The day’s shooting went very smoothly.
Liang Xiao was used to being unwell, and his performance wasn’t affected by the trivial little cold. He solidly completed the scheduled filming tasks.
Having learned from the lead actor’s previous experience, the assistant director led the props team in an urgent inspection and indeed found three more mistakenly purchased fireworks. They gratefully thanked Liang Xiao all the way.
“No need to thank me, give these to him too,” Director Jin decided. “Take them back and blow up the window of whoever annoys you.”
“…” Liang Xiao had just finished a big scene and was taking a rare sip of water, choking and coughing twice: “Director Jin.”
Jin Zhenbo frowned as he looked at him: “Caught a cold?”
Liang Xiao didn’t think his illness was that obvious and was surprised: “You can tell?”
“It’s flu season again, and several crew members have already caught it.”
The production manager came over and gave him two packets of Banlangen (herbal cold medicine): “Director Jin gets nervous whenever he sees someone cough now.”
Liang Xiao had at least two boxes of Banlangen in stock already, but couldn’t refuse such kindness, so he accepted with thanks.
“Take care of yourself, and let us know if you need to rest.”
Jin Zhenbo wasn’t such a tyrant and wasn’t in a hurry about the shooting schedule: “Our schedule isn’t that tight, worst case we can shoot more scenes with the supporting actors.”
“Thank you,” Liang Xiao nodded. “I don’t need it for now, I’ll let the crew know if anything special comes up.”
Jin Zhenbo looked at him, didn’t press further, and went to check the monitor playback with the assistant director.
“That’s just Director Jin’s temperament,” the production manager accompanied Liang Xiao to remove his makeup and explained. “Don’t take it personally, he’s actually quite satisfied with you.”
Liang Xiao smiled: “Director Jin wants the best for me, so his requirements are strict.”
The production manager saw that he wasn’t resentful and relaxed: “Yes, he’s extremely strict with those he thinks have potential.”
“And you really do have potential,” the production manager had seen Weibo and praised him with a smile. “I saw that set of photos, they’ve spread widely and even gone beyond our circle.”
Liang Xiao’s image adjustment was in line with the crew’s requirements, and this new set of elite-style photos was undoubtedly for this purpose. The production manager was especially pleased: “There aren’t many who are willing to cooperate with the crew like this anymore… Xingguan is truly commendable.”
Though moderation is key, and Xingguan hadn’t deliberately guided this recently, once Liang Xiao’s photos were released, they still strongly attracted attention.
Even without relying on the excessively impressive high-end equipment, just the elegant nobility that was completely different from his usual state unconsciously matched the young marquis’s identity, providing considerable convenience for the crew’s promotional efforts.
“And—that rumor about you being kidnapped,” the production manager, being part of the publicity team, couldn’t resist gossiping and asked him: “Is it true? When you were young…”
Liang Xiao laughed: “It’s fake.”
The production manager was somewhat disappointed: “Oh.”
“Recently some people have been trying to dig up dirt on my past, so we came up with several stories… to muddy the waters a bit.”
Liang Xiao apologized: “It won’t affect the crew’s publicity.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” the production manager waved his hand. “This isn’t negative news anyway, just something that creates discussion.”
“Besides, you’re just starting out. It would be strange if they didn’t make some moves against you before you establish yourself.”
Having filmed with him for these days, the production manager believed he had some judgment of character: “Truth will prevail. Even if there’s negative news, if you act with integrity, you needn’t fear their smears.”
Liang Xiao smiled but didn’t speak.
Unfortunately, the production manager’s words proved prophetic.
The next day, as soon as Liang Xiao finished filming, Duan Ming hurriedly pulled him to the side of the set.
“Don’t panic, it’s not a big deal.”
Duan Ming seemed more anxious than him, frowning tightly: “These people have dug up some things about your university days from who knows where.”
Liang Xiao was already feeling the effects of his cold today. He asked his assistant for a tissue and coughed a couple of times.
Duan Ming was concerned: “Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing, just a bit of coughing, can’t taste anything.”
Liang Xiao didn’t think much of it and looked through his snack box: “Any candy?”
“Yes, President Huo had the team buy some.” Duan Ming found several types for him. “Which one do you want?”
Liang Xiao was usually fine with eating anything, but when sick he became picky, choosing carefully before sighing: “I don’t like any of these…”
Duan Ming was exasperated: “Should I get you two pounds of plain sugar?”
“No need,” Liang Xiao coughed once. “My usual brand is fine.”
“Your usual brand ran out, and there’s none within dozens of kilometers.”
Duan Ming shattered his dreams: “Even if we sent someone to buy it, they wouldn’t know which one. The last time and the time before that, they bought the wrong ones. Didn’t you say you didn’t like the pineapple and grapefruit flavors?”
Duan Ming couldn’t help asking: “Does that brand have a hundred flavors or something?”
Liang Xiao had always taken them from President Huo and hadn’t paid attention, not realizing it was so complicated: “I’m not sure… It’s fine, milk candy will do.”
Liang Xiao unwrapped one and put it in his mouth: “What happened with my university days?”
“It’s about those part-time jobs… your school still had records.”
Duan Ming felt bad for him and didn’t want to go into details: “It’s just that we’ve been pushing the narrative that you don’t lack money, and people have widely accepted the story that your pheromones burst because you were kidnapped as a young master.”
Duan Ming frowned: “There was no problem before, but now, your background conflicts with these two points. They’re using this to prove you didn’t have a good university life…”
Liang Xiao was surprised: “My university life wasn’t good?!”
Duan Ming: “…”
Duan Ming thought about all the part-time jobs that had been exposed and couldn’t help but frown tightly: “What kind of life did you have before university?”
Having been repeatedly asked about this recently, Liang Xiao pressed his forehead, also lacking confidence: “They haven’t found out, have they?”
“Not yet for now.” Duan Ming frowned, helping him sit down. “Xingguan has sent people to infiltrate and investigate. It’s a gossip operation team that specializes in digging up people’s backgrounds.”
Liang Xiao drank some Banlangen, nodded and sighed: “President Huo still needs to buy Longtao as soon as possible.”
“…” Duan Ming rarely heard such bold statements from him, wondering what he had been learning from President Huo lately, and looked at him: “Don’t underestimate these people. Many in the industry have been targeted by them, and most ended up paying to silence them.”
Liang Xiao’s resume issues weren’t major, but his experiences as a youth had buried a “landmine” that, if it fell into the hands of someone with ill intentions, could cause unpredictable trouble.
Beyond that, people had already begun questioning his set of photos, arguing that based on Liang Xiao’s standard of living during university, he couldn’t possibly have afforded the prices of these outfits.
Liang Xiao thought for a moment: “Before university, I had a rather difficult and hard life, then in university I worked hard to improve myself…”
Duan Ming pressed his forehead: “Did you pick up a ring with a sealed ‘Future Actor Ascension System’ inside?”
Liang Xiao: “…”
Liang Xiao tried his best to maintain the cover story: “Bitcoin trading? I have exceptional business talent.”
Duan Ming reminded him: “Two years ago, you were still hanging from wires flying all over the place as Chai Ke’s stunt double.”
Liang Xiao gave up: “Personal hobby.”
Duan Ming: “…”
Duan Ming had no way to deal with him and sighed: “The best approach is actually to tell the truth. One lie piled on top of another will eventually cause problems.”
Liang Xiao’s childhood identity did indeed hide a landmine, but the instigators couldn’t bear the light of day and wouldn’t dare jump out to seek their own destruction. There wasn’t much evidence or clues to be found.
If the current image conflict wasn’t resolved and was allowed to develop, speculation about him being kept as someone’s lover would eventually emerge.
Once it spread across the internet, whether clarified or not, it would be difficult to completely clean up.
“President Huo… originally intended to make your relationship public.”
Duan Ming discussed with him in a low voice: “Now would be a good time.”
Liang Xiao shook his head: “It’s the right time for me, but not for Xingguan.”
If they went public now, given President Huo’s personality, he would certainly tell the truth. That would naturally be good for Liang Xiao—two people in love freely dating—and the “kept man” rumors would collapse on their own.
“But right now, I don’t have enough seniority or popularity. Everything is just getting started.”
Liang Xiao: “I’m a Xingguan artist. If President Huo and I are together, even if Xingguan’s internal artists don’t overthink it, outsiders will force their fans to overthink.”
Whether there was squeezing out, crushing, or unfair backdoor access.
Why could he get resources, and why didn’t these resources go to other artists?
Xingguan had always been known for fairness, but there’s inevitably competition in the industry. If someone’s resources aren’t good enough, fans can easily be guided by people with ulterior motives, and conspiracy theories will find a market.
Once it erupts, both Xingguan’s stock price and reputation would suffer.
Duan Ming was also clear about these issues, which is why he stopped President Huo at the cocktail party, caught in a dilemma: “Yes… but we need to deal with our side now too.”
Duan Ming frowned: “These people have already started building momentum. If we suppress it too obviously and they’re determined to make it bigger, even Xingguan can’t control it. By then, if people really suspect you got your money by being someone’s kept man or something, the talk will be much nastier than it is now.”
Liang Xiao pondered and nodded: “I know.”
Duan Ming reminded him: “If it really breaks out, Xingguan won’t be able to control President Huo either.”
“…” Liang Xiao pressed his forehead: “I know.”
President Huo had always stood on principles. Xingguan hadn’t reached its current position through underhanded means but by seeking victory in dangerous situations, first building a solid reputation for quality, which in turn attracted talented artists.
Even if every department head knew that the CEO had a close relationship with him, the resources Liang Xiao could currently obtain were still only those that he was qualified to receive based on his abilities.
Given their President Huo’s temperament, he probably wouldn’t even understand why dating someone you like would have anything to do with the company’s internal resource allocation.
Liang Xiao’s face felt a bit hot, and he warmed his hands: “Looking at it this way… there’s only one option left.”
Duan Ming: “What?”
“Find our contract, add a zero to it, biting someone costs one million yuan.”
Liang Xiao: “Self-reliance, getting rich through my own efforts.”
Liang Xiao declared righteously: “Let President Huo step forward to clear my name.”
…
Duan Ming had almost forgotten about this incident. His eyes widened in surprise for a while, and he found himself unable to refute: “You’re right…”
It not only explained the source of the sudden wealth but also explained the connection with President Huo.
Apart from possibly being criticized for greedy business practices or charging exorbitant prices, the logic was almost flawless.
Liang Xiao raised his hand and high-fived him.
Duan Ming had anticipated a different solution when he came, but was somehow persuaded by him. He stood up, feeling a bit dazed, and went to discuss with the Xingguan team.
–
On the way back to the hotel, Liang Xiao felt drowsy from the cold medicine and fell asleep leaning against the back of the seat.
In his hazy state, he had another dream.
Strangely, whenever his past was forcibly dredged up and he thought about President Huo before sleeping, he would end up dreaming about that small house in Jiangnan.
In the dream, Liang Xiao thoroughly denounced his own despicable omega behavior, but still couldn’t resist opening that door.
The room was completely empty, with nothing inside.
Liang Xiao’s heart sank.
He knew what period he was dreaming about.
After starting university, Liang Xiao had traveled to many small film sets to make money, passing through Jiangnan three times without entering. Eventually, he couldn’t resist anymore.
The young Liang Xiao who had fled with his bedroll had returned everything, except the key that he couldn’t bear to part with. He kept it close to his body, secretly touching it whenever he felt homesick.
That year during the Mid-Autumn Festival holiday, he was alone in the dormitory. After losing ten games in a row, his mental state finally completely collapsed.
Perhaps because it was during a time of youthful impetuousness, with the game’s background music setting the mood, Liang Xiao couldn’t resist and acted impulsively for the only time.
Liang Xiao bought a train ticket overnight and went to Jiangnan with the key.
Having been gone for four years, Liang Xiao had thought he would have forgotten the way, but as soon as he got off the train, his legs didn’t even consult his brain, taking him directly to that familiar high-end residential area.
On the way back, Liang Xiao had actually considered many possibilities.
When he was in Jiangnan, the other person was already in their senior year of high school, so they might no longer be living there, and the locks had probably been changed.
Liang Xiao had even prepared himself—if the locks had been changed, he would go to the flower bed below their building, coughing and crying while burying the key together with some flower petals.
…
But the key, worn smooth from his constant handling, slid into the keyhole without much effort.
The teenage Liang Xiao of that time already felt he was doing quite well. He had deliberately worn his best clothes, but still couldn’t help feeling nervous with his heart racing. He quickly pulled out the key and ran away, finding a bathhouse with hairstyling services where he thoroughly cleaned himself up.
He had deliberately used what felt like ten tons of hair gel.
Liang Xiao’s heart pounded all the way back. With a straight back and awkward gait, he walked back and slowly used the key to open that lock again.
He had thought about it—if the other person was still angry with him, he would try to coax them; if they wanted to beat him up, he would take it.
And if they weren’t angry with him anymore and were willing to hug him…
The Liang Xiao of that time hadn’t dared to imagine this, specifically stuffing several layers of thick cardboard inside his clothes to protect against a beating.
The dream was still paused at the scene before his eyes. Liang Xiao frowned, uncomfortable with the headlights shining in his face, and shifted his position slightly.
The scene in the dream was exactly the same as what he had seen back then.
The door opened, and inside was emptiness.
Nothing was there.
No wild alpha from Jiangnan, no bookshelves that seemed to cover three walls in his memory, no wooden desk where he had secretly carved several “QAQ” faces.
No practice books that had nearly driven him crazy, no reference books he had memorized until he hit the wall.
Liang Xiao stood stunned at the doorway for about ten minutes before finding his legs and slowly stepping inside.
His hand clutching the key couldn’t stop trembling, so he had to grip it with his other hand and use his shoulder to help close the door.
The room had been almost completely emptied, with only a dusty sofa remaining. After years without care, it had aged beyond recognition of its original color.
Liang Xiao thought for a moment, took out the cardboard from inside his clothes, put on a mask, and cleaned the room.
He also removed the sofa cover, washed it clean, and hung it on the balcony.
Liang Xiao walked around the room a couple of times, laid the thick cardboard on the sofa, and tried rolling around on it a few times.
In the empty room, Liang Xiao clutched the key, gradually curling into a small ball.
…
Liang Xiao didn’t really like this dream and frowned intensely, trying hard to wake up, but somehow couldn’t open his eyes.
The unchanging dream imprisoned him relentlessly, with only the light outside gradually darkening, vaguely indicating that time was still flowing.
As the daylight faded completely, both inside and outside the room were wrapped in quiet darkness.
Fireworks were being set off outside, probably for some celebration, with people’s voices exceptionally cheerful and lively.
That day, the young Liang Xiao slept in the empty room for a night, and by the next morning, he had accidentally caught a cold. Sniffling and looking pitifully aggrieved, he diligently put the sofa cover back on and carried his belongings downstairs step by step.
The young Liang Xiao had wanted to cry and cough while burying the key with flower petals in the flower bed. After struggling with himself for a long time, he couldn’t bear to part with it and carefully tucked it back into his pocket close to his body.
Nor did he end up crying after all.
He had chosen his own path. The young Liang Xiao didn’t shed a single tear, keeping that key in his pocket as he took the train back to school.
The timeline in the dream finally reached the fireworks display. Liang Xiao’s closed eyes were uncomfortable from the bright light, and he instinctively tried to avoid it. Just as he was about to turn over, he suddenly heard the sound of a door opening.
Liang Xiao’s chest suddenly tightened painfully, leaving him breathless, and his eyes flew open.
He had already returned to the hotel at some point, lying on the bed in the side bedroom, with an all-too-familiar IV drip inserted into the back of his hand.
The room was empty.
Liang Xiao yanked out the needle and got out of bed, swaying with a heavy head and light feet as he ran outside.
Running to the living room, he crashed headlong into a broad chest and shoulders, and was caught in a cool, snowy embrace.
Liang Xiao’s chest heaved several times, feeling intense pain. He bit down on his own wrist to endure it, lowering his head as he trembled, tears streaming silently.
Not wanting his vision to blur, he roughly wiped his eyes several times, hurriedly holding the person tightly, and looked up while gasping for breath.
President Huo had just returned, travel-worn, his left hand still on the door lock, his right arm firmly holding him.
President Huo’s gaze fixed on him as he grasped Liang Xiao’s wrist, applying a bit of pressure to make him open his mouth, and placed the spot with a blood mark against his palm.
Liang Xiao’s voice was completely hoarse as he struggled to speak: “Huo—”
President Huo lowered his head, embraced Liang Xiao’s tense, thin back, and kissed him.
Liang Xiao’s heart fluttered lightly as he was guided to part his lips slightly. Before he could gather his thoughts, his tongue suddenly tasted sweetness.
President Huo kissed him, feeding him a fruit candy that was exactly to Mr. Liang’s taste—one that would require driving at least dozens of kilometers, and that only President Huo himself could properly select.
(advanced chapters available on kofi)
