Who does he think he is?”

“Shi Zhou clearly isn’t poor. And did you see how protective Mr. Qin was? What’s their relationship?”

Countless curious or envious eyes lingered on Shi Zhou, eager to see how the two would interact inside.

Jiang Song’s manager called immediately after hearing about the disaster. Furious, he screamed, “You’ve gotten too full of yourself! Do you even know who you are anymore? Your rented clothes are ruined now—did you expect Mr. Qin to pay for them? You’re covering the cost yourself!”

“But… I prepared for so long. Now I can’t walk the red carpet—”

“You’re still thinking about the red carpet?! You offended Qin Yancheng! Your career is over! Forget the red carpet—get inside and apologize to Shi Zhou in front of everyone. Make it sincere. I knew your arrogance would backfire! Did you ever stop to think Shi Zhou might have Qin Yancheng backing him?!”

Jiang Song hung up, seething. Why did Shi Zhou have all the luck?

He refused to acknowledge his own mistakes, convinced this was all because Shi Zhou had shamelessly seduced yet another powerful patron.

The thought of humiliating himself—covered in black dye, clothes torn—by groveling to Shi Zhou in front of everyone made him burn with hatred.

But his manager had insisted this was the only way to appear remorseful and avoid further retaliation.

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Taking a deep breath, Jiang Song trudged into the venue, still clinging to one last hope: Maybe Shi Zhou and Mr. Qin aren’t that close. Maybe Mr. Qin just stepped in randomly.

Then he saw it.

In the audience seating area, Shi Zhou was laughing, reaching for an orange Qin Yancheng had just peeled for him—

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Shi Zhou thought there was still a full hour and a half before the red carpet event began, so he might as well wander around and see if he could spot any handsome men. He refused to believe that the entire entertainment industry didn’t have anyone better looking than Qin Yancheng.

As he strolled to the entrance of the venue, he saw numerous fan signs. Fans were eagerly waiting for their idols to walk the red carpet later, ready to chant slogans at a moment’s notice. Some were even practicing their cheers or warming up their voices in advance.

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Shi Zhou took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it—this was actually confiscated from Qin Yancheng earlier. Even putting aside his asthma, which could flare up at any time, nicotine was bad for the stomach. Surprisingly, when Qin Yancheng had his cigarettes taken away, he merely froze for a moment before expressionlessly letting Shi Zhou confiscate it. After that, he either hadn’t bought any more cigarettes or simply avoided smoking in front of him.

Usually, at Qin Yancheng’s villa, Shi Zhou refrained from smoking out of concern for the man’s fragile health and respiratory system, not to mention not wanting to tempt him. But now, he had no such reservations. He happily exhaled a cloud of smoke, mentally praising the cigarette’s quality—it didn’t seem to be available on the market, and he wondered if he could ask Qin Yancheng to get him some more.

Just as he was thinking this, a young man with a baby face and delicate features walked over, likely also killing time. He smiled familiarly and said, “Hey, aren’t you afraid of being caught on camera by the media?”

Shi Zhou sensed no malice from him and joked, “No one’s interested in photographing a small-time nobody like me right now. Might as well smoke while I can—who knows if I’ll still be able to in a couple of years if I get famous?”

The baby-faced young man probably wasn’t an idol, given how warmly and unfashionably he was dressed—a thick black down jacket enveloped him from head to toe, making him look like a tower when he crouched slightly. He might have been a young elite from some other field.

He picked up Shi Zhou’s thread. “Makes sense! In that case, you’d better give me your autograph now—in a couple of years, I might not even be able to get in line.”

Shi Zhou handed him a cigarette. “I’m Shi Zhou.”

“Xin Jing,” the young man replied cheerfully, accepting the cigarette and borrowing a light. After taking a slow drag, he added, “This industry’s a mess. You shouldn’t just accept cigarettes from strangers, you know.”

Shi Zhou was momentarily taken aback, realizing that the entertainment industry operated by different rules than the business world he was used to. Just as he was wondering how Xin Jing could be so sure he wasn’t a bad guy, someone called out, “Shi Zhou! Your stylist wants you in the dressing room to put on your accessories. She’s about to start packing up.”

Shi Zhou gave an acknowledging “Mm” and waved at Xin Jing. “Gotta go. See you inside if fate allows.”

As he walked away, he took one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette in a trash can, letting the cold wind disperse the smell. Pushing open the door to the dressing room, he found it empty—most of the artists, inexperienced with red carpet events, had gone ahead to scope out the venue in groups.

But the stylist was downright unreliable, summoning him only to disappear herself. Typical of the haphazard management at Qixing Entertainment. A pile of accessories—necklaces, earrings, brooches—lay scattered on the table. Left with no choice, Shi Zhou studied the mirror, trying to figure out how to put everything on. After much effort, he managed to adorn himself properly.

While he was in the dressing room, he missed the commotion caused by an “unexpected surprise”—the sudden appearance of a mysterious guest at the gala.

If not for someone recognizing him and shouting, “That’s Qin Yancheng!” everyone would have assumed he was just another celebrity or top male model, given his looks, height, and aura. But the name “Qin Yancheng” was universally known. Regardless of whose fans they were, everyone wanted a glimpse of the legendary young tycoon shrouded in mystery.

Xin Jing, still smoking by the one-way glass near the entrance, watched as even the aloof and dignified Qin Yancheng struggled to navigate the enthusiastic crowd, flanked by bodyguards who barely managed to shield him from the onslaught. He burst into laughter, waiting by the door just to mock him face-to-face. “Qin Yancheng, you look downright pathetic, hahaha…”

Qin Yancheng’s expression remained icy. Not wanting to provoke him further, Xin Jing stifled his laughter and changed the subject. “Hey, who’s Shi Zhou to you? He’s so handsome—I think I’ve fallen in love at first sight!”

“…Where is he?” Qin Yancheng asked.

“Oh? So concerned?” Xin Jing teased. “Aren’t you going to ask how I know you two have an ‘unusual’ relationship?”

When Xin Jing first saw Shi Zhou, he’d been startled—at a glance, the young man bore a resemblance to a younger version of Qin Yancheng. But unlike Qin Yancheng, who had always been cold and statue-like, Shi Zhou was far more charming.

And when Shi Zhou casually handed over a cigarette—a rare, unique brand—Xin Jing was even more surprised. Qin Yancheng’s cigarettes and lighter were in Shi Zhou’s possession?

The resemblance and their closeness made their relationship—and Qin Yancheng’s motives—highly suspect.

After wandering around, Shi Zhou concluded that compared to a certain beauty surnamed Qin, everyone else paled in comparison. Some even looked unnervingly artificial up close, as if they’d been molded from the same silicone template.

Just as he lamented that his future boyfriend probably wouldn’t be found in this industry, Jiang Song and his entourage suddenly cornered him with aggressive intent.

Jiang Song’s attitude was polite and proper, unlike their first encounter. In front of everyone, he didn’t act arrogantly. “Shi Zhou, have you—seen the watch I left on the table?” His tone was anxious, as if genuinely worried about losing the watch and afraid of wrongly accusing someone.

The surrounding crowd immediately turned curious eyes toward them.

Shi Zhou froze for a moment, then glanced at Jiang Song’s smirking assistant. Finally, he understood why he’d been summoned to the empty dressing room earlier.

Where there was a “good cop,” there had to be a “bad cop.” The assistant’s sharp, piercing voice cut in, “The surveillance footage shows that after our Brother Jiang left the dressing room, you were the only one who went in! That watch might not be the most expensive, but it’s still worth over 200,000 yuan!”

Jiang Song immediately scolded his assistant, “What are you saying? ‘A truly noble man cannot be corrupted by poverty’—even if Shi Zhou’s financial situation isn’t great right now, he’d never do something like this!”

The coordinated accusation was blatant. No one in the industry was foolish enough to miss that Jiang Song was subtly framing Shi Zhou. The crowd’s gazes grew increasingly probing.

Shi Zhou wasn’t particularly famous, but the “poor but hardworking” persona clung stubbornly to his name. A no-name artist who allegedly relied on his looks to get ahead—it wasn’t unthinkable that he might steal something under the radar. After all, similar incidents had happened in the industry before.

The accusation of theft and the word “poverty” were like public slaps to Shi Zhou’s face, striking at both his dignity and his financial struggles.

If he’d been as timid as the original host, stammering and unable to defend himself, it would have cemented his “guilt.” But Shi Zhou remained calm, unfazed as he asked coolly, “Let me guess—you’re also going to say the surveillance in the dressing room just happened to be broken?”

Having his lines stolen, the assistant pressed on, “You thought destroying the surveillance would let you get away with it? The hallway cameras still caught you going in—after Brother Jiang, you were the only one!”

A sycophantic hanger-on in the crowd chimed in, “We shouldn’t wrong an innocent person. Why not just search him? It’s for Shi Zhou’s own good—right, Shi Zhou?”

Before Shi Zhou could respond, Jiang Song’s assistant eagerly stepped forward, as if ready to strip Shi Zhou’s clothes off by force.

The spectacle drew more and more onlookers, eager for some entertainment.

Shi Zhou tilted his head slightly, thinking this frame-job was almost embarrassingly crude. Their brazen insults were baffling—in his twenty-three years across two lifetimes, this was the first time he’d encountered such shameless bootlickers.

If this had happened three years ago, when he was still the spoiled young master under his older brother’s protection, he’d have rolled up his sleeves and thrown punches. But now, Shi Zhou just smirked and said playfully, “Are you my grandson, thinking you can pat down your grandpa whenever you want? Or are you just obsessed with my outfit?”

Speaking of outfits, their clashing outfits today really highlighted who wore it better. Jiang Song’s face, though meticulously sculpted into a generic template of perfection, lacked distinctiveness. His proportions were off too—short legs and a thick waist.

In contrast, Shi Zhou was tall and poised, with bright eyes and gleaming teeth. His aristocratic aura and high ponytail only added to his striking charm, making him impossible to look away from.

Jiang Song paled in comparison, especially standing next to Shi Zhou, who was noticeably taller. The difference was almost painful to witness.

Shi Zhou narrowed his eyes, then suddenly smiled. “Alright, a search it is. But Brother Jiang has to do it himself—don’t stand so far away.”

He was mostly bluffing, expecting Jiang Song to keep his distance and avoid an unflattering side-by-side comparison.

But it was also a backup plan. In a crowded, media-saturated environment like this, if Jiang Song’s assistant actually searched him—or worse, stripped him—photos would inevitably end up online, plastered across the trending searches. By then who would care whether he was guilty?

But if Jiang Song personally frisked him, the narrative would shift entirely. At worst, it would be framed as a joke between “friends.” And given how unphotogenic Jiang Song was next to him, those pictures would never see the light of day.

To Shi Zhou’s surprise, Jiang Song pulled his hands from his pockets and spread them magnanimously. “Shi Zhou, I’m only doing this to prove your innocence to everyone. My apologies.”

With that, he stepped forward and began rifling through Shi Zhou’s pockets—jacket, pants, inside and out—without hesitation.

Shi Zhou was baffled. Leaning down, he whispered in Jiang Song’s ear. “Want to help me take off my shoes too? Check if the watch’s hidden there?”

He realized he might have overestimated Jiang Song’s intelligence. Maybe the man had simply planned to exploit the original host’s fragile psyche, pushing him to break down in tears or call the police in front of the media.

Jiang Song’s anger flared. Shi Zhou had indeed guessed most of his plan, but the young man’s composure and sharp wit were unexpected—as if he’d been reborn as a completely different person. Fortunately, Jiang Song had one last trick up his sleeve.

In a flash, Shi Zhou’s heart lurched inexplicably. A sudden sense of foreboding made him step back, avoiding Jiang Song’s hands as they rubbed insistently against him. He looked down at his ivory trench coat—still pristine white, except for a damp spot where Jiang Song’s hands had brushed against it.

Wait. Jiang Song’s hands had been in his pockets earlier. Where had the water come from? Was it really just water?

Frowning, Shi Zhou met Jiang Song’s sinister smile. He was about to take off his coat to inspect it when someone in the crowd suddenly gasped. “Wait—Shi Zhou’s watch is a Vacheron Constantin limited edition! It’s worth at least 10 million!”

The entire area fell silent, including Shi Zhou.

He’d never cared much for watches. The day before, Qin Yancheng had told him to pick one to match his outfit, so he’d randomly chosen this flashy gold one that suited his flamboyant taste. Had it really been that expensive?

Jiang Song’s assistant seized the opportunity, sneering, “You can afford a watch like that? Where’d you steal this one from?”

To everyone present, Shi Zhou was not only obscure and poor but also unconnected to any elite circles. Combined with the ongoing “stolen watch” drama, this new revelation painted him as nothing more than a petty thief.

The crowd’s earlier skepticism turned into outright disdain:

“Looks like he’s all flash and no substance. Probably not his first time stealing, huh? And here I thought it might’ve been a misunderstanding.”

“With numbers this big, we should definitely call the police, right?”

The situation deteriorated rapidly, with murmurs of “poverty breeds dishonesty” spreading like wildfire.

Fortunately, Shi Zhou kept his cool enough to prioritize. The red carpet event was about to start, so he first inspected his coat again.

Still nothing unusual.

Yet the unease in his chest only grew.

Earlier, there had been no “stolen goods,” but now, with “evidence” in hand, Jiang Song was practically gleeful, eager to call the police and muddy the waters. Whether there’d been a misunderstanding or not, disrupting the gala in Shi Zhou’s name was enough.

With a glance from Jiang Song, sycophants in the crowd began clamoring to call the police, while others pulled out their phones, ready to “do the right thing.”

Shi Zhou took a deep breath, weighing whether to just admit his “improper” relationship with Qin Yancheng, when a sudden commotion erupted nearby.

One of Jiang Song’s assistants, who’d just returned with coffee, announced excitedly. “Brother Jiang! Mr. Qin is coming this way!”

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Including Jiang Song, nearly every young star in the vicinity subtly adjusted their posture or expressions. Rumors had long circulated that Qin Yancheng would attend tonight. The implications of securing his patronage were undeniable—which was precisely why Jiang Song couldn’t tolerate Shi Zhou outshining him in matching attire.

Shi Zhou turned in surprise, spotting a familiar figure approaching in the distance.

“Brother Jiang, should we still call the police about Shi Zhou?” the assistant whispered furtively.

“Of course! Now’s the perfect time to make a scene!”

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Though this year’s gala theme was “Charity,” at its core, it remained an annual battleground for celebrities to flaunt their glamour on the red carpet. Freezing temperatures couldn’t deter bare shoulders or lightweight spring suits—a contagious trend that even industry titans and executives felt pressured to follow, shedding layers despite the cold.

Shi Zhou rubbed his hands together. The shared dressing room was far from warm, reserved for those not prestigious enough for private suites or makeup trailers. But after all, if a pyramid has a peak, it must have a bottom, and there were still some artists who were not as famous getting their makeup and hair done here.

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The original host’s face, which could serve as a “stand-in”, was already good-looking. In addition, Shi Zhou took the initiative to give up the original host’s previous feminine style with heavy makeup, and instead chose a The original owner’s face, which could serve as a “stand-in”, was already good-looking. In addition, Shi Zhou took the initiative to give up the original owner’s previous feminine style with heavy makeup, and instead chose a capable and cool beige trench coat, a solid-color turtleneck sweater, and a high ponytail. His whole person looked chic and sunny. He had a commanding aura when he wasn’t smiling, and appeared approachable when he was.

Of course, his secret weapon was thermal underwear, sparing him the facial spasms plaguing others. Like the man who strutted in with three assistants, face frozen stiff from fillers, resembling a disinterred zombie.

But cosmetic enhancements were the industry’s worst-kept secret. Shi Zhou would’ve ignored him if not for the obnoxious superiority vibes. Instead, he focused on teasing Qin Yancheng via text:

—Qin sir, dining alone tonight? Feeling lonely? Missing me terribly?

Outside, crowds thronged behind barricades and neon banners as an unassuming white Alphard parked nearby, curtains drawn.

Inside, Qin Yancheng’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then at the packets of soft cookies beside him—left by Shi Zhou, whose eyes had sparkled like a sea of stars, looking like a mischievous fox as he’d insisted, “Hey, dear Qin sir, I bought you some snacks. If you don’t have time to eat and your stomach is empty, just eat some.”

Qin Yancheng didn’t eat snacks, and he was very reluctant to receive care from others. But before he could say the cold and harsh words of rejection, Shi Zhou had already torn open a bag and handed it to him, “How about you try it?”

The slightly salty sea salt and milky aroma bloomed on the tip of the tongue, and the taste was soft and delicate. Qin Yancheng met Shi Zhou’s eyes that were happily waiting for feedback. Perhaps it was against his upbringing to talk with food in his mouth. In short, he swallowed all the cold words along with the cookies, and acknowledged with a “mnn”.

So Shi Zhou happily continued playing games on his phone, and said casually as he walked. “I see you don’t like sweet things, so I spent a long time looking for sea salt cookies for you.”

Shi Zhou’s caregiving skills were oddly polished for a spoiled young master. His brother had been similarly workaholic and would have stomach pain when he didn’t eat on time, so he’d made a habit of going through his bag—searching whether his brother had bought interesting knick knacks for him, if his meds were still stocked and stuffing snacks into his bag.

—For Qin Yancheng’s beautiful looks and model-sugar-daddy status, he’ll temporarily rank second in importance in his heart. Performance reviews to follow.

Back in the dressing room, Shi Zhou was engrossed in a mobile game when a voice sneered down at him. “Shi Zhou, you’re outfit-clashing with our Jiang Song. How about you take off the coat.”

Shi Zhou removed his headphones. “What?”

He genuinely wondered if he’d misheard. Young Master Shi was domineering wherever he went. This was the first time someone had the audacity to make such an impolite request.

“I said—you and our Jiang Song—are outfit clashing! Either change or take off that coat, thanks!” The assistant eyed Shi Zhou with open disdain, thinking, how does trash like this keep getting invited? No brand deals, no designer labels—just some knockoff ensemble.

Their voice carried, drawing glances from the room. But such scenes were routine, especially when the target was a nobody like Shi Zhou. Most returned to their business, half-watching the drama unfold.

“Who’s Jiang Song?” Shi Zhou matched the assistant’s contemptuous stare, curious what kind of owner such a poorly trained lapdog might have.

The assistant gaped as if hearing the joke of the century. “You don’t know Jiang Song? Should we have his fans flood your Weibo tomorrow to educate you?”

The aggression was disproportionate for a mere outfit coincidence. Shi Zhou scanned the room—and there, of course, was the alleged “Jiang Song”, the frozen-faced peacock from earlier, now pretending not to eavesdrop while his minions barked.

The zombie-faced man seemed to be playing with his mobile phone at the moment, but he would glance at Shi Zhou from the corner of his eye in the mirror from time to time. It was obvious that he had instigated the provocation and came to watch the fun.

Shi Zhou was amused and angry at the same time. “Jiang Song? Is he wearing the emperor’s dragon robes? Can others not wear it if he wears it?”

His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, just loud enough for the entire dressing room to hear.

Jiang Song heard it clearly, with a hint of surprise in his eyes. The Shi Zhou he knew was a timid, cowardly guy who didn’t dare to say a word and would even cry if he was slightly frightened.

But it was just such a flower vase who, by means of shameless and despicable methods, snatched away the role that could have belonged to him.

The grudge ran deep. Back then, Jiang Song had slept with that greasy and disgusting old man for three consecutive nights. He still wanted to vomit when he thought of the fat rolls and smell of sweat. But in the end, it was all for nothing because Shi Zhou snagged it effortlessly via Zheng Qi’s connections.

Whenever he thought about how he was sexually exploited but didn’t get what he wanted, he hated Shi Zhou to the core, as if all the nights he couldn’t bear to recall were caused by Shi Zhou.

But now the situation had changed. Now, with Shi Zhou allegedly discarded by Zheng Qi and Jiang Song himself becoming famous quickly by chance with a seemingly hopeless web drama, revenge was overdue.

Shi Zhou spread his hands and said, “Either you bear it, or you can sew some clothes on the spot to change into, or you can have your Majesty take off his dragon robe and wear just a sweater.”

Another assistant chimed in. “Shi Zhou, don’t blame us for not informing you. Our Brother Jiang’s outfit is current-season haute couture. Yours is a knockoff. You’re only embarrassing yourself.”

Shi Zhou’s outfit was indeed not from any brand, but he believed that since Qin Yancheng had someone custom-make it for him, he would definitely not let him down. It seemed that the name of a designer was mentioned at the time, but it was too confusing so he didn’t pay attention to it.

Shi Zhou shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I believe that apart from the trolls, no brand would think that someone wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a cream trench coat means they are being imitated. Oh, by the way, let me tell you one more thing. It’s not scary to wear the same clothes as others. It’s only embarrassing for the ugly one. I hope that after comparing, your brand owners will still have the nerve to claim their own clothes.”

With that, Shi Zhou left, too lazy to engage in an endless argument. After all, being bitten by a dog was indeed unlucky, but it would be too embarrassing to lean down and bite the dog back in public.

Unbeknownst to him, Qin Yancheng was one of tonight’s special guests. Shi Zhou’s texts about dinner went unanswered, and he was still wondering whether this guy had read his text messages and eaten well. It was rare that the two of them didn’t have dinner together these days, and Shi Zhou couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable like an old father worried about his silly child.

Jiang Song heard Shi Zhou slam the door and leave. Though he knew that he lost in that confrontation, he still deceived himself into thinking that Shi Zhou must have been scared and that was why he “ran away”.

Who would have expected that Shi Zhou, who had always been a coward, had already lost Zheng Qi, his only backer, would have the guts to keep talking back throughout the whole process, while everyone watched this bad show that ended with him being ridiculed and mocked.

Putting all these new and old grudges together made Jiang Song feel so angry that his teeth grinded. He felt even more angry now. It would be difficult to calm his hatred unless he did something.

After a moment, a “good idea” was quickly constructed in his mind, and Jiang Song couldn’t help laughing.

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

AN: Unreliable Behind-the-Scenes Comedy Skit~

Author: President Qin, rumor says you never attend these events. Is this gala special?

Qin Yancheng: No, it’s… in any case, these kinds of events are the most tedious waste of time.

Author: Ah, but everyone knows what—or who—makes it “special” for you.

Qin Yancheng: (Suddenly icy.jpg) Who permitted you to speculate?

Author: …Are you blushing, President Qin?

Qin Yancheng: …From rage!

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The moment the car stopped, Shi Zhou flung the door open and leaped out, slamming it shut in one fluid motion.

The chilly wind cooled the faint blush on his cheeks.

That was my first kiss! In both lifetimes! Sure, it was just a peck on the cheek, but still a first! Who’d believe the notoriously flirtatious Young Master Shi was actually a pure-hearted virgin who only dared to tease verbally?

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Of course, he didn’t know he’d already kissed Qin Yancheng on the face once—on the night he transmigrated—even demanding a kiss in return while drunk.

Shi Zhou continued to sulk. Why did I resort to such a self-destructive move? He refused to admit it was lust clouding his judgment, insisting it was a tactical strike to disorient the enemy. And it had briefly stunned Qin Yancheng.

Qin Yancheng exited the other side, expression unreadable as ever. He glanced at Shi Zhou but said nothing.

Bai Ran waited nearby with two suited men—likely lawyers. She noted the odd tension but didn’t dare pry, especially with Qin Yancheng visibly unwell. Quickly, she led the legal team to negotiate the contract termination.

In the lounge, Shi Zhou lounged on the sofa, carefully placing the perfectly peeled apple skin on the side before casually placing the apple itself on a plate.

Peeling another, then another—

Three apples later, he’d honed his skills, finding the process oddly satisfying. But wasting food felt sinful, so he needed to find a trash can to help him solve this problem. He nudged Qin Yancheng’s ankle with his shoe:

“Hey, Qin sir, want an apple? Peeled it just for you. Great for health—vitamin C and all kinds of nutrition, y’know?”

Qin Yancheng eyed the blatant lie, originally not planning to bother, but looking into those earnest smiling eyes, in the end he took the naked apple anyway, eating it silently before returning to his reports.

Shi Zhou wiped his hands and scrolled Weibo, studying the entertainment industry while saving photos of Qin Yancheng snapped by lucky fans.

Qin Yancheng rarely appeared in public, and although every photo of him that could be found was stunning, there were really not many of them. This sense of mystery made him even more attractive. Everyone knew that this young billionaire with a net worth of hundreds of billions was a man with broad shoulders, long legs and absurdly perfect looks. His many fans were eager to see more high-definition handsome photos of him.

Shi Zhou smirked. After all, he got the real deal right here. All angles, anytime. With enough courage, he could even touch for research purposes.

Qin Yancheng’s phone rang. At the name onscreen, his expression darkened. He muted it and set the phone down as if contaminated.

The calls kept coming. One, two, three…

More than half an hour had passed, and Shi Zhou was wondering what number of calls this was. Neither answering the call nor hanging up, the situation remained in a stalemate. This was rather odd. The person on the other end seemed to be very patient.

So patient that they didn’t seem like a normal person.

Shi Zhou crunched an apple, tilting his head. “Who’s calling? Why not answer?”

Qin Yancheng stayed silent.

Curious, Shi Zhou peeked. The screen read “Zeng Yan”—a woman’s name. Looking at Qin Yancheng’s reaction… could it be an ex-girlfriend?

Bai Ran knocked and entered. “President Qin, we’ve doubled our offer, but they’re stalling. They won’t release the contract.”

Qin Yancheng nodded, unsurprised. Bai Ran hesitated. “Should we raise further? What’s our budget for Mr. Shi’s contract?”

“Ten times the price wouldn’t sway them,” Qin Yancheng shut his laptop coldly. “They think I won’t touch Qixing with the contract in their hands. How laughably stupid.”

Bai Ran understood—Zheng Qi was banking on Qin Yancheng balking at the scandal of Shi Zhou’s contract being auctioned off if Qixing collapsed, or the drawn-out legal battle that would make Shi Zhou a laughingstock.

Shi Zhou never imagined he’d be someone’s human shield. Zheng Qi overestimated his importance.

He and Qin Yancheng weren’t even friends. Expecting Qin Yancheng to spare him for such disgusting things as spying, fantasizing and finding a stand-in? Absurd.

Qin Yancheng stood. “Bai Ran, inform Zheng Qi—since he’s refusing grace, he’d better not regret it.”

Outside the window was a deep and dark night, with the sound of wind blowing past. Shi Zhou lounged in the study, munching chips. “Hey, Qin Yancheng—no, Dear President Qin—will you save me?”

For Qin Yancheng, it wouldn’t be hard. Even a lawsuit would be won effortlessly. The only cost might be bad PR, but freedom trumped reputation. The sight of Zheng Qi’s face alone disgusted him.

“That depends on your performance,” Qin Yancheng replied absently, eyes on his screen.

The gold-rimmed glasses on his nose made Shi Zhou’s heart race. He loved this look—the refined, restrained allure of a gentleman who could ruin you. Made him drool just thinking about it.

A rare sight, since Qin Yancheng wasn’t nearsighted. This “limited edition” view only appeared during paperwork.

Shi Zhou pressed. “Seriously, what’s your angle? Spending money and effort on me? I’m dying of curiosity here.”

Qin Yancheng’s gaze pierced through the lenses, sharp enough to nail Shi Zhou in place. But he offered no answer.

Ugh, cryptic bastard.

Shi Zhou pouted. Whatever. Dead pigs fear no boiling water. Rob him? His pockets were empty. Take advantage? He’d welcome it. Let’s see what Qin Yancheng’s game was.

Before bed, Qin Yancheng quietly left a bruise ointment on Shi Zhou’s nightstand, along with a velvety cake and cherry jelly pudding.

Shi Zhou savored a spoonful of cake, the sweetness melting his annoyance. He touched his neck—barely sore now. Qin Yancheng was really interesting. It seemed that he probably remembered something about what happened last night. Was this an apology?

Treating me like a kid with desserts.

Later, his long-absent agent Li Cheng called, fawning like a grandson meeting his grandpa. “Shi Zhou! I’ve got you an amazing reality show! Eight days of filming, huge buzz already—premiering in two weeks!”

“How generous,” Shi Zhou laughed. “Li Cheng, you’ve gotten funnier.”

The timid, meek Shi Zhou Li Cheng knew was gone. This voice dripped with sarcasm and steel. If not for the same voice, he wouldn’t have even recognized him.

“Cut the crap,” Shi Zhou drawled. “Where were you these past two months? Use that brain of yours—oh wait, it’s only good for adding height.”

Though playful, his tone carried a whip’s sting. “You know the saying: ‘Hindsight is 20/20, foresight is pig-brained’?”

Li Cheng double-checked the caller ID. Definitely “Shi Zhou.”

“Uh… this show’s golden. Everyone’s fighting for it! Qixing pulled strings just for you! Think about it?” Li Cheng plowed on, desperate to fulfill Zheng Qi’s orders.

Shi Zhou toyed with him before relenting. “Fine. I’ve been bored recently. Send me the details.” Then hung up without courtesy.

Playing the aloof big shot came naturally now. Back as CEO, his father had berated him endlessly for being too lax with subordinates, the dinner-table lectures over how a piece of barbecued pork was better than him, treating him as if he was completely useless.

In the end, his father won. He finally turned this “big baby” who was spoiled by his brother into the silly rich second generation who just wanted to lie down into a cool and aloof “Mr. Shi” whose speech and behavior seemed impeccable. He was able to keep his subordinates in check, managed the company in good order, and his work ability was almost impeccable, so he no longer ate his meals to the sound of scolding.

Li Cheng scrambled to send schedules, marveling at Shi Zhou’s transformation. Money and power really remake people. With Mr. Qin backing him even his aura was different.

The offered gigs were enviable, but likely still inadequate as peace offerings to someone backed by Qin Yancheng.

Qixing scrambled to restore Shi Zhou’s ads, endorsements, magazine shoots—anything to appease.

But Shi Zhou only picked local gigs, wary of leaving Beijing while Qin Yancheng’s health hung in the balance. At least wait until the autumn and winter when the incident was most likely to occur before talking about other things. Besides, he could foresee that Qin Yancheng would get his contract back soon, so there was no need to have too much cooperation with Qixing. He could just treat it as a warm-up.

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He carefully selected several commercials that were shot in Beijing, as well as a relatively high-profile fashion gala.

This gala, however, would be his first eye opener. His first taste of this cutthroat world and the many surreal things that occur within.

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Qin Yancheng’s grip loosened instantly, freeing Shi Zhou, who clutched his throat, coughing violently, his heart pounding and vision darkening as the ceiling above seemed to spin.

Too terrifying.

The suffocating near-death sensation surged again, as if he were back in that icy river, ensnared by the terror of death.

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It took a long time for Shi Zhou to steady himself enough to sit up shakily and nudge the motionless Qin Yancheng with his foot.

Qin Yancheng’s eyes were tightly shut, his face as pale as paper. Even unconscious, his brows remained furrowed, his forehead damp with cold sweat.

Summoning his courage, Shi Zhou leaned closer to check on him. Thankfully, it seemed to be just a temporary faint. With great effort, he rolled Qin Yancheng onto his back and pressed a hand to his upper abdomen—the area was already bruising from the kick, the skin cold and taut, spasming visibly.

How much must it hurt to be kicked like that during a cramp? No wonder Qin Yancheng had nearly been knocked out.

Shi Zhou sighed, baffled by Qin Yancheng’s sudden madness. But in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to leave him like this. He fetched antispasmodic medication and forced it down Qin Yancheng’s throat.

A moment later, Qin Yancheng let out a low groan, instinctively curling onto his side, his arms wrapped around his stomach, teeth clenched in silence. Shi Zhou watched as his hazy, confused gaze flickered—still far from sober despite the ordeal.

Just as Shi Zhou turned to leave, Qin Yancheng suddenly bolted upright, ignoring the pain, his face a mask of panic. He staggered to his feet, only to collapse the moment they touched the floor. Before Shi Zhou could help, Qin Yancheng curled into a ball, clutching his head and shouting hoarsely:

“I’m not sick! I’m really not sick!”

He trembled violently, his eyes red, breathing ragged—whether from fear, rage, or agony, it was impossible to tell. Drenched in sweat, his shirt clung to him, leaving him utterly disheveled.

“Qin Yancheng?”

“Qin Yancheng, what’s wrong? Snap out of it!”

No ordinary drunk would act like this. Shi Zhou was genuinely stunned, calling out repeatedly before it dawned on him—Qin Yancheng might have actual psychological issues.

Qin Yancheng wasn’t listening, muttering to himself, “Fuck off… I’m not sick… Let me go…”

Horrifyingly, as he spoke, he began slamming the back of his head against the floor. Shi Zhou lunged forward, cradling his skull to stop him—no need to add brain damage to the mess.

An eternity later, Qin Yancheng finally stilled, his eyes closed.

Shi Zhou tried hauling him back to bed, but the dead weight was far heavier than expected. The struggle was comical—proof that one could lift a 50-pound hyperactive husky but not a 50-pound sack of rice.

After finally wrestling him onto the mattress and peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt, Shi Zhou collapsed in relief.

Qin Yancheng’s lashes fluttered weakly. His eyes opened, and in a hoarse whisper, he murmured, “Shi Zhou?”

Shi Zhou hummed in acknowledgment.

Qin Yancheng’s bloodless lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but he slipped back into unconsciousness.

The next morning, Shi Zhou was lured awake by the aroma of food. Glancing at the clock—past nine. His sleep had been fitful, plagued by nightmares of drowning, jolting awake repeatedly. But sheer hours in bed left him oddly refreshed.

Qin Yancheng sat at the table, phone in hand, “No need. I’ll go personally this afternoon.”

Noticing Shi Zhou’s arrival, he hung up, his tone as detached and polite as ever. “Shi Zhou, breakfast.”

—As if nothing had happened. Yet his pallor and faint weariness betrayed him.

Shi Zhou’s eyes widened, studying him discreetly. Good. He doesn’t remember last night. Better that way.

Shi Zhou easily empathized with others’ embarrassment. No one would want their breakdown witnessed, least of all someone like Qin Yancheng—proud and prominent.

As for the choking? Provoking a blackout-drunk lunatic and forcibly stripping him to grope his abs wasn’t exactly saintly behavior. Besides, Qin Yancheng hadn’t been in control and that kick evened the score.

“Morning, Qin Yancheng. Why aren’t you at the office?”

“Don’t feel like going today,” Qin Yancheng replied tersely.

“Huh? That’s not like you. Mr. Workaholic, always busy.”

Qin Yancheng sipped his tea calmly. “Your bias. I’ve never been a workaholic.”

In truth, he’d woken past midnight to escalating stomach pain, the memories of his drunken antics flooding back with sobriety. The embarrassment was real—as was his guilt toward Shi Zhou.

Between the hangover and sleeplessness, his heart now ached dully. He refused to risk collapsing at the office again in front of subordinates.

Shi Zhou scoffed. If this isn’t workaholic, what is? He’d seen Qin Yancheng merge three meals into one, review proposals past midnight—a true extremist.

Qin Yancheng’s gaze drifted to Shi Zhou’s neck—pale skin now marred by vivid purple fingerprints.

But Shi Zhou seemed uncaring of it, only slurping his noodles. “Heard your call earlier. Going out again tonight? Will you be back for dinner at home?”

He couldn’t face more instant noodles. But with his career stalled and funds dwindling, even three packs seemed a luxury.

“Going to Qixing to buy you today. You’re coming.”

The car ride was spent in a good mood. Shi Zhou swayed to his headphones, ponytail bobbing.

His resilience and inability to hold a grudge baffled Qin Yancheng—like a piece of candy dipped in bitter water, the sweetness beneath untouched by the surface bitterness.

Turning to speak, Shi Zhou suddenly met Qin Yancheng’s unreadable stare and faltered. Recovering, he asked brightly, “Hey, Qin Yancheng, what do you see in me?”

Rumors said this was Qin Yancheng’s first time as a sugar daddy. No one acts without motive. What’s his angle?

Qin Yancheng’s lips pressed together, his cold features flickering with something indefinable. After a pause, he actually smiled faintly. “Don’t know.”

Shi Zhou was baffled. That smile, however slight, felt… ominous. A line from Zweig surfaced: “All fate’s gifts come with a hidden price.”

A windfall this huge—Qin Yancheng had looks, wealth, power, each at their peak—was too good to be true.

Qin Yancheng offered nothing further, leaving Shi Zhou to stew. The more he thought, the more uneasy he grew.

“Hey, just tell me straight—”

Mid-sentence, Shi Zhou felt a weight on his shoulder—Qin Yancheng, exhausted, had dozed off against him.

The scent of Qin Yancheng’s cologne—Kingston Eau de Parfum Cologne for Men, woody with tobacco notes—mingled with mint shampoo, together evoking snow-dusted mountain pines.

Smells quite good. This guy was both handsome and fragrant.

Shi Zhou inhaled deeply, then glanced down at Qin Yancheng’s slender, pale fingers. Compulsively, he brushed one—the cool, smooth touch sent a thrill up his spine. He swallowed hard:

Absolute perfection. Just one more touch.

His earlier doubts—whether to leave Qin Yancheng and run away as soon as possible—evaporated momentarily.

The foolish boy, mind bewitched by the other man’s beauty, shook his head and quickly found a reason to convince himself: Beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve got nothing to lose, nothing he’d want anyway.

In any case, his conscience wouldn’t let him abandon Qin Yancheng before his destined death.

Besides, Qin Yancheng wasn’t so bad. Clearly unwell today, he still personally went to Qixing to “buy” Shi Zhou.

Some time later, Qin Yancheng jolted awake as if from a nightmare, his breathing ragged, gaze unfocused.

Shi Zhou, still covertly holding his hand and having no time to let go (not that he wanted to), quickly shut his eyes and feigned sleep.

Qin Yancheng’s mind buzzed, his vision doubling. The dream so clear and painful it made him tremble—that woman’s voice—clung like a curse:

“Chengcheng…”

“Be good.”

“I love you most.”

“Chengcheng, you’re sick. You need treatment.”

Silence. Qin Yancheng withdrew his hand, then trailed a cold finger along Shi Zhou’s throat, lingering on the bruises. Shi Zhou fought not to flinch, reflexively afraid and also feeling itchy, biting his tongue to stay still.

His acting—once praised by a top director as “limitless”—held up. Qin Yancheng seemed fooled, yet still reached out a hand and gripped Shi Zhou’s ponytail.

A gentle tug forced Shi Zhou’s head back, exposing his marked neck. It didn’t hurt but Shi Zhou was forced to open his eyes at the movement.

Qin Yancheng’s emotions churned uncontrollably. In his mind’s eye, he saw his younger self, hair yanked just like this, that venomously sweet voice cooing as if to a toddler, “Come on, drink your medicine.”

Shi Zhou, bewildered, met Qin Yancheng’s terrifyingly unstable gaze.

Holy shit, he’s losing it again!

Shi Zhou was completely frightened by his mad appearance yesterday. He cursed in his heart, gritted his teeth and stamped his feet, and finally steeled himself—

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

—abruptly leaning in to plant a loud, smacking kiss on Qin Yancheng’s cheek!

The sound echoed in the sudden tense silence.

Qin Yancheng woke up suddenly, his hand trembled, and he let go of Shi Zhou’s hair, with a dazed look in his eyes.

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The car was too quiet. Qin Yancheng didn’t speak, and Shi Zhou had nothing to say either, so he drowsily leaned against the window and fell asleep.

At some point, Qin Yancheng parked and turned off the engine but didn’t make a sound. Instead, he quietly turned to look at Shi Zhou:

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Some people are born with faces that make them look younger than they are—Shi Zhou was one of them. At fifteen or sixteen, Qin Yancheng had probably resembled him somewhat.

Though his features carried a hint of sharpness, the overwhelming impression was one of youthful innocence.

His long hair covered half of his fair neck, his lashes lowered, giving him a pitiful, helpless air.

After a long pause, Qin Yancheng’s slender fingers silently clenched into fists—

That feeling of disgust, even hatred, suddenly surged and boiled in his heart again, like fire scorching the last few drops of water on parched land, emitting a dry, sizzling sound.

Qin Yancheng abruptly closed his eyes, as if his rationality was making a final struggle. He didn’t know why he kept Shi Zhou by his side, watching him over and over.

Perhaps it was a reminder—to never forget, to keep tearing off the scab and staring at his bloody wound. Or perhaps he was searching for some turning point that could only be found by traveling through time, hoping to see something different.

Returning to Qin Yancheng’s villa this time, Shi Zhou was already familiar with the place. The housekeepers came forward to take the luggage from the trunk upstairs, but they hesitated when facing Shi Zhou, unsure how to address him.

According to Aunt Zhang’s instructions, this was likely the “official wife”—but since he was a man, calling him “madam” felt awkward.

Noting their youth, Shi Zhou grinned, “Just call me Brother Shi.” He knew everyone misunderstood his relationship with Qin Yancheng, but if asked to define it, even he wasn’t sure.

Sugar daddy and kept actor? That didn’t seem right either. Qin Yancheng was so handsome and self-disciplined—if this were a kept arrangement, it was hard to say who was getting the better deal.

The housekeepers obediently called him “Brother Shi,” then asked Qin Yancheng, “Sir, will Brother Shi be sharing your room?”

Qin Yancheng, too lazy to explain that their relationship wasn’t like that, simply replied, “He’ll take the guest room next to the master bedroom.”

Shi Zhou’s life now wasn’t much different from before transmigrating—still idle and carefree, even happier than before. No longer burdened with playing the responsible corporate heir, no longer exhausted from pretending to be diligent and reliable while enduring his father’s scoldings.

Lounging on the living room sofa, he scrolled through Weibo, studying the entertainment industry’s workings in this world. Qin Yancheng emerged from the gym, heading toward the bathroom.

Shi Zhou inwardly tsked. Here it comes—today’s dose of temptation.

At home, Qin Yancheng dressed more casually, especially after showers. When he worked in his study wearing just a robe, Shi Zhou—from his vantage point—could see everything clearly through the open door.

Putting down his phone, Shi Zhou, who’d initially been too shy to look, now shamelessly ogled.

How had I ever thought Qin Yancheng might be as frail as Lin Daiyu, easy to push down? (TN: a main character from the Dream of the Red Chamber who is known for being sickly and fragile).

This was clearly a beauty who looked slender clothed but was lean and toned underneath. His muscles were defined yet not bulky, the lines perfectly balanced—Shi Zhou itched to touch them.

As a gay man alone with such a stunning beauty, the air practically thrummed with temptation. Though he wasn’t insane enough to fall for a madman, that didn’t stop him from drooling over Qin Yancheng’s body daily.

His phone buzzed. Shi Zhou reluctantly tore his gaze from Qin Yancheng to check:

Another message from Shi Qing. After selling him out to loan sharks, he had the audacity to now claim credit—hinting that without him, Shi Zhou wouldn’t have caught Qin Yancheng’s eye.

Though Qin Yancheng wasn’t in the entertainment industry, he was a national heartthrob, his name legendary. But whether reporters or those who’d witnessed Shi Zhou leaving with him that night, no one dared make him gossip fodder.

The fact that Shi Zhou lived with Qin Yancheng wasn’t public. Shi Qing must have guessed.

Shi Zhou sent a “Fuck off” before deleting him.

Qin Yancheng, now dressed and drying his hair, fastened his cufflinks. “I’m going out tonight. Order whatever takeout you want.”

Aunt Zhang had returned to her hometown yesterday, and the other housekeepers weren’t allowed to stay overnight, so no one was around to cook. This morning, Qin Yancheng had made breakfast himself.

Shi Zhou had been shocked—not only could Qin Yancheng cook, but the results were visually and gastronomically impressive.

Clearing his throat, Shi Zhou eyed Qin Yancheng by the entrance, then asked with dignity. “Sir, may I come with you?”

“Why?”

Previously, Qin Yancheng had turned a blind eye to Shi Zhou’s “Mrs. Qin” charade—it conveniently deterred admirers. But since it was fake, Shi Zhou’s hints and implications were one thing; actively following him around to assert “ownership” was pushing it.

Shi Zhou seemed to read his thoughts. After a stunned pause, his tone turned sharp, “Forget it. Just kidding. Who cares about your stupid dinner?!”

Qin Yancheng frowned, realizing his own assumption might’ve been unfair. As he pondered Shi Zhou’s words, his phone rang—the driver politely urging him to leave before traffic worsened.

Standing at the entrance putting on shoes, Qin Yancheng heard Shi Zhou, sulking on the sofa with a plush toy, suddenly snap, “Don’t drink.”

His tone was cold, almost vicious with lingering irritation.

But after their time together, Qin Yancheng could now distinguish between Shi Zhou’s genuine concern and his acting.

Lowering his eyes, Qin Yancheng felt an odd, fleeting warmth—like a gentle touch—before replying neutrally, “Mnn.”

Hearing the door close, Shi Zhou sighed, staring after him.

The day his brother died had been just like this:

He’d been watching TV on the sofa when his brother, at the door, said: “Sweetheart, don’t eat too much. Wait for me to bring you cake.”

But Shi Zhou never got that cake. By the time he reached the hospital, his brother’s body was already cold.

Even three years later, he vividly remembered the film onscreen—Béla Tarr’s final work, its silence broken only by howling winds over desolation, a towering dead tree beside a crude hut, and a stubbornly resisting horse. Life collapsing, everything tending toward ruin.

Back then, Shi Zhou had thought it an ordinary day, dutifully analyzing the bleak, profound film for class.

Afterward, he never watched such movies again. Their oppressive weight filled him with dread, as though viewing them might summon sudden tragedy.

For years, he’d wondered—if he’d just said “Don’t drink,” his brother, who doted on him, would’ve listened. Then the sudden illness wouldn’t have…

The real reason Shi Zhou wanted to tag along? He was broke.

Never managing a household, he’d had no concept of expenses, spending recklessly by habit. The original host had been bled dry by his leech of a brother, leaving little savings. Now, with barely enough for instant noodles, takeout wasn’t an option.

Borrowing from Qin Yancheng would make their relationship feel truly transactional. Joking about “sugar daddy” was one thing—making it real would complicate things.

Even now, the bastard had nearly accused him of ulterior motives.

After his noodles, Shi Zhou fiddled with the dishwasher, calculating Qin Yancheng’s return time, when the door lock clicked.

A voice asked, “President Qin, how does this lock work again?”

The next second, the fingerprint scanner beeped. Qin Yancheng’s voice, unusually rough and breathy, “Xiao Ni, thanks for today… You can go.”

Xiao Ni, the driver, hesitated—with Qin Yancheng this drunk and no housekeeper around, could he manage alone?

Then a handsome, ponytailed man strolled out, drying his hands, and effortlessly steadied Qin Yancheng’s unsteady form.

Xiao Ni’s eyes widened. Someone else lives with President Qin?!

The face looked familiar—a celebrity! Rich men loved keeping starlets, but he’d never expected Mr. Qin to follow the trend.

Shi Zhou caught the strong scent of alcohol—mixed drinks, and a lot of them.

Though not one to hold grudges, Shi Zhou’s temper flared at the broken promise, “You full of shit? What did I say before you left?”

Most knew of Qin Yancheng’s stomach issues and avoided pressuring him to drink—unless he wanted to.

Xiao Ni thought, this doesn’t seem like a sugar baby’s attitude…

Not daring to linger, he bid Shi Zhou farewell and left. Having been Qin Yancheng’s driver for several years, he knew that being drunk would not affect his memory. Although he might be drunk right now, he remembered everything clearly the next day.

Alone, Qin Yancheng staggered to the sofa and collapsed.

He wasn’t a rowdy or babbling drunk—if not for his unsteady gait and slurred speech, he might’ve seemed sober.

Shi Zhou ignored him, resuming his movie, though his gaze kept flickering over.

On the table sat a half-full glass of water—left by Qin Yancheng that morning, now ice-cold in the autumn chill.

Seeing him reach for it, Shi Zhou’s resolve wavered. Snatching it away, he snapped, “What water? Have more alcohol. I’ll open another bottle—drink yourself to death.”

Drunk Qin Yancheng was entirely different—docilely accepting the warm water Shi Zhou brought.

Shi Zhou nudged Qin Yancheng’s long legs, “Go lie down in your room. Don’t hog the sofa. I’m trying to watch a movie here.”

Qin Yancheng blinked dazedly at him before obediently rising and retreating to bed.

Peeking in later, Shi Zhou saw him curled uncomfortably, left arm pressed to his stomach, legs drawn up—clearly in pain.

Their eyes met. Shi Zhou rolled his dramatically before ducking out.

He decided to make milk to soothe Qin Yancheng’s stomach. As the pot simmered, the creamy aroma filled the kitchen. The familiar scene tugged at memories of doing the same for his own brother—

His eyes stung suddenly. A tear fell without warning.

Startled, he touched his cheek, then sniffled.

Damn it! This body’s tear ducts are too sensitive. He wasn’t that sad—three years had passed. He shouldn’t be crying this easily.

But once the first tear broke through, more followed like a breached dam.

Wiping his face, Shi Zhou thought, thank god no one saw this. How embarrassing—crying like a toddler.

Bringing the milk to Qin Yancheng, who sat up weakly, Shi Zhou’s red-rimmed eyes didn’t escape notice.

“You cried?” Qin Yancheng’s voice was hoarse from drink, laced with a lazy rasp.

Shi Zhou scrubbed at his face, flushing. “None of your business! Hurry and drink up!”

Qin Yancheng frowned, blinking slowly—an oddly innocent look. This endearing contrast made Shi Zhou laugh, his tone softening.

“Really, it’s nothing. Just overactive tear ducts. Better out than in, right? Sip slowly—don’t upset your stomach more.”

After washing the cup, Shi Zhou heard retching. Rushing to the bathroom, he found Qin Yancheng slumped over the toilet, utterly spent.

Helping him rinse, Shi Zhou fetched painkillers at his weak request.

“These aren’t candy—they’re bad for you… How do you even function?”

He made him lie down and took out some stomach medicine for him to take. After waiting for a long time, there was still no relief. Qin Yancheng’s face was still pale with pain.

“Did you buy fake medicine? I don’t think it has ever worked.”

Shi Zhou rolled up his sleeves. Time to showcase his limited culinary skills: congee.

After nearly destroying the kitchen, he produced a decent-looking porridge.

As he entered, Qin Yancheng, silent until now, murmured, “…Thanks.”

Shi Zhou chuckled. So polite, even drunk. “Don’t thank me. You’re just lucky.”

Had the scene not mirrored the past so closely, the pampered young master would’ve never bothered. Apart from Shi Li, no one could make him lift a finger.

He’d learned to make congee specifically for his brother—much to the hoisekeepers’ horror, who’d begged him to spare the kitchen (and their sanity).

Oh well. Qin Yancheng won’t remember this tomorrow anyway.

“Hey, no one dares pressure you to drink. Why torture yourself? And you mixed alcohols, didn’t you?” Shi Zhou had noticed Qin Yancheng’s disregard for his health before.

“Still hurting? Here, let me massage it.”

Rubbing his hands, Shi Zhou seized the chance he’d longed for—to touch those perfect abs. Opportunities shouldn’t be wasted.

“No need.” Qin Yancheng turned away, his slurred words oddly firm.

“I say you need it. My hands are warm—it’ll feel good.”

Planning to change Qin Yancheng’s clothes anyway, Shi Zhou grabbed loungewear, then climbed atop him, swiftly undoing his buttons.

Too drunk and weak to resist, Qin Yancheng’s shirt was yanked open, revealing sculpted chest and abdomen.

“Tsk, I’ve been plotting this, finally I’ve…” Shi Zhou’s voice died.

On Qin Yancheng’s right upper arm were over a dozen horizontal scars—neat, evenly spaced, identical in length, as if meticulously carved.

The right side…

But aside from himself, who would dare harm this heir born with a golden spoon?

As Shi Zhou stared, Qin Yancheng’s eyes flew open—

Like a roused beast, he suddenly gripped Shi Zhou’s throat, flipping them with terrifying strength to pin him down!

Shi Zhou’s scream caught in his crushed windpipe. Qin Yancheng’s grip was iron—immobilizing, suffocating, his cervical vertebrae pressing dangerously on his trachea.

Qin Yancheng’s eyes burned crimson, filled with deranged fury—the look of someone ready to drag the world down with him. It was definitely not an expression worn by someone who was sane and sober.

“FUCK OFF!” Qin Yancheng roared, voice raw with rage. “DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!”

“Qin… Yan…cheng…” Was he going to be strangled to death?

You c an fi nd t he la te st cha pte rs at ( th e bl mu se . c o m )

Darkness edged Shi Zhou’s vision. Gritting his teeth, he mustered all his strength—

—and kneed Qin Yancheng brutally in the stomach.

The force, enough to hurt his own knee, made Qin Yancheng gasp and collapse sideways, his grip slackening.

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