The next morning, Song Chan was woken by the alarm on her phone.
She opened her eyes and gathered her strength for a long while, but still lacked the energy to break free from the warm blankets.
Su Yicen’s complete devotion last night had been too much for Song Chan to handle. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning, when he made her cry, that he finally let her go.
Her weary body felt like it had been broken apart and reassembled. The fatigue and soreness from a night of passion permeated every single bone joint.
Even though the sky had brightened, the lingering ambiguous atmosphere in the bedroom did not dissipate with the sunlight filtering in.
Perhaps due to overexertion the night before, Song Chan’s body was utterly exhausted.
She felt as if a lump of lead weighed down her lower abdomen. Only by curling up could she get a bit of relief from the discomfort.
The other side of the bed was empty. The body heat left by the person beside her in the blankets had faded with the passage of time, leaving only his scent lingering at her side, wrapping her body layer by layer.
Before dawn, Su Yicen had hurried off to attend to his schedule, guest-starring in a military historical drama.
Before leaving, he thoughtfully warmed a glass of milk and prepared a simple breakfast, placing them on the bedside table on Song Chan’s side, within easy reach.
Propping herself up on her elbow, Song Chan pulled the robe from the edge of the bed and wrapped it around herself.
The movement heightened her awareness of her body’s sensations. She clenched her hand into a fist and pressed it hard into the sore dip of her waist, easing the unbearable ache there somewhat.
The discomfort in her body soured Song Chan’s mood.
She turned on her phone and there he was—the man who had been insatiable the night before, tormenting her half the night.
Dressed in a sharp black suit, his face cold and abstinent, he appeared on her lock screen.
Song Chan couldn’t help but curse him, her words sharp as nails squeezed through gritted teeth.
“Hypocrite, beast in fine clothes.”
She picked up the glass of milk beside her and took a sip.
The milk was still warm, not yet cooled. At that temperature, the creamy flavor was rich and the texture perfect.
She ate a couple bites of milk with the toasted bread. With food in her stomach, her aching body relaxed a little.
Just as Song Chan was about to get up, a sudden cramp twisted through her lower abdomen. The pain made her furrow her brows and draw in a sharp breath, a layer of fine sweat instantly beading on her forehead.
Feeling a warm flow leak from inside her, Song Chan inwardly cried out in alarm.
She grabbed her phone and checked. On the calendar for the 23rd, she had marked a crying emoji.
It was a hint only she understood, signaling the start of her period. Her cycle was very regular, always three days later than the previous one.
Song Chan suffered from severe cramps, especially on the first day.
So, after each period ended, she would calculate ahead and mark the date for the next one on her calendar.
This month’s period happened to fall today.
Perhaps due to her psychological dread of her period, or maybe the effects of last night’s overexertion.
Cramps twisted through her lower abdomen like a punch followed by a knife twisting back and forth. She washed down the prepared ibuprofen with the milk.
Clutching her stomach, she dashed into the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a vivid streak of red on her underwear.
By the time she cleaned up, she was utterly drained, her body feeling like it had been beaten to pieces.
Song Chan looked at herself in the mirror. Her once rosy lips were pale, and the short strands of hair at her hairline were damp with sweat, sticking to her forehead.
She looked extremely unwell, weak and frail, all written plainly on her face.
She kept splashing warm water on her face, trying to use the method to summon back the energy chased away by the pain, but it had little effect.
The twisting pain in her lower belly hurt so much she couldn’t straighten her back.
Even though she was usually passionate about work, in this state, Song Chan could hardly keep up her workaholic ways.
Her enthusiasm ultimately succumbed to the cramps. For once, she asked Lin Jinhe for a day off.
Lin Jinhe didn’t make things difficult for her, but she didn’t let her off easy either.
The draft of the opening speech Song Chan had submitted yesterday was predictably sent back with revisions, to be fixed in her spare time and resubmitted.
Song Chan lay sprawled on the table, her head resting on her folded arms, her other hand pressing hard against her lower abdomen. The cramps left her with no mood to think about anything else.
She didn’t know how many cups of hot water she drank, but the twisting pain in her lower belly still wouldn’t ease.
Only when the ibuprofen finally kicked in did Song Chan feel alive again. She let out a long breath of stale air, and her curled-up body could finally straighten.
More than half of June had passed, the summer solstice was over, and Hangbei’s hottest days were approaching. The air carried a distinct dry heat—even the breeze blowing into the room felt warm.
With the worst of the discomfort passed, Song Chan dragged her weary body back to the bedroom. Right now, all she wanted was to sleep until the world faded away.
—
“You still can’t actually hit him, though.”
Feng Zheng spread his hands helplessly, turning from the passenger seat to face the man resting with his eyes closed in the back.
“Even if Wei Lai deserved it, what if something really happened to him? Your acting career would be completely ruined.”
Su Yicen didn’t take it to heart at all.
He said lightly, “Accidental injuries happen in wuxia dramas all the time.”
“He just got a bruise—no blood even.”
Hearing his attitude, Feng Zheng’s eyes widened like never before in his life.
“Ancestors, were you hoping for blood?”
“I admit, Wei Lai is a jerk. No one on the set crew has a good word for him. But you’re both public figures—you have to consider your image, right?”
Even though they had left the set, Feng Zheng, as a grown man, still felt his heart pounding as he recalled Su Yicen’s absolutely aggressive strike, solidly landing on Wei Lai’s shoulder.
Everyone on set had seen the force of that blow.
Su Yicen swung the staff down, knocking Wei Lai flat to the ground. His wretched pained howls completely erased his usual arrogant swagger.
While everyone rushed to the fallen Wei Lai, only Su Yicen, who had struck him down, remained unmoved.
That was a set with hundreds of people, watched by over a hundred pairs of eyes, recorded by countless cameras. Yet Su Yicen didn’t even pretend, his disdain and disgust plainly displayed on his face.
“You could’ve at least faked it a little? Even just stepped forward…”
As Feng Zheng spoke, he kept hanging up on incoming calls.
Su Yicen’s “accidental injury” to Wei Lai had just happened, and the marketing accounts were already stirring. It wouldn’t be long before it trended.
This time’s hot search title was even more eye-catching: #Su Yicen Injures Wei Lai on Set#.
Marketing accounts worked like that—off one photo of Wei Lai on the ground with Su Yicen standing nearby, the rest of the Weibo post was pure fabrication.
The incident wasn’t that serious to begin with, but after their embellishments, it sounded like a massive scandal.
Especially since both were top-tier celebrities. Their names together packed a punch.
In less than half an hour, the term shot to number one on the hot searches, with a purple-red “爆” label behind it. The Weibo servers nearly crashed.
Su Yicen kept his eyes closed, his calm face showing no sign of being affected.
But he didn’t need to say it—Feng Zheng could guess.
This “accident” today was surely connected to the last-minute cover shoot for ZE Fashion. Su Yicen had even asked him to look into what happened.
Feng Zheng inwardly berated himself. He shouldn’t have mentioned it then. If he hadn’t, Su Yicen wouldn’t have known, wouldn’t have taken the guest role, and today’s mess wouldn’t have happened.
The calls came too fast to hang up one by one; his phone was starting to overheat. Feng Zheng simply gave up, turned it off, and silenced the ringing.
He turned to look at Su Yicen, inwardly cursing that the top idol he had built up was such a hopeless romantic. He was fine with everything else, but when it came to that Song Editor, he turned into a completely different person.
All reason, all clarity—gone.
He was like a Flower Peacock, his heart and eyes filled only with his Miss Song, nothing else fitting in.
The man with closed eyes had opened them at some point.
Su Yicen raised a brow, his fingers lightly pinching the space between his brows as he asked in a low voice.
“Where are we headed?”
Feng Zheng sighed and answered honestly, “Chichuang. Where else?”
“We’ve got to go back and handle the PR for the hot search.”
Su Yicen released the pinch between his brows, his tone unchanged, as calm as ever.
“Don’t worry too much. It’ll be fine.”
Hearing this, Feng Zheng turned around. His troubled mind calmed considerably, bolstered by Su Yicen’s words.
He asked, “So, you’ve got this under control?”
Su Yicen turned to look out the window. Dim yellow streetlights flashed across his chiseled features one by one, his aloof demeanor unchanged.
“A foreign artist throwing his weight around in Domestic Entertainment—everyone in the circle knows it…”
“Today’s hot search will just speed up the end of his days raking in money on the mainland.”
Su Yicen’s words enlightened Feng Zheng.
He was right. Wei Lai’s arrogance was no secret in the industry. Nearly everyone in the Entertainment Circle despised him.
But Wei Lai had massive traffic and a solid fanbase.
He was cunning too, always knowing who to suck up to and who to bully.
In this traffic-driven world, he thrived like a fish in water, and no one dared offend him openly.
But Su Yicen was different. He was far more popular, and the heir to the Su Corporation Group.
In Hangbei, even someone as cocky as Wei Lai had fawned over him like a lapdog today.
Even after being knocked flat, he didn’t dare show an ugly face.
Feng Zheng finally understood. Everything was under Su Yicen’s control. He wanted to use this to drive Wei Lai out of Domestic Entertainment for good.
“Got it, got it!”
Feng Zheng admired him sincerely, giving him a thumbs up.
“Yicen, you’re the best!”
Su Yicen turned his gaze to him. Behind the glasses, his eyes were unchanged, his stern face expressionless yet carrying an inherent authority.
In his clear, cold voice, he said directly, “So, you handle the PR.”
Feng Zheng nodded without hesitation—that was his job.
He asked offhandedly, “What about you?”
The man who was asked seemed to think of something delightful. The chill at his lips warmed, curving into a beautiful arc.
Su Yicen replied word by word, his voice laced with unconcealed delight and pride.
“I’m going home to accompany my wife.”
At Hermitage Splendor Residence
At that moment, that person’s wife had escaped the torment of her cramps.
Under the effect of the medication, the twisting pain in her lower abdomen eased, and she finally fell into a deep sleep.
Her body was too exhausted. For once, she slept soundly until evening. Though the fatigue wasn’t fully gone, Song Chan was woken by her phone ringing.
She lifted her sore arm and groped for the phone on the bedside table.
[Zhou Qining]
Song Chan squinted as she answered the call.
Still groggy from sleep, her voice was muffled.
“Zhou Zhou, what’s up?”
On the other end, Zhou Qining was probably busy. The voice from the receiver was low, as if she were deliberately keeping it down.
“Chanchan, have you seen the hot searches?”
“Your husband beat someone up!”