MACRM Chapter 27

With a thin script in hand, Lin Zhu lay sprawled on the bed, reading it intently for a full half hour.

“You really don’t want to drink it?”

Zhong Yao had already prepared the hotpot, and when he looked up to see Lin Zhu still poring over the script with such seriousness, he couldn’t help laughing first. “This time I’ll add more to it. I’ve got some fine chrysanthemum buds; I’ll mix them with a bit of rock sugar and brew it for you. It won’t taste bad.”

Summer had turned to autumn in the blink of an eye, and the chill had crept in overnight.

After spending these past days eating and living together, Zhong Yao could tell that Lin Zhu’s constitution wasn’t strong. Without some nourishing supplements, he’d surely fall ill when the seasons changed.

Lin Zhu was still buried in his reading, only looking up with dazed confusion after being called twice. “Zhong-laoshi…?”

“Working so hard today? Rest your eyes for now, it’s time to eat.”

The role had been added on Zhong Yao’s insistence, so he had a good idea of what was going on. He’d already read the script before the revisions, and the main ideas had been communicated, there’s nothing too drastic that would have been changed.

He wasn’t in a rush to read it himself. He plated the vegetables and meat, arranged the meatballs, and deftly stir-fried the rich spicy broth, tossing a few slices of luncheon meat into the pan for the agent.

The little young master’s scenes were few to begin with, and Lin Zhu’s memory was excellent. Normally, he’d skim through the script once, toss it aside, and still manage to deliver a flawless performance when the cameras rolled.

For him to study it so seriously today… maybe he really did dislike goji berries.

“Don’t be nervous. A bit of difficulty is fine.”

Softening with a trace of guilt for being too harsh, Zhong Yao gently comforted him, “If you really can’t find the right state, just follow my lead…”

Lin Zhu, chewing distractedly on a piece of luncheon meat, almost swallowed it whole in shock at those words.

Zhong Yao froze. “Not tasty?”

“No, no! It’s good…”

Lin Zhu shook his head frantically, crunching mechanically as he sneaked another glance at the script he had already read several times.

How… how was Zhong Yao supposed to “lead” him like that?

His heart raced. He touched the script in his hands, hesitated, then cautiously tucked it under the pillow.

By then, Zhong Yao had finished the broth and was setting up the hotpot. Lin Zhu couldn’t sit still and rushed over to help.

Still trusting the screenwriter, Zhong Yao didn’t think too deeply. He pulled the screen aside, set up the square table, turned on the air conditioning, and with both of them sitting on their beds, poured the bone broth into the spicy base and lit the fire.

The pot was filled with fresh vegetables, finely sliced lamb so thin it was translucent, bouncy handmade fish balls, and silky tofu. All harmoniously rolling in the bubbling red soup.

After figuring out Lin Zhu’s taste, Zhong Yao had quietly upgraded the quality of the ingredients. The fragrant, numbing broth with the rich bone stock filled the whole corridor with its domineering aroma once again.

The entire crew resented Film Emperor Zhong’s habit of “poisoning” them late at night. One by one, doors slammed shut in protest.

Unbothered, Zhong Yao used the public chopsticks to drop some fresh tripe into Lin Zhu’s bowl. “Eat more.”

His cooking wasn’t masterful, but it was more than enough to satisfy the appetite. Lin Zhu took off his glasses, ate happily, and finally let go of his worries, squinting contentedly as he scooped sweet potato slices from the pot for Zhong Yao.

Without the black frames, his youthful features were delicate and bright, his brows arching gently as a sheen of sweat gathered on his smooth forehead, glistening under the light.

Perhaps it was the sincerity revealed when facing the camera earlier, but as Zhong Yao watched him, his heart gave the faintest, most subtle stir.

…

Suddenly, a phone rang.

Lin Zhu swallowed a piece of meat, grabbed his phone, glanced at the caller ID, then put it on speaker, mouthing to Zhong Yao: “PR…”

At this hour, it had to be about tonight’s interview.

Though not exactly a live broadcast accident, it had been an unexpected incident. No one could predict what kind of backlash it might stir among fans. For PR to call directly this late meant it was no small matter.

Zhong Yao had weathered everything before. He no longer cared much about fans coming or going, so he wasn’t particularly concerned. He nodded to show he understood, his attention returning to Lin Zhu.

Maybe from the heat of the food, Lin Zhu had undone two buttons at his collar and rolled up his sleeves.

He was slender, still young, with traces of boyishness lingering in his frame. His clean, refined looks gave him a softness and gentleness that seemed to flow from his whole being.

These days, Lin Zhu’s name carried weight. He no longer needed to spar with reporters. With just a courteous smile and a few casual words, he could still intimidate them from reputation alone.

Watching him now, Zhong Yao couldn’t imagine how Lin Zhu had once driven reporters into such terror that they’d scatter at the sight of him.

“Lin-laoshi, have you and Zhong-laoshi turned in for the night yet? Are you asleep?”

The PR person’s voice came through the phone, half amused, half exasperated. “If you’re still awake, hurry and interact with Zhong-laoshi on Weibo. His fans are in total chaos right now.”

With the boss stepping up to personally defend the agent, the whole team felt reassured. The PR manager, about the same age as Lin Zhu, forgot he was on speaker, speaking freely in his glee, “They’re apologizing, repenting, writing self-reflections, swearing to be CP fans for life. We’ve tried every way to calm them down, but they’re all just terrified Zhong-laoshi will get angry and drag you into the sea with him…”

Lin Zhu: “…”

“That moment when Zhong-laoshi bowed to the camera is trending on the hot search!”

Oblivious, the PR grew more excited as he went on. “We didn’t even push it. So many casual viewers have been drawn in. Some are even commenting, asking if that counts as an official wedding bo—” 

Cold sweat broke across Lin Zhu’s back. In a flash, he hung up the call.

“No worries, the hotel’s soundproofing is good. No one outside can hear.”

Zhong Yao had only caught fragments of the call, too busy pondering what kind of “threatening stance” Lin Zhu’s rolled-up sleeves might present. Still, he could already guess the gist and offered calm reassurance, “It’s a good thing.”

Zhong Yao said, “From today on, our matter is settled. No one can say otherwise.”

The agent, still reeling from that half-sentence about a “bow,” trembled so badly the quail egg he had just picked up slipped from his chopsticks and free-dived back into the pot.

……

After mistakenly stuffing a third piece of ginger into his mouth thinking it was potato, Lin Zhu finally calmed down. Pressing a hand against his chest, he fished out his phone and opened Weibo.

It wasn’t unusual for an agent’s assistant to interact with their artist on a private Weibo account. If they occasionally revealed small, harmless behind-the-scenes tidbits, it could bring in a wave of fans, sometimes generating more traffic than some second- or third-tier celebrities.

This kind of setup not only attracted attention but also helped to flesh out and diversify the artist’s public persona, so a total win-win situation.

Originally, Lin Zhu had been indifferent about this. But after deciding to take on the role, he deliberately abandoned that approach. His work Weibo, the one used as an agent, remained a blank account with no notes and no posts, lying quietly and inconspicuously in Zhong Yao’s followers list.

Whether back when that audition video of his went viral, or during these past few days when things had been at their most heated, no netizen had managed to dig out that zombie-like blank account for being Zhong Yao’s agent.

…In a way, a blessing in disguise.

He couldn’t help but imagine how disastrous it would’ve been if his own Weibo had been exposed these past few days. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat. He quickly changed his account note and opened the post interface.

That livestream had ended right at such a critical moment. It was indeed a bit cruel, even he had to admit. Fans were eager for interaction, and no doubt shaken by the atmosphere at the time.

This wasn’t the right moment for being overly sentimental, nor for appearing too cheerful. Chewing on his chopsticks, Lin Zhu pondered for a while, then decided to improvise — he snapped a picture of the steaming hotpot in front of him and attached a neutral emoji before posting it.

The hotel Wi-Fi wasn’t great. The little sending buffer kept circling endlessly. Lin Zhu finally let out a breath, put down his phone, and looked up, ready to discuss with Zhong Yao what wording would be best under the current PR conditions. Then suddenly, his Weibo notification for “special follow” chimed.

Lin Zhu: “!”

Using his own data, Zhong Yao had already searched for the account, followed it, and refreshed in time to see the post. And before Lin Zhu could even open his mouth, he had already reposted it.

Lin Zhu’s heart lurched, a faint sense of dread creeping in. Holding his breath, he tapped open Weibo.

Zhong Yao v: [We’re doing well. Thank you all for your support and encouragement. (rose.jpg)]

Lin Zhu: “……”

The young and brilliant agent who once dominated the industry and intimidated countless reporters and paparazzi… on this very night, quietly went up in fireworks. He was saved from a PR nightmare by his own artist.