Chapter 17: Shen Jixing, Try Acting Spoiled Again If You Dare

Zhou Yili turned his head slightly and bit open a bottle of whiskey. He tilted it back, letting the fiery spirit scorch its way down his throat, his Adam’s apple sharp as it moved up and down. He gave a cold, emotionless laugh.

“How could he possibly be my beloved?”

Shen Jixing—how could he ever be anything of the sort?

“True enough,” his friend said, swirling the liquor in his hand with an easy laugh. “It’s been ages since you two last spoke.”

“So now he’s your white moonlight, is that it?”

Zhou Yili’s eyes narrowed in annoyance; he lifted a leg and kicked out. “Sikong Xiu, are you begging for a beating?”

The man just bent his foxlike eyes in silent laughter.

“Fine, I’ll stop,” he relented, grinning. It was hard to blame them for teasing this young master, after all. Once, he’d been so wild and brash, his passion so fierce he’d have shouted it to the world.

Back then, his affection for that precious teacher Shen was impossible to hide.

Like a willful lion cub, desperate for attention, all it took was a single, coolly-extended finger from the other, and he’d want nothing more than to pounce, snuggle up, and nibble at it affectionately.

But the deeper the love had burned, the more it would hurt in the end.

“I’m not a masochist,” Zhou Yili muttered, slumping lazily into the booth, one hand dangling a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The dazzling lights cast a blue sheen over his hair, his features blurred into a wild, sharp silhouette.

He brushed his fingertips over the skin behind his ear, where a black diamond glinted brilliantly, just above a jagged scar.

A relic from the night a glass had shattered over his head, leaving its mark.

Zhou Yili’s lashes lowered indifferently, the flame in his black eyes flickering between fire and ash.

He gave a soft, derisive snort. “I still like him.”

He wasn’t a fool—but he still liked Shen Jixing.

“Your phone’s ringing,” Sikong Xiu reminded him.

Zhou Yili glanced at the screen—it was an email notification.

[Times Weekly Entertainment—Xiaofang]: Oh my god, Young Master Zhou, you looked so handsome!!! You went straight for the top, all the media accounts are buzzing! Secretly stanning Film Emperor Shen like this—you’re number one in our fanbase!!!

Zhou Yili’s expression darkened.

He flicked his long fingers and dialed straight to voice call.

His tone was impatient as he spoke: “Are you insane, Liu Fangbai Shi?”

Liu Fangbai Shi fell briefly silent.

But this time, the misunderstanding was not entirely her fault.

“It wasn’t you!” Xiaofang hurried to relay the news from headquarters. “It was Film Emperor Shen—he looked amazing!!!”

Zhou Yili sneered, leaning back against the booth. “What, is he an overgrown baby? Can’t even handle this himself—does he need to be spoon-fed every step of the way?”

He wanted to distance himself from it all.

But Xiaofang was not so easily brushed aside.

She zeroed in on the truth. “So you did the interview for Film Emperor Shen, didn’t you? Still refusing to admit it? You’ve given yourself away now, haven’t you?”

His blood pressure spiked.

Today’s surprise interview had yanked him straight back to the celebration banquet, leaving his mood unsettled and his patience worn thin.

“Get lost—hanging up,” he said curtly.

He had no gentleness whatsoever when it came to women.

But Xiaofang paid him no mind. She turned to gossip with a colleague, “I bet Film Emperor Shen is broke now. I heard he proactively terminated several luxury endorsement contracts—must’ve paid a fortune in penalties…”

Her colleague gently patted her head. “Let’s not worry about A-list stars when we’re only making five thousand a month, alright?”

Xiaofang giggled. “But if I helped him out now, maybe I could sneak in a little hand-holding with my idol… hehehe.”

Zhou Yili paused, phone still in hand.

He could hear her sly laughter through the line and almost scoffed, “Liu Fangbai Shi, you might want to distinguish between dreams and delusions—”

“Hey, you haven’t hung up yet?”

Her voice rang out, followed by the busy signal.

Zhou Yili tossed his phone onto the table.

“How did I end up with that clueless female reporter for both interviews?”

He tossed back another searing mouthful of whiskey, the veins in his neck standing out with the burn.

The phone rang again.

Zhou Yili glanced over lazily, his mood still simmering.

“What, did he swallow a bomb today?” his friend whispered.

No matter who messaged him now, they’d likely end up regretting it.

Sikong Xiu, legs propped up, played a casual game of Candy Crush and grinned, “Anything involving his white moonlight, of course.”

Zhou Yili shot him a cold look. “Are you finished with the white moonlight jokes?”

Then he glanced down.

[S]: When are you coming home?

[S]: I’m waiting for you.

…

After a round of wild howling on stage, Sheng Que leapt down.

He saw Zhou Yili striding toward the exit, one hand in his pocket, his unbuttoned shirt swaying rakishly, a faint, cold smirk on his lips—

Sheng Que squinted, sizing him up like an old man on the subway.

No doubt about it.

Zhou Yili was definitely showing off.

“What’s up with him, grinning like a fool as he leaves?” Sheng Que muttered as he poured himself a drink. A friend’s happiness was always a threat to his own.

“Didn’t he want to curse at every stray dog he saw today?” he went on.

Sikong Xiu finished his game and laughed, “Now he probably wants to smooch every stray he meets.”

Sheng Que pulled a face. “Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

He reached for his suit jacket and fished around for his phone, then suddenly froze.

“Where’s my card?!”

His friends all shook their heads innocently, silent as the grave.

Sheng Que searched again. “Seriously, where’s my card?!”

Sikong Xiu, starting another round of Candy Crush, winked slyly at him. “Take a guess?”

Sheng Que was baffled.

“Over here, Young Master Sheng,” said a lovely bunny-girl waitress, presenting his exclusive black card with both hands. “Your total tonight is 1,003,580. Already settled.”

Three seconds later, Sheng Que let out a shrill yelp.

It wasn’t the money that pained him—it was the thought of his knees.

Draping his jacket over his head, he muttered curses under his breath—something about him and Zhou Yili never both surviving the night—as he tried to sneak out of the bar.

He ran straight into someone.

“Excuse me, let me pass,” he mumbled.

He saw a pair of black leather shoes and slender ankles beneath formal trousers.

The sight was oddly familiar.

He looked up, slowly, and met a pair of eyes cold as a winter lake.

Doom.

“Greet me properly,” Fu Chen said.

“…Uncle.”

Sheng Que forced a bright, innocent smile, trying his best to sound cheerful. “Uncle, fancy meeting you here! Were you here to watch the bunny girls too… Ow, Uncle, take it easy, don’t pull my ear—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay…”

…

From the backseat of the car, Zhou Yili watched Sheng Que get apprehended in full view.

He lowered the window and sent a lazy wolf-whistle his way.

Sheng Que immediately flared up and charged, “Zhou Yili, you’re dead!”

He didn’t get far—a cold hand gripped the back of his neck, effortlessly dragging him back.

Back to chest, a gentle collision.

Fu Chen paused, looked down at him. “Stand still.”

Sheng Que quietly edged away, standing like a chastened student.

Fu Chen turned to Zhou Yili. “You’ve had quite a bit. Can you make it home?”

Zhou Yili nodded. “Don’t worry, I called a driver.”

He idly flicked his earlobe, wondering why Fu Chen’s cool, elegant voice sounded so familiar, even though it had been ages since they’d last met.

Where had he heard it today?

“Alright,” Fu Chen said no more, hauling the captured Sheng Que back to his car.

Zhou Yili signaled the driver to go.

Normally, he’d have had the leisure to watch Sheng Que’s punishment—kneeling in the ancestral hall, copying family rules, running ten kilometers with a weight vest… all those proper, old-fashioned punishments.

But tonight, there was no time.

Neon lights slid past the window, the fractured city night flickering over his profile. Zhou Yili dropped his gaze to the two messages on his screen.

[S]: When are you coming home?

[S]: I’m waiting for you.

Two clean, simple lines.

No emojis, no embellishments—just like the person who sent them, emotionless.

Zhou Yili let out a soft, sardonic laugh amid the city’s river of lights, long fingers gliding over the screen as he typed lazily.

[ZZZZZZZ]: On my way

[ZZZZZZZ]: Shen Jixing, go on—try acting cute again.