◎Reducing the Swelling◎
Spring was already nearing its end, and Hangbei had turned off the heating the day before yesterday.
A cold wave had just passed, and the temperature hadn’t recovered yet. Cool wind slipped through the cracks of the open window, billowing the curtains as it entered the room.
The wind carried intermittent chills that disturbed the person sleeping on the bed.
Su Yicen rubbed his brow with his fingers. He lazily and slowly opened his eyes. Soft morning light filtered through the gaps between his fingers. Though it shone dazzlingly on his eyes, it wasn’t piercing.
He reached out to the bedside table, picked up his glasses, and put them on, chasing away the blur in his eyes.
Last night, he had personally delivered himself to her doorstep, so naturally, he stayed in Song Chan’s room.
Song Chan’s bedroom was large and minimalist, laid out just like his own.
The only obvious difference was the tender pink bedsheet draped over him now, which clashed terribly with his cold and stern aura.
His palm brushed over the empty spot beside him. Song Chan’s warm breath still lingered in the duvet, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Su Yicen pushed up his glasses and scanned the room. His gaze finally settled on the bathroom door, fogged over and blurring the view.
It was as if the person inside had telepathy with him. The moment he looked over, the bathroom door swung open, and Song Chan stepped out. Their eyes met as she raised her head.
Their gazes locked for only a moment before Song Chan hurriedly looked away, her clear, crystalline eyes darting to the side.
Seeing the evasion in her eyes, Su Yicen didn’t tease her. He simply watched quietly.
She was about to head to work, so Song Chan had already changed out of her nightgown into her everyday outfit.
A light purple high-neck knit sweater with the hem tucked into high-waisted wide-leg pants, topped with a beige hooded cardigan. It gave off a casual office vibe.
Song Chan was a natural clothes hanger. Clothes looked good on her no matter how she paired them. Any style drew the eye and made people want to linger.
Su Yicen’s gaze swept over her neck, pausing briefly on the spot hidden by her collar.
Only he knew she was bundled up so tightly today to conceal the marks he’d left on her body last night, when passion had run deep.
Song Chan cradled a bag of milk she’d taken from the fridge. She pressed it to her mouth. She hadn’t expected Su Yicen to wake up so early and catch her trying to sneak out.
A pang of shame hit her from being busted, but in front of Su Yicen, she had nowhere to hide.
“Ice milk?” His clear, cold voice shattered the silence. He asked offhandedly, “To reduce the swelling?”
The milk pressed to her mouth was too conspicuous, and Su Yicen had spotted it. His direct question only fueled Song Chan’s annoyance.
She pulled the milk away from her lips. The redness and swelling had mostly gone down. The slight puffiness now was barely noticeable unless you looked closely—not even as bad as lips after a spicy hotpot feast.
Guilt made her lips tingle and throb, making the remaining red seem glaringly obvious.
She pointed at her lips in warning.
“Su Yicen, if you leave me like this again.”
“I won’t let you off.”
Su Yicen drawled indifferently.
“Oh~”
He sat up, and the pink bedsheet slid down. His solid, bare torso was fully exposed to Song Chan’s view.
Her previously fierce glare instantly fizzled out, and her head turned stubbornly to the side.
Su Yicen loved teasing Song Chan. Seeing her blush, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
His clear voice rang out slowly, enunciating each word.
“As you command, wife…”
Before the trailing end of his words settled, Song Chan shoved open the bedroom door and bolted.
She left Su Yicen sitting on the bed, shirtless.
The bedroom door banged open and shut in the breeze until a distant thud echoed from the front door slamming. Only then did the empty villa fall quiet.
His phone buzzed beside him. It was Feng Zheng calling.
“Speak.”
As always at the start of a call—except with Song Chan—Su Yicen’s tone was icy cold.
Feng Zheng inhaled sharply on the other end and hesitated, as if weighing how to soften his words.
“What’s the matter?” Su Yicen prompted.
Feng Zheng ventured cautiously, “Do you know Wei Lai?”
Su Yicen thought for a moment before replying gravely, “Heard of him.”
Wei Lai hadn’t registered with Su Yicen before. Only recently, in a script that had come his way, had the name popped up.
It was a big-budget ancient wuxia production, but the male second was a foreigner with investment backing who could barely speak Mandarin. Su Yicen had taken note.
The pay was high, but the production team was utterly unprofessional. For projects like that—chasing traffic over script quality—Su Yicen had zero interest. He tossed the script straight into the rejection pile without a second thought.
Feng Zheng went on, “This Wei Lai was ZE Fashion’s original pick for the Pure White Series Cover yesterday.”
Su Yicen straightened against the headboard and grunted for him to continue.
“Don’t get mad when I say this.” Feng Zheng prefaced. “I’m pretty pissed too…”
Anything involving Song Chan made Su Yicen deadly serious. He tsked impatiently, his tone edged with irritation.
“Cut the crap. Spit it out.”
Feng Zheng sighed helplessly. “I asked an old classmate at ZE. Yesterday was a huge drama at their company. He didn’t spell it out, but it’s clearly about Teacher Song.”
“But Yicen, he definitely spiced it up, so I’ll quote him verbatim…”
“Will you say it or not?” Su Yicen’s voice turned even colder, frigid enough to freeze a man solid.
“Say say say.” Feng Zheng didn’t dare stall any longer and gave a vague summary of what he could.
“Yesterday, Wei Lai showed up for the cover shoot at their place, but he threw a tantrum and wouldn’t cooperate. The whole crew was miserable. In the end, an editor splashed coffee on him and kicked him out…”
Su Yicen knew without asking that the editor was Song Chan.
After that, Feng Zheng fell silent.
“That’s it?” Su Yicen pressed.
He didn’t buy it. From what he knew of Song Chan, she was the picture of professionalism at work.
The industry was full of diva artists, and she’d dealt with plenty over the years. Wei Lai wasn’t her first.
Su Yicen didn’t need details to guess: to provoke Song Chan into splashing coffee, Wei Lai must have crossed her line hard.
“He said…” Feng Zheng sounded pained but forced it out, his voice barely a whisper squeezed through clenched teeth.
“He said Wei Lai got handsy with the editor on set, so she lost it and threw the coffee…”
Su Yicen stayed silent on his end, but Feng Zheng felt the killing intent radiate through.
He rushed to pivot. “I mean, it’s not necessarily true…”
Su Yicen cut him off. His tone was calmer than expected—positively serene.
“Wasn’t there an ancient wuxia script a while back?”
“Huh?” Feng Zheng blinked, thrown by the sudden pivot to work.
But he answered on reflex. “Yeah, but you said the team sucked and told me to pass.”
Remembering the flicker of grievance in Song Chan’s eyes yesterday, Su Yicen’s grip tightened on the phone until his veins bulged. His heart gave a faint, painful twinge.
He snorted coldly, his words like ice.
“Take it now.”
“This drama’s got a ton of fight scenes, right?”
Ancient wuxia fights? They were nonstop. None of that xianxia spell-casting nonsense—just raw, real martial arts. Mishaps were par for the course.
Feng Zheng got it instantly. It was a male lead script, and the male second slot was locked: Wei Lai.
His voice shook. “Yicen… you’re not thinking of beating Wei Lai senseless, are you…”
Su Yicen was usually the definition of cool-headed composure, unfazed by anything. But Feng Zheng had noticed lately: put Song Chan in the mix, and he turned into someone else. No emotion was off-limits.
Su Yicen brushed it off indifferently and got straight to it.
“Tell the producer I’m passing on male lead, but I can clear my schedule for a guest spot.”
“Oh, and have him tailor a role with fight scenes against the male second. Make the male second’s exit brutal—and totally his own fault.”
Feng Zheng hesitated. “The script might not have a spot like that…”
“Then write one in. Otherwise, no cameo.”
Feng Zheng went quiet. He got the picture. Passing on lead but offering a guest appearance was still a huge face-save.
At Su Yicen’s level, a friendly cameo meant they’d bend over backward—even for wilder asks. Especially on some cookie-cutter wuxia flick.
But his intentions were crystal clear.
Feng Zheng had to warn him. “This is basically…”
Su Yicen finished for him bluntly. “You call it diva behavior?”
He corrected. “Just giving him a taste of his own medicine.”
Feng Zheng pressed. “Does it have to be fights?”
Su Yicen stated flatly, no room for argument.
“Yes.”
His dark eyes narrowed, his dangerous edge unmasked.
“No other reason. I just really feel like beating someone up.”