What If the CEO Was Real Life?

Claire glanced left, then right, and eventually shot me a pleading look.

I shrugged—there was nothing I could do.

They stared each other down for a moment when a woman’s voice came from behind me: “Jason Chase, Claire Bennett, get over here—stop dawdling, the director’s waiting.”

I turned and saw Vivian Cross, short-haired and all business, standing there looking sharp.

She looked surprised to see me and raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

Oh good—so you’re a transmigrant too.

In the original, Hazel Bennett didn't show up at this kickoff. She’d gone to apply at a tiny ad agency and almost got sexually harassed by the supervisor. She ran out and called Claire for help, but Claire was busy flirting with Jason and didn’t pick up—yet Hazel never blamed her. Later, worried for Claire’s safety in the cutthroat entertainment industry, Hazel didn’t look for other work and became Claire’s assistant.

I ran through the plot in my head and offered Vivian a sweet smile. “Sister, I came to find you.”

Vivian: “?”

Throughout the kickoff, I squatted nearby sipping milk tea while Vivian kept throwing me weird looks.

After the ceremony, Vivian went to the makeup room to take off her stage makeup and I followed.

Vivian took off her wig and plopped into a chair. “You’re not the heroine… You’re Claire’s friend, right? Why are you always following me?”

I said, “Sister, I know you’re not really Vivian. Let’s make a deal.”

Vivian: “No way. Dude, you transmigrated too?”

I nodded. “Yeah, sister, I—”

“Don’t call me sister.”

Suddenly Vivian put on an extremely wounded expression. “Dude, I’m a man.”

I froze.

“You’re… a man…and you read this kind of mindless sweet romance? I thought transmigrants were into cultivation harems or fantasy stuff.”

Vivian peeled off his false lashes and wiped off foundation and lipstick with a makeup pad. “I never read fantasy harems. I didn’t even go looking for this book. Lately I’ve been working ridiculous hours, writing code ten-plus hours a day. During breaks the receptionist recommended a book to me—something called What If the Whole Entertainment Industry Loved Me?”

Hearing that title from his mouth made my scalp tingle. My toes started twitching on their own.

“And you read it?”

“Yeah. She said it was brainless and sweet—perfect for unwinding.”

Vivian said he’d been halfway through the book and planned to read more the next day. He woke up and found himself in the body of the book’s Vivian Cross: living in a luxury downtown duplex, wearing silk nightwear, waking up on a five-hundred-square-meter bed. Before he could process it, an agent barged in and shoved him into a car, saying he had to go audition for Director Ross.

He cried while he told me.

I didn’t have time to pity him because I’d noticed something important.

“You write code… Wait—sister—no, dude—you were a programmer too?”

We looked at each other and, reading each other’s hairline and posture, saw the faint envy.

Vivian grabbed my hand, released it, then grabbed it again. “Oh right, this body’s a girl now. Hazel—no, brother—are you also a man?”

“I used to be a presales engineer, then moved to front-end,” I said. “Also, I’m not Hazel. My name is Grace Whitcomb.”

It had been almost a month since we’d transmigrated. Claire kept calling me Hazel, and Jason used my old name in their arguments so often that I almost forgot my real name. Saying it now nearly made me cry.

“Grace Whitcomb,” Vivian repeated my name, then, maybe out of politeness, shared his real name. “Before this, I was Shen Lang—I wrote algorithms.”

Shen Lang?

I blurted out in surprise, “Senior!”

He looked even more surprised. “You know me?”

Of course I did.

Shen Lang was two grades ahead of me at the same university, with a PhD in software, deep into AI research, five patents to his name, a major figure in the domestic AI industry. Even before I transmigrated, he was a famous algorithm engineer.

“I heard your talk at a conference last year,” I said. “I came late and sat in the back, never got to ask questions—just remembered this stoic, expressionless guy.”

Shen Lang’s lips twitched. “Friend, I wasn’t stoic—I was exhausted. The night before that talk I was pulled into overtime until two a.m. Nobody can afford to yawn during presentations.”

I opened my mouth to respond when the door swung open and Claire called, “Grace, so you’re here!”

She walked in, eyes sliding from me to Shen Lang. “Vivian’s here too. Director Ross asked me to tell you there’s a wrap party tonight—Vivian, make sure you show up on time.”

Shen Lang pasted on a polite smile. “Sure—no problem. Thanks for the reminder, Claire.”

Claire looked at me. I looked at her.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll hang back and chat with Vivian a bit, then I’ll come find you.”

Claire looked disappointed but left. I shut the door and turned back to Shen Lang. “You’re such a sycophant.”

“Grace, that’s the heroine. The heroine!” Shen Lang forced a smile. “I don’t want to offend her and get myself assassinated by the male lead tomorrow.”

“Seriously, your public image before and after I met you are so different,” I said.

Shen Lang, using Vivian’s delicate, alluring face, asked, “What image?”

“You’re this industry bigshot—shouldn’t you be more like a romance novel male lead? Not evil and cruel, but at least a brooding, deeply affectionate, ice-queen type.”

I tried to give examples. “Like Dylan Mercer or Jason Chase in this book…”

Shen Lang snorted. “That’s pathetic.”

I ground my teeth in a fake scowl. “Don’t forget—Dylan Mercer will be at tonight’s wrap party. In the original, Vivian was head over heels for Dylan and confessed to him in front of the press—and got coldly rejected.”

Shen Lang’s smile vanished. “Shut up.”

He ripped off the rest of his makeup, splashed water on his face, and tried to leave. I pinned him back in the chair and made him do a skincare routine: “Come on, man—this face you’re wearing is worth a fortune. Can we not be so rough?”

I forced him to moisturize and then we headed out together.

On the way I said, “Don’t you think the original plot is hard to change no matter how hard we try? You flubbed your audition and still somehow got cast as the heroine’s leading man…”

Shen Lang nodded. “I suspected it, but I only have one data point. We need more experiments. If we gather enough data, we can prove or disprove the theory.”

Classic rigorous engineering logic.

When we reached the studio gate, we saw Claire still standing there.

It’d been almost half an hour since she came to call people—why hadn’t she left yet?

More importantly, Jason Chase and Ethan King were standing one on each side of her, and each of them had a car idling behind them.

It was six in the evening. The sunset had painted the sky a bruised gold, and Jason’s fire-red Ferrari cut a glaring slash through the gathering dusk.

Shen Lang and I stopped. I nudged him, whispering, “Want to watch the show?”

“Yeah,” he said.

So we stood there, comfortably entertained.

Jason shot a glance at Ethan, a sneer tugging at his lips. “Mr. King, you better get your facts straight. I’m the one Claire’s supposed to be working with in this drama. This is our production’s kickoff banquet—what does it have to do with you?

Why are you clinging on like some stray dog and insisting Claire ride in your car?

Or are you so broke from lawyer fees that you’re counting on a free dinner?”

Ethan’s look was cold. “Claire is my sister. I have an obligation to make sure she’s safe.

Based on Mr. Chase being photographed last month driving around with three different dates—and those hand-holding shots the tabloids ran—I think it’s necessary that I personally see her to the venue, so she won’t be fooled by Mr. Chase’s fake charm.”

Claire looked torn, glancing left and right. “Ethan, Jason, please don’t— I have to get there. If I’m late, the director will be upset.”

Ah, so that’s what this was about. They were arguing over which of them Claire should ride with to the banquet hotel. Honestly, you two are so dramatic.

Shen Lang’s mouth twitched. “He Guixue, is that really the image you had of me?”

“Uh…art embellishes things. Don’t sweat the details.”

I pulled up the map on my phone. The banquet hotel was under eight miles from the set. With all this arguing, they could’ve driven there in half an hour.

So what was the point?

Jason seemed to notice Shen Lang and me. He gave me a look of amused contempt, then turned back to Claire. “You decide. Which car do you want?

I won’t force you. Choose whoever you want.”

Probably feeling competitive, Ethan immediately added, “Claire, I’ll go with whatever you pick.”

Claire hovered between them for a long moment, unable to decide.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she was picking a husband.

I was getting impatient when Claire suddenly turned to me. “Hazel!”

A bad feeling flared in my chest. “…What?”

“You decide. I’ll ride with you.”

Of course—the heroine’s classic trick, redirecting danger like it’s an art form.

Both Ethan and Jason shot me threatening, frigid looks. I quietly grabbed the hem of Shen Lang’s jacket. “Sorry, I was planning to take a cab with Vivian.”

Claire hurriedly said, “Then I’ll take a cab with you.”

“Hazel!”

Jason glared at me, venom in his tone. “Are you crazy? If you don’t want a ride, fine. But why drag Claire into it?”

Here we go again.

If I didn’t set him straight, he’d really think he could push me around.

I was about to roll up my sleeves and go at him when Shen Lang, who’d been leaning against Vivian, unexpectedly reached out and pulled me into his arms. Then he draped an arm across my shoulders and said coolly, “Hazel is coming with me. Mind your business.

Also, I’m an A-list actress, I have money, and I like taking cabs. Any complaints?”

He’d yanked me so suddenly I stumbled, colliding into his chest—hard—but it didn’t hurt. A clean, sharp fragrance wrapped around me. For a moment I felt faint, oddly lightheaded.

There was only one thought in my head.

Her…chest is so big.

So soft.

Mom, I love beautiful women.

I was floating on that ridiculous high when Shen Lang made a muffled sound behind me.

I leaned in, whispering, “You okay, man?”

He gritted his teeth. “Sis, your back hit my chest and it hurts.”

I straightened up to rub his ribs, but the moment my hand touched him, he grabbed it. “He Guixue, what are you doing?”

Okay, I’d been caught. I pulled my hand back and turned—only to see Jason standing a little ways off, watching us with eyes as cold as knives.

“Heh…A-list actress?”

He snorted. “Vivian Cross—have you been up on that pedestal so long you forgot how you got there? If you hadn’t been pulling strings with Director Ross, with your acting that night for Princess Lian you’d never have landed the role.”

He’d obviously been holding that line for a while; it came out laced with emotion. He glanced at Claire as he finished—as if to say Vivian had stolen Claire’s lead role, leaving Claire to play the secondary courtesan, and that cost Claire a lot of scenes opposite him.

As for how Vivian had climbed up—was there more to it? The original story didn’t explain that. Maybe there were secrets.

Shen Lang looked at Jason and nodded in agreement. “Exactly. I think Director Ross had a hand in it. Otherwise, with your technique—mouth open, one, two, three, all the dubbing to cover flaws—how would you get cast as the male lead without even an audition?”

Shen Lang and I were like sisters without blood, always hitting people where it hurt when they argued with Jason.

Jason’s face turned livid, but he couldn’t come up with a rebuttal. He must know his own limitations.

Jason’s rise was a whole spectacle in the book. He’d been studying a minor language when a scout discovered him; he signed on as a trainee, then dropped out to join a talent show where he exploded in popularity, launching himself into the C-slot thanks to millions of votes. After debuting, he didn’t bother sharpening his stage skills; his agency shoved him into acting and his performances declined. Yet, thanks to fan noise, he even won a few awards—mostly mocked online.

With tensions rising, Claire tried to smooth things over. “Ethan, Jason, stop arguing. Hazel, talk to Vivian, please.

Ethan, let’s just go to the banquet. We don’t want to make the director wait.”

She hurried over to whisper something to Ethan, begging with her eyes.

Ethan shot Jason one last disgruntled gaze, ruffled Claire’s hair, and said, “You’re so thoughtful. Fine. I won’t make things hard for you. I’m heading back—if that Chase man bothers you, come to me anytime.”

Claire nodded quickly, then added, “Brother, don’t worry. Jason’s always been good to me. He won’t bully me.”

Ethan left, displeasure written all over him. Claire bit her lip and tugged at Jason’s sleeve. “Jason, let’s go.”

Shen Lang scoffed and hooked his arm around my shoulder. “We’re leaving too.”

Once we were inside the car, I realized something. “Wait—if you’re an A-list actress now, why are you taking a cab by yourself? Where are your agent and assistant? Your company car?”

Shen Lang said, “Because I beat up Vivian’s sugar daddy yesterday, and now the company’s trying to play games with me.

Don’t expect an agent or assistant right now; even the makeup artist today is just an extra from the production.”

Huh?

Me: “What? Sugar daddy?”

Shen Lang explained, “When Vivian was starting out, some rich second-generation guy took a liking to her. She played along, used his connections to get gigs and ads, and then—on her raw talent and looks—she rose to A-list.

But they never actually got physical. He got impatient, tried to take liberties yesterday, and I threw him over my shoulder and broke his arm.”

I stared at him. “Dude, you are ridiculous.”

When Shen Lang and I arrived at the hotel, most of the crew had already shown up.

After Shen Lang took his seat, a production assistant looked at me like I didn’t belong. “Ma’am, who are you with?”

“I’m Vivian Cross’s assistant,” I said.

He brightened and pointed to a corner table. “Assistants and managers sit over there.”

I glanced at the lonely-looking corner and was about to move when Shen Lang yanked me back and planted me beside him. Then he looked up at the PA and said, lovingly, “You don’t understand. She’s not just my assistant—she’s like a sister to me.

Let my sister sit next to me. There’s no need for her to be over there.”

The PA blinked. “…Okay, Miss Cross.”

I drank two cans of cola in my seat. Eventually Claire and Jason appeared, and behind Jason came Dylan Mercer—stern as ever.

In the original, Dylan’s one of the investors on the project, so he attended the banquet.

Watching the male lead, female lead, and second male lead all sit at our table, I couldn’t help but click my tongue.

Shen Lang asked what was up. I said, “Who knew the drama would have a sequel.”

Claire sat next to Shen Lang. Dylan was beside her. Jason sat beside me.

No sooner had Jason sat than he glared at me. “Hazel, are you part of this production? Why are you sitting here?”

Shen Lang answered coolly, “Hazel and I are half-sisters. I told her to sit here. You got a problem?”

Jason sneered, “Do you even have that authority?”

“Director didn’t say anything. Is this your table? Are you funding this banquet?” Shen Lang snapped. “Mind your own business.”

“You—” Jason was about to blow up, but when he noticed Dylan across the table, he swallowed his anger and sat back down.

Dylan Mercer, the male lead, arrived with an icy aura. In front of his record as a six-time award-winning actor, Jason’s pop-idol fame looked shallow.

Still, because Dylan had rejected Vivian’s public confession before, his gaze carried a sliver of pride whenever he looked at Shen Lang.

But when he looked at Claire, his eyes softened in an instant.

I popped a lamb rib into my mouth and leaned toward Claire Bennett. “The top film star still seems to think you like him. Did you see the way he looked at you? Like you owe him money.”

At my words, Hazel Bennett looked up at Dylan Mercer—and their eyes met.

He frowned, a look of thinly veiled disgust crossing his face. Cold as ice, he said, “Vivian Cross, since you accepted the role of Princess Lian, actually act the part. Don’t disappoint Director Ross.”

Hazel: “Oh.”

The top film star’s expression darkened further.

I offered with fake cheerfulness, “Why don’t you go punch him, show him you don’t like him anymore.”

Hazel snapped, “Shut up and eat.”

In the original book, Vivian realized at this kick-off banquet that Dylan’s attention toward Claire was different. Jealous, Vivian not only splashed wine in Claire’s face but also deliberately got her drunk, trying to have another investor, Leonard Hayes, take her away.

Dylan turned the tables—he trapped Vivian with the drugged investor in a room and carried off the very drunk Claire himself.

That plot beat is critical—Vivian’s first big step toward full-on villainy—so I lowered my voice and warned Hazel, “When the evening’s winding down, if you see Jason Chase step away to take a call, find an excuse to leave too. And above all, don’t make things hard for Claire.”

Hazel hushed me back, “Why would I make things hard for the heroine? I avoid her like the plague. If the director hadn’t sat her next to me, I’d gladly be twenty meters away.”

We’d just whispered that when Director Ross, who’d been chatting amiably with Dylan, turned to Hazel: “No misunderstanding is unsolvable. I’m sure Vivian only admires Mr. Mercer’s acting. Vivian, raise a glass to Mr. Mercer and let this be over.”

Hazel jumped at the opportunity. He poured a full glass, stood, and just as he was about to toast Dylan, his hand slipped. The whole cup tipped—wine poured down over Claire’s head.

I: “…”

Blank stare from me and from Hazel.

Claire cried out—equal parts surprise, confusion, and hurt. She lifted her head; her lashes were wet, and she looked like a startled fawn. “Vivian…”

Hazel’s mouth twitched. “Friend, calm down. I can explain—”

Jason Chase sprang up. “What did you do?!”

Dylan’s face stayed cold. He took two napkins, gentle as if handling something fragile, wiped the wine from Claire’s face, then looked at Hazel and spoke slowly, syllable by syllable, “Vivian Cross.”

There was undisguised killing intent in the six-time award-winning actor’s eyes. I’d been half ready to argue back, but remembering the original’s merciless, calculated side of Dylan, I slunk behind Hazel and nudged him. “Buddy, good luck with that.”

Hazel’s eyelid twitched. “Hannah—don’t you have any loyalty?”

Before I could reply, Claire’s soft voice trembled, “Mr. Mercer, please don’t be angry with Vivian. I believe she wouldn’t do something on purpose…”

“Yeah, yeah, friends, soulmates— you know me too well!” Hazel put on a show of being moved. “I just slipped. I never meant to target you!”

Dylan glanced at Claire. That look was complicated—part praise, part pity, part frustrated exasperation.

He spoke calmly, “I know you’re kind-hearted. But sometimes your desire to keep the peace only lets others take advantage. Now that you’re in this industry, don’t cling to naïveté.”

Ugh. That paternalistic lecture. If I were Claire I’d slap him.

Claire bit her lip but shook her head. “No, Mr. Mercer. I believe people are basically good. I have no grudge with Vivian—she wouldn’t deliberately do this.”

“No grudge?” Dylan scoffed. “She had no grudge with Song Avery either—until three months ago on set when she slapped her more than ten times. No grudge with Sierra Cameron either—best friends, supposedly, until she splashed mud on her on a variety show. This woman’s vicious by nature and a pro at acting innocent. If you think she’s blameless, you’re being fooled.”

He even looked at me while saying it.

Why look at me? Does he think I’m fooled too?

I whispered to Hazel, “How did you do so many unkind things?”

“I only transmigrated a fortnight ago. This is what the original person did.” Hazel answered, then looked up at Dylan. “Mr. Mercer, why do you care so much about me? You even remember who I splashed on that variety show. Do you like me?”

Dylan: “?”

Me: “…”

Dylan inhaled, a flash of irritation crossing his features. “Vivian Cross, have you no shame?”

Hazel: “Oh, thanks, I’ll pass.”

His attitude clearly infuriated the actor. The tension thickened until Director Ross stepped in to smooth things. “Okay, okay. This is our production’s kick-off. Everyone back down. Vivian, give both Mr. Mercer and Miss Bennett another toast to apologize and we’ll let it go. Mr. Mercer—this is our first day—”

He begged without any director’s hauteur. Dylan’s male-lead aura really does carry weight.

Dylan finally said coldly, “I need to hear a sincere apology.”

Sincere? Easy. Hazel used to be a software engineer before transmigrating—who doesn’t know how to apologize on cue?

After the apology, Claire went to the restroom to fix herself. Hazel and I were about to eat when his phone rang.

By then, the banquet was winding down.

Hazel glanced at the caller ID; his eyes shifted. “It’s my agent.”

“Why is she calling?”

“Probably the company wants to argue terms again.”

He stood and patted my shoulder. “You eat. I’ll step out and take it.”

I nodded. Hazel left with his phone. I picked up a piece of seared salmon, and Jason next to me sneered, “You freeloaders really eat more than anyone.”

I didn’t bother to look up. “If you have an issue, then eat more yourself.”

He sputtered, then kept going, “Hazel, you’re heartless. Claire treats you so well and you side with the woman who stole her role—”

Smack.

I slammed my chopsticks on the table. Jason jumped. “What are you doing? Wanna fight?”

“Going out.”

I didn’t wait to engage. I’d seen Dylan follow Hazel out—the same thing happens in the original.

Claire, barely steady, dizzy from the wine and soaked from the splash, staggered out to compose herself. Vivian, coming out to take a call, saw the drunk Claire and took her up to some room upstairs.

Then Vivian drugged another investor, Leonard Hayes, planning to bring him in, too. But Dylan saw Vivian leave with Claire and intervened—he took Claire away. When Vivian finally managed to get Leonard into the room and tried to leave, the door had been locked from the outside.

Dylan is ruthless.

I darted down the corridor, intuition guiding me right. Sure enough, at the end, Dylan had Claire pressed protectively at his back. Hazel was standing in front of Vivian, whose expression was stunned.

A shattered phone lay on the floor—bling stickers on the case made it clearly hers.

I opened my mouth to speak when a surprised male voice called from behind, “What are you all doing here?”

Turning, it was Jason Chase.

The doorway of this tiny restroom area had somehow become the gathering place for our main cast—male lead, female lead, second male, second female. If the bathroom had a conscience, it would’ve popped open a bowl of sunflower seeds and started watching.

In the hush, I asked Hazel, “What happened?”

He looked at Dylan, lips twitching. “I was on a call with my agent. I said two sentences and then the male lead—Mr. Mercer—rushed over and slapped my phone out of my hand. When I turned, Claire was behind me, dizzy, leaning against the wall.”

I glanced at Dylan.

He was holding Claire with a tenderness that looked practiced, letting her rest against him, cheeks flushed. Then he fixed Vivian with a cold stare. “Do you not understand how vicious your words were?”

Hazel ignored him and told me, “My agent said some trust-fund kid was complaining his arm hurt at the hospital and wanted me to go see him. I told them off. I said if he’s that thirsty I’d introduce him to a man. I didn’t even get to finish saying ‘man’ before my phone was smashed.”

Oh. So it’s a misunderstanding. But an awfully convenient one.

Dylan didn’t reply to us because Claire’s soft voice suddenly came out like warmed honey: “Mmm, it’s so warm…”

Dylan straightened and said to Jason, “I’m taking her with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Jason, always arrogant, refused. “Why would you take her? Claire’s my sister. Even drunk, I’m the one taking her home.”

Dylan’s tone went icicle-cold. “Because you couldn’t protect her. She’s been hurt enough for no reason.”

Wow. That line landed like a killer blow. Jason went slack, stunned as if struck.

I watched Dylan scoop Claire up—cradling her like something precious. Her head lay against his chest; his eyes were full of gentle light.

Then he carried her away.

Hazel told me, “I have to head back to the office. Tonight the agent, the boss, and that injured trust-fund kid might grill me.”

“Want me to go with you?”

Hazel shook his head and gave me a small smile. “In what capacity would you accompany me? Never mind. Get some rest. Filming starts the day after tomorrow— you’ll have to come by then.”

I bit my finger, mentally swooning—Vivian Cross's face really was breathtaking when she smiled.

Ethan King came over, patted my shoulder, picked up the smashed phone from the floor, and left.

Before he went he kept nagging me: take a picture of the cab license plate, text me when you get in.

I glanced at the phone in his hand. "You let Dylan Mercer smash your phone. How am I supposed to text you?"

Ethan sighed and, genuinely exasperated, muttered, "Idiot."

He wasn't calling me that.

In the end he said, "If anything happens, call Claire Bennett. The top film star is with her—he won't ignore you."

I nodded. Watching Ethan disappear into the elevator, I turned to leave and jumped—Jason Chase was still standing right behind me. "Are you following me or what?"

Jason's mouth twitched. "I'll walk you back."

Me: "?"

"Bro, you sure you didn't get the wrong person?"

I stared at him, incredulous. "I'm Hazel Bennett, not Claire Bennett."

"I know. I'm here for Claire, not you."

Jason sounded impatient. "This hotel is in a sketchy spot, it's late. A girl shouldn't go back alone."

I looked at him. He looked at me.

I tested him. "Jason, are you really Jason Chase? You didn't transgress into the novel too, did you?"

"Am I not? Are you?"

His tone sharpened. "Hurry up. My agent called—I've got to go back to the studio."

Only after I climbed into Jason's flashy Ferrari and we sped toward home did one question keep running through my head: what could make this idiot second-lead, whose eyes only ever had Claire in them, suddenly flip?

Maybe Ethan's scolding earlier made him realize he's actually a man?

That thought dead-ended, and I started obsessing over Ethan again: how did that drink end up on Claire's head? Is the plot actually forcing us to follow the original story beat to the letter?

I asked Jason casually, "When you came out earlier, did you see another investor—Liam Hart?"

"You, a random bystander, sure know our production's investors well," Jason scoffed but answered, "I glanced before I left. He looked drunk—went upstairs to a room to sleep."

No… no!

My heart sank. If the storyline won't let us deviate, leaving drunken Ethan alone could put him in danger. Even if he's a man, in this book he's using Vivian's body right now.

I couldn't stay still. "Turn back. Drive us back to the hotel, now!"

"Why? You nuts, Hazel?" Jason, that brat, didn't even slow down—he accelerated.

"Vivian left in the elevator. Liam's upstairs. He's a lecher and likes to use his money to get what he wants. I'm worried she'll get hurt!"

"Turn now or I'll jump out!" I cried.

Jason slammed the brakes, swiveled to glare at me. "Hazel, if I remember right, you're friends with Claire, right? Vivian's always making things hard for her and stealing roles—why are you worried about her? Besides, I heard she was involved with some rich kid. Even if something happened, maybe she wanted it—"

I slapped him.

He gaped. If not for the seatbelt he'd have almost popped out of his seat. "Hazel, what the hell?!"

"What does whether Claire and I are friends, or whether I'm friends with Vivian, have to do with anything?" I said coldly. For the first time since waking up in this story, I was truly angry. "A girl's possibly about to be assaulted. I considered that and I'm going to save her. Even if she's a complete stranger, I will save her. Understand, idiot?"

Seeing Jason still staring, I lost patience and yanked the car door open to jump out.

He said, "Don't move. Fine, I'll drive back."

I shut the door. "Now!"

Grudgingly, he gunned it. Turns out this jerk only bullies the meek—when I stood up to him, he obediently complied. Honestly a bit masochistic.

Half an hour later, Jason's car pulled up under the hotel again.

He'd barely stopped when I flung myself out and dashed upstairs, Jason yelling behind me, "Hazel, slow down!"

I ignored him and sprinted to the elevator. The doors opened right in front of me and I flew in, then froze at the buttons.

Oh no—I didn't know which floor Liam Hart's room was. The original book never mentioned that.

While I stood dumbstruck, Jason walked in behind me. He smirked at my blank look. "See? You ran here fast and still don't know the floor."

He pressed 8, and we waited for the elevator.

It stopped and I bolted out. The hallway was thick with plush red carpet. I took two steps and then halted.

Near a potted plant not far away, a woman leaned against the corridor wall, head tilted back, eyes closed, gasping. Her dress was ripped open at the neckline, exposing pale skin mottled with bruises and blood. Blood trailed from her hand, forming little drops as it hit the carpet.

"Ethan… Ethan!" I froze two seconds, then rushed over and gently took Ethan King's hand. I realized the delicate arm had a deep, ragged cut—flesh torn, bleeding freely.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I wanted to drag him to a hospital, but yanking might worsen the wound. I was rooted to the spot.

He heard my voice and opened his eyes. Long lashes shadowed much of the light there.

"…He Guiyun," he breathed—using a name that would have a meaning in the original story. He seemed to exhale at last and relaxed against me, his body suddenly slack as he murmured by my ear, "I've risked my life to test it—the world's plotline really is forcing everything back on track, making us follow the original story."

My chest dropped, but now wasn't the time to argue. I supported Ethan and asked, "Weren't you supposed to meet your agent and that rich kid at the company? How are you here?"

He gasped a couple of times; I fretted aloud, "Okay, okay—don't talk. Let's go to the hospital."

"I'm fine," he laughed, and hearing those words in Vivian's voice added an unexpectedly tangled, sensual edge. Warm breath and the iron tang of blood mixed with a faint scent that made my face heat.

"The other person inside is probably worse off than I am," he said.

He told me that after we separated, he'd taken the elevator without noticing it was going up. At the eighth floor, the doors opened and two men in suits came in. Before he could react, they covered his mouth and dragged him out—into Liam Hart's room.

"Liam was drunk but still strong. When I struggled I grabbed a cup and hit him, so he used a broken shard on my arm and slashed me," Ethan said.

I peered at the wound—maybe from blood loss, the torn skin looked pale, blood beginning to clot and smear his palm. He stroked my hair. "Why that face? Don't worry. I kicked him in the crotch and knocked him out with an ashtray. He's probably still on the floor."

Before I could reply, Jason barked, "Vivian, you knocked out an investor?!"

"Yes."

"That’s an investor! You want to keep filming?"

Jason's expression shifted. Then he told me, "Hazel, you take Vivian to the hospital. I'll call the agent to come do damage control."

"Damage control how?" I asked.

Jason answered by actually picking up his phone and calling. "Jing? Are you free? Can you get to the Kate Hotel? I ran into trouble. Uh… I accidentally knocked out the investor." He hung up fast before his agent could blow up, and faced me with an incredulous look.

"Jason, you keep saying you didn't transgress!"

"Transgress my ass. I'm just worried this won't get fixed and the production will stop," he snapped. "Don't think I don't know—Vivian's company has been planning to bury her career. If it's found she knocked out an investor, she's done. If the show gets axed, how am I supposed to act opposite Claire and build on-screen chemistry?"

I blinked. "Dude, if Vivian pisses off the investor and gets blacklisted, wouldn't that just clear the way for Claire to get promoted to lead and play opposite you?"

Jason froze. "Right—why didn't I think of that?"

Before he could debate whether to call his agent back, Jing arrived. She must be used to putting out fires—she swept in and asked Jason, "Where are they?"

He pointed at the room. "Unconscious inside."

"On the bed?"

"Uh, on the floor."

Jing drew a deep breath, trying to mask anger. "What happened?"

Jason stammered. I jumped in. "Hero saved damsel."

Jing turned on me, eyes sharp as blades. "Who are you?"

"I'm Vivian Cross's assistant—Hazel Bennett."

My mouth moved as my brain raced and I made up something: "At the kickoff ceremony, Mr. Jason fell for Ms. Cross at first sight and was extra attentive at the launch party…"

He even told me in private to make sure I took good care of Miss Cross, and if anything happened to her to tell him without holding back.

"Who would've thought," I said, "after the opening banquet Miss Cross got drunk and some investor dragged her to that place.

I rushed to find Mr. Chase. The moment he heard, he came with me, pushed the door, and caught the investor making a move on her.

So he grabbed an ashtray and knocked the investor out cold, rescuing her."

At first I stumbled over the story, but then it smoothed out. By the end I was giving Zhao—sorry, Chase—a look of pure sincerity. "Don't worry, Mr. Chase. Miss Cross will definitely be moved by your heroic act.

Keep trying—maybe you'll even win her heart."

Chase gaped. "Hazel, you really—"

"Made it up," I finished for him.

He swallowed the word back because a cold flash of threat lit my eyes.

Reluctant and annoyed, Chase told Ms. Sterling, "Yes. That's exactly what happened."

Ms. Sterling inhaled slowly, twice, then glanced at Shen Lang—who was nearly unconscious from blood loss—and spoke without expression to Chase: "I'll handle things here. You and this Liu… whatever assistant of hers, take Miss Cross to the hospital. Don't let things turn lethal.

Also, I'll call the studio and have people wait downstairs at the hospital. Don't go inside. And whatever you do, don't get photographed by reporters."

Chase helped me get the semi-conscious Shen Lang into his car and they sped toward the hospital.

I sat in the back, carefully letting Shen Lang rest his head on my lap and keeping my hands protectively around his skull.

He opened his eyes with effort and looked at me.

From that angle his eyelids tipped up slightly, his skin was deathly pale, his eyes foggy and soft like a small animal. His hair, long and silky, slipped across my fingers.

I touched his face and whispered, "What do you want to say?"

He breathed twice; his chest heaved once more. Then, faintly, he said, "He Guisnow—being a woman really isn't easy."

Shen Lang stayed in the hospital three days.

During that time he bought a new phone, but his agency never contacted him. It was like they'd completely forgotten he existed.

On the fourth day he couldn't stand being there any longer because Director Ross kept pestering him at his bedside, nagging, "Vivian, you're the female lead—if you don't show up, the funding burns every day. We can't keep making the movie."

Shen Lang's lip twitched. He looked at me.

I put on my most sincere face. "Director, don't worry. Miss Cross's injury is healed. She says she'll be discharged tomorrow and return to set."

Shen Lang: "?"

Once Ross got the confirmation he sprang back to life, stood up, said, "All right, Vivian, rest up. See you tomorrow," and left in a single, decisive motion.

Shen Lang glared at me through clenched teeth. "He. Gui. Snow."

I grabbed an apple from the nightstand, started peeling it, and said, "Stop putting on an act, buddy. The doctors say it's just a flesh wound. Change the dressing tomorrow, let it heal. You're dragging your feet because you don't want to go back and film, right?"

He stiffened. "…Yes."

I burst out laughing.

From the audition day I'd already gotten a read on Shen Lang's acting. With his level, forget winning Best Actress like the original novel's Vivian; even shoved into the background extras, you'd be hard-pressed to find a director willing to take him, even with money on the table.

Shen Lang took the half-peeled apple I offered and sighed as he bit it. "What can I do? Maybe I should tell my agency I'm retiring from showbiz."

"No use," I said, crunching the apple. "You've tried that before. No matter what we do, the original plot still plays out. Maybe you announce your retirement today and tomorrow some twist drags you back—then you'll be worse off."

But as I said it, a thought bubbled up. If the plot couldn't be changed, would finishing the original ending send us back? Did we just have to accept the story and let it run its course?

No. I didn't want to end up like the original Hazel—burned and disfigured. And what if I died and then found I couldn't go back? That would be worse.

I asked Shen Lang quickly, "Hey, do you remember how the original ends? I read as far as Hazel being paid off by Dylan Mercer and I got so mad I stopped. I don't know what comes after."

"Funny you ask," he said. "I only read up to Vivian getting thrown in jail before I set it down."

We stared at each other, and a ridiculous but plausible guess popped up. "Maybe we were only able to see Hazel's and Vivian's endings, so we transmigrated into their roles."

"That's it?!" Shen Lang suddenly brightened, then frowned. "Darn it. If I'd known, I would've read straight to the end. Once-in-a-lifetime transmigration—wasted on playing someone the whole industry loves."

I blinked.

The theory paused, so I steered us back to reality. "Fine. Since we can't dodge it, go back and film. Use every trick you've got to fool the bosses and the clients—act. Maybe you'll land Best Actress. In our real lives, stuck in 996 grind, making a pittance, everyone dreams of being an actor who can casually earn millions for one film…"

"I don't want that," Shen Lang said. "Before I transmigrated I already made a million a year."

"Shut up, humblebrag."

The next day Shen Lang got discharged and went back to set. Before he left he made a proposal: hire me as his assistant—and he put an offer on the table I couldn't refuse.

I was about to ask for time to think when he reached up and ruffled my hair, smiling. "Come on, He Guisnow—you're transmigrated, and you're still dreaming of going back to being a wage slave? Try another life."

When he touched me a cool, woody fragrance rolled over me like a burst of spring. His words lit up a new path I hadn’t noticed before, and suddenly I wanted to see where it led.

I ducked away from his hand, muttering, "What if you can't afford my salary? You're basically being blackballed."

"Please," he said. "I'm a top actress. I have tens of millions in the bank. I've checked."

Outrageous. Why didn't I transmigrate into Vivian Cross? I'd like to know what it's like to be a rich, gorgeous leading lady.

We arrived at the studio gate and saw Jason Chase standing there, face grim, like some kind of door guardian.

I wanted to ignore him, but he had done us a huge favor that day, so I greeted him politely. "Good morning, Mr. Chase."

He glared at me like I stabbed him personally. "Hazel, I never thought you'd actually betray Claire!"

Huh?

Did he relapse? I forced a fake smile through my teeth. "Mr. Chase, I don't understand. Care to elaborate?"

"You really became Miss Cross's assistant? Don't you know Claire just entered entertainment—she's green and needs you more than anyone!"

Chase looked heartbroken. "Was it all because Miss Cross paid you more?"

"It was," I admitted. "I didn't want to, but she offered so much."

Chase was speechless. "…How can you value money over loyalty?"

"Mr. Chase, I can't help it. I'm ordinary. You might be rich or can make money yourself, but I still need to eat."

I took a step closer, patted his shoulder, and sneakily jabbed him twice. "If you pay me a hundred thousand a month for Claire, I promise I'll abandon Vivian Cross and come back to you."

"I'll give you a hundred and ten thousand," someone behind us drawled lazily.

Shen Lang had hooked his arm around me, chin nudging my shoulder, and looked straight at Chase. "Hazel is mine. No matter how much you offer, I can pay her ten thousand more."

A faint scent clung to his hair. When it brushed my ear I felt a little buzz.

My heart skipped a beat.

I tried to wiggle free, but he held me tight and murmured in my ear, "Don't move."

Chase shot him a venomous look. "Ungrateful! I shouldn't have saved you."

"Thanks for the rescue, Mr. Chase," Shen Lang said with a tilted grin, then leaned into my shoulder. "I'm so grateful I can't repay you. How about I just give myself to you?"

"You—you shameless—" Chase fumed and stormed off.

Shen Lang straightened not a bit phased and walked with me into the studio.

Inside, I saw Claire in costume, a flower forehead sticker in place, eyes full of hurt like a woman betrayed. She walked toward us, clearly wanting to say something.

Shen Lang poked me and whispered, "He Guisnow, the show's starting."

I said nothing.

Claire looked at me first, and her eyes were full of wounded sorrow. Then she glanced at Shen Lang and asked softly, "Vivian, can I say two words to Hazel?"

"Go ahead. Say whatever you want," Shen Lang said, stepping back and leaving us to it. "Hazel's my assistant, not my slave. Talk it out. I'm off to makeup and wardrobe."

With that he slipped away, leaving me and Claire to stand there like a faithless man facing his ex.

Claire gazed at me. "Hazel, are you doing all right lately?"

I gave a forced laugh. "I'm fine."

"Jason told me about what you did for me. I'm actually glad you could help—since you're staying with the crew, we can still be together."

She smiled at me with such fragile affection it almost hurt. "We're still friends, right?"

"Right… I guess."

Satisfied, Claire floated off.

I watched her go and saw Chase standing nearby, looking at me with a complicated expression.

Over the next few days, I watched Ethan grow on set.

He’d been pretty sharp before being transported into the novel—high-IQ type—so even after Director Ross chewed him out and blocked him on dozens of takes, he actually started to find his footing.

His acting was still stiff and a little fake, but it was a lot better than at the audition.

Of course, compared to Claire Bennett, there was still a clear gap; as for Jason Chase… well, they were more or less on par.

When the two of them were doing a scene opposite each other, Director Ross sat behind the camera. At first he furrowed his brow, then he watched blankly, and finally he looked down and started playing a match-three game on his phone.

At one point the top film star, Dylan Mercer, showed up. He arrived while Claire was shooting a scene with Jason—a spoiled playboy meeting a courtesan singer.

In the original script Jason was only supposed to flirt verbally, but Dylan decided to upstage himself. He hooked his finger under Claire’s chin and spoke the line himself.

When he finished, I looked back. Dylan’s expression was as dark as if he’d scorched a frying pan.

During the break, Ethan mostly did two things: ran lines and typed on a laptop.

I asked, “What are you doing?”

“Writing code.”

I blinked. “Writing code?”

“More precisely, looking for a way out. A solution to fix the situation.”

Ethan looked up at me. “I just ordered you a milk tea. It should be here soon—go grab it.”

“Okay.”

I turned and left, but at the doorway I glanced back and saw two people standing in the shadowed corner of the antique alley.

Dylan Mercer and Claire Bennett.

Claire leaned against the wall, looking up at Dylan. He propped one hand on the wall and stared down at her with heavy eyes.

I heard Claire say something, and then Dylan actually bent down and kissed her.

I never expected to witness such a cheesy idol-drama moment in real life. I almost forgot about the milk tea—I wanted to stay and watch.

Then Claire shoved the star away hard, looked around, and called, “Hazel, help me!”

Me: “?”

Wasn’t Claire supposed to act coy, torn between rejection and acceptance in the original text?

Why was this different?

But since Claire clearly didn’t want it, I wasn’t going to stand by.

I marched over, glaring at Dylan. “Do you know groping someone can get you detained? You could even be charged.”

Dylan shot me a cold look. “Mind your own business.”

I sneered and shook my phone at him. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”

He left, throwing me a threatening glare as he did.

After he walked away, Claire clutched at my sleeve and whispered thanks.

I sighed and locked eyes with her. “If you don’t like it, why didn't you say something?”

Claire froze.

“But I actually like him…” she tried to argue.

So she already had feelings for Dylan. Figures. Jason, you’re done for.

“This isn’t about liking him. Even if you like him, you have the right to stop him when he crosses the line,” I said.

Claire blinked at me. For a second a very complicated emotion flickered across her face—so complicated I couldn’t read it.

She seemed sober for a moment, but I worried she’d flip back and rat me out to Dylan later. So I let it go and carried the milk tea back to set.

That afternoon’s scene was a drowning sequence. Claire’s character, the courtesan singer Yanyu, was entertaining the prince consort on a pleasure boat, when Princess Lian drew a sword, killed him, kicked him into the water, and slapped Yanyu.

In the original book, the hits were staged. But because Dylan hated Claire, Vivian Cross insisted it be real to make the scene more authentic and deliberately messed up several takes, hitting Claire again and again.

Jason watched in pain, and when he later faced off with Vivian he used the moment to go harder.

In freezing weather, while Vivian was on her period, Jason shoved her into the icy water.

Ethan would never actually hit Claire for real. He’d rather have her slap him twice than harm her. But the script’s momentum was terrifying: when Ethan planned to pull a fake shot, Claire inexplicably stepped forward two steps and Ethan’s palm landed hard on her face.

The smack rang out. I was stunned. Ethan was stunned.

Director Ross frowned. “Cut—again. Vivian, what are you spacing out for? Keep going.”

I turned slowly. Sure enough, Jason stood off to the side, staring murderous at Ethan.

…This was bad. Hard to explain.

Ethan is ruthless.

Before Jason even shouted, “Why are you picking on Claire?” Ethan thought for two seconds, then slapped himself across the face.

Me: “…”

Jason: “?”

Ethan stepped forward, took Claire’s hand, and apologized sincerely, “I’m sorry, Claire. I didn’t mean to. I was only trying to create stage positioning and misjudged the force. I apologize—won’t happen again on the next take.”

Claire looked touched. “I know Vivian didn’t mean it. You only wanted the scene to look perfect.”

Director Ross got misty-eyed. “Seeing how honest you both are, we’ll keep shooting until this take is flawless.”

Me: “…”

They ended up doing seven or eight more takes, each time that staged move turning into a real hit for inexplicable reasons. To protect Ethan from Jason or Dylan coming back to pick a fight, every time Ethan accidentally hit Claire, he’d immediately slap himself too.

By the time they got the take, both their faces were swollen.

I ran out to a convenience store and bought Ethan an ice pack. He held it to his face, then asked, “Did you see how the second lead looked? What did you get from it?”

“He looked like he hated you,” I said honestly.

“Great. I’ve injured the enemy a thousand times and myself eight thousand. What more does he want?” Ethan muttered, suddenly looking pale.

I noticed he was off and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Hazel, could you go out again and buy me…um…that—thing?” His cheeks flushed; he bent over clutching his lower belly.

I blinked and realized, “Are you on your period?!”

He nodded, looking utterly defeated.

This was intense.

I’d wondered before how to make a man truly understand menstrual pain—if they felt it firsthand, maybe when I used it as an excuse I'd stop getting flak for being “delicate” at work.

One detailed three-thousand-word description of cramps couldn’t compare to actually feeling them. I ran out to buy pads, then grabbed painkillers and two heat pads.

When Ethan took the items from me, he looked helplessly at my modern girl’s supplies with Vivian Cross’s glamorous face screwed up.

“I’ll show you,” I said.

I led him to the bathroom and carefully taught him how to open the packaging, where to stick the pad, how often to change it, the difference between day and night pads, and where to place the heat patch.

Afterward I couldn’t help asking, “You’ve been inside this story for over a month, right? How come you never had this before?”

He nodded, equally confused.

Then it clicked. Vivian is a female star—she wears off-shoulder gowns in the dead of winter for events. Between travel and exhausted schedules, irregular periods are normal. I myself had missed cycles during all-night crunches.

Being a glamorous actress isn’t as comfy as it looks.

I helped Ethan back to his hotel and, in the elevator, ran into investor Lucas Grant—the same man who’d tried to pressure Ethan earlier. He had a girl in his arms. His eyes flashed when he saw Ethan. “Vivian…”

I quickly leaned in and whispered, “Pretend to faint.”

Ethan’s acting had improved these days. He immediately shut his eyes and slumped against my shoulder. I supported him and cried out, “Miss Vivian? Miss Vivian! Why have you been working so hard—three days without sleep—and now you’ve fainted from cramps? Wake up!”

Lucas’s expression shifted; he pulled the girl away.

I helped Ethan into the room. He tucked himself under the covers, white-faced, and still teased me weakly, “Your acting is awful.”

I let it slide for his sake.

Over the next few days Ethan stayed hyper-alert on set, terrified Jason might relapse and shove him into the water like in the original book.

The scene should have been done, but just when I thought we were finished, Jason suddenly hooked his arm and Ethan fell into the lake.

Panic crawled up my spine; I went dead cold. “Crew! Lifeguard! Someone get him out!”

By the time they pulled Ethan up, he was shaking and pallid. I wrapped him in a blanket and pushed him into the changing room to strip off his wet clothes, then gave him hot water and double the painkillers.

When he came out, Jason stood at the doorway, stormy. He warned him, “Vivian, there won’t be a next time. If you ever touch Claire again, I’ll make you pay a hundred times over.”

Then Jason glanced at me. “Hazel, I want you to remember: no amount of money Vivian gives you is worth it. Short-term gain doesn’t last. Claire is your real friend.”

“Done?” I looked him in the eye.

Jason was taken aback.

I steadied Ethan and took two steps to grab Jason’s collar, staring him down. “Jason Chase, Vivian has been unwell these days. I don’t believe you didn’t see that. In this cold weather, you shoved her into freezing water—can you honestly say it wasn’t on purpose?”

His posture softened. “On purpose…so what if it was? She hit Claire—I wanted her to get a taste of pain. What’s wrong with that?”

“Claire?” I sneered. “Yes, she hit Claire—but didn’t she also immediately hit herself back?”

"If you don't like how she acts, then come here and actually fight her. While we're filming by the lake, shove a menstruating actress into the water—have you no shame?"

Chase's face darkened. "Hazel, do you really think I wouldn't hit you? If it weren't for Claire's sake—"

"Don't, don't, don't. Please, spare me the courtesy. Come hit me," I said, letting him go and taking a defensive stance. Before I was transported into this book, I had learned Brazilian jiu-jitsu for two years for self-defense. I wasn't about to play around. "Chase, if I call you an idiot, would you dare to admit it?"

He ground his teeth, stared at me for a long moment, then tossed off one line—"A real man doesn't fight with a woman"—and stalked away.

I was about to follow him when someone behind me called in a warm voice, "Hazel, don't chase him."

He'd just gotten out of the water; his hair hadn't fully dried, sticking damp against his cheek, making his complexion and lips look pale. His lashes drooped, hiding his eyes.

A fragile, ill-looking beauty like that made you want to take care of him. I moved closer to help. He said my name weakly, with a hint of amusement, "Hazel."

"Yeah?"

"You don't need to mess with him. Even if you know some moves, I'm afraid you'll get hurt."

His voice turned cold. "I'll take care of this grudge myself."

After the twenty-sixth, Chase seemed shaken by that day and kept avoiding me on set.

During the break, Claire specifically went to find Dylan to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Vivian," she sniffed, eyes red. "I only learned afterward that Chase pushed you because he thought I was bullying you. But we had agreed beforehand—doing it was to make the scene more convincing. I already cleared things up with Chase. He said he would come apologize to you."

"Chase." She tugged Chase over. He looked reluctant and muttered an awkward, "Sorry," to Dylan.

I snorted. "If apologies mattered, we'd have no need for criminal law."

"What, Hazel? You planning to call the cops on me?" Chase snapped impatiently. "Besides, I technically saved Vivian that time, so that evens things out."

"Thanks for rescuing me, Lord Chase. If some rich woman goes after you next time, just call me—I’ll rescue you," Dylan said lazily.

Because he'd caught a cold from falling in, his voice had a slight nasal edge that somehow made his usually delicate tone sound more masculine. "Calling the police might be overkill. I just contacted a few media outlets who don't work with TransGlobal and prepped a trending story: 'Chase Pushed Menstruating Actress Into Lake.' Huh. A man who plays the polite, gentlemanly type doing something like this—wonder what the public would think."

TransGlobal is the agency Chase is signed with. He's the company's golden goose; half the firm's profits come from him, so they protect his image fiercely. Chase even does endorsements for several women's products because of his pro-woman persona. Rumor has it an international women's fashion brand has been in talks with his team recently. This is exactly the time they'd be most worried about public opinion.

Chase's face changed instantly. "Vivian, what are you trying to do?"

Dylan propped his chin on his hand, smiling at him. "Nothing. I've just taken an interest in winter swimming lately. I saw a hot search saying Lord Chase's butterfly stroke rivals a level-two athlete. I'd like to see it for myself."

Claire froze. "Vivian…"

Chase's expression hardened. Without another word he stripped off his coat, clenched his teeth, and jumped into the water.

Dylan didn't flinch. On the shore he called out in leisurely fashion, "Butterfly stroke—do it properly. If you're a man, swim for at least twenty minutes before coming ashore."

When Chase climbed out, soaked through and pale, Claire nearly sobbed. She wrapped a blanket around him and shot me a helpless, resentful look.

Dylan grinned like a kid pleased with the chaos. Chase shivered as he came forward and glared at Dylan. "Just you wait!"

He was hauled away by Claire to change.

The next morning when Dylan and I arrived on set, something felt off. I pushed open the makeup room door and froze. Standing inside with a stone-faced expression was the agent I'd seen at Vivian's audition. Beside her stood a young man with a predatory look and dark circles under his eyes—he looked drained.

I glanced around. Dylan kept his composure but greeted them politely. "Lou, you're here?"

"Lou" scolded, folding her arms. "Vivian, you think getting Director Ross's role gives you the world? Don't forget, you're where you are thanks to Young Master Guo. Instead of being grateful you hit someone and now you've offended Chase. Do you really think the company won't bury you? You're not as young as you think. There are plenty of younger, prettier girls ready to take your place. Don't get cocky."

I was stunned. If I remembered correctly, in the original book Vivian was only twenty-five. For an ordinary person that would be just out of grad school—how is that "old"?

Before Dylan could reply, the strained Guo raised a hand and snapped at Lou, "Out."

She shut up immediately, pushed out, and closed the dressing-room door. Guo glanced at me. "You too. Out."

I didn't move. I stood my ground and stared at him coldly. He laughed. "What, you want to join us? Well, you may not be much to look at, but you seem like a fledgling…"

"Guo Mingwei," Dylan cut in, calling him by name, "times must be rough for you lately, huh?"

Guo blinked.

Dylan went on, "Your father's company, Yunshu Technology, has seen its stock plunge—nearly a forty percent drop—and it's even hit legal news. He froze your card, told you to stop partying, and handed part of the company's decision-making to your older brother because he thinks you're useless…"

Guo went red with anger. "Shut up!"

He lunged at Dylan with a raised fist. Dylan remained calm. "Man, I advise you not to make a move. The crisis your father’s company faces now is something only I can fix."

"A pretty boy like you knows nothing!" Guo scoffed.

Dylan opened a laptop, typed briskly, and explained easily, "The stock fell because your company's new fifth-generation smart robot, after deployment in banks and malls, has major discrepancies between its system accuracy and benchmark data, leading to huge miscalculations in sums. Crisis PR won't solve a foundational issue—there's a bug in the NLP layer. The knowledge graph and contextual links code are wrong."

Guo was stunned. After a long moment he stammered, "So… what do we do?"

Dylan slammed the laptop shut, handed it to him, and said simply, "Take this back to your core algorithm team. If they ask about the rest, then contact me."

Guo left with the laptop. When filming wrapped that afternoon, he returned to the makeup room, elated. "It worked! My dad restored decision-making power to me. He wants me to keep handling the issue!"

Dylan arched an eyebrow. "Flower vase?"

"No—no—Ms. Dylan, when can I take you to the company?" Guo pleaded, fawning.

Dylan considered for a beat. "Guo, you called my assistant a fledgling for no reason and I didn't get angry. I solved your company's crisis—so the least you could do is call me 'Dad,' right?"

I blinked. Then Guo glanced around, saw no one else, and actually dropped to his knees. "Dad! You are my reborn parent!"

Dylan snorted and looked at me.

I: "…That's a bit much."

"Okay, jokes aside." Dylan put on a serious face and nodded at Guo. "Apologize to her. I'll go help you finish solving the rest of the problem."

Guo was practical. Realizing Dylan could actually fix things, he immediately behaved and apologized to me, "Sorry, Miss Bennett!"

I hesitated a beat. Guo tried to sweet-talk me: "Miss Bennett, should I kneel to you too?"

"No, no—no need." I waved him off but couldn't help my curiosity. "Guo, you don't seem irredeemable. Why were you such an antagonistic jerk before?"

Guo poured out his heart, explaining how conniving his older half-brother was—playing the dutiful sibling in front of their father but poisoning Guo's standing behind closed doors, even insulting his deceased mother. His story grew more emotional until he nearly cried. "I never meant to make things hard for Ms. Dylan. At first I really liked her. I wanted to give her everything—resources, everything. I wanted to date her—"

He cast a furtive look at Dylan. Dylan scoffed casually, "Guo, you still want to date me now?"

Guo immediately shook his head wildly. "I am not worthy!"

I thought for a moment, patted his shoulder sympathetically, and said, "Guo, it's not entirely your fault—you just had the wrong script. In a mutual redemption story you'd be the male lead."

Guo looked baffled. I withdrew my hand. "Don't let me keep you. You and Ms. Guo should get going and solve the problem."

Before leaving, Dylan came over and asked me, "You sure you won't come with me?"

I shook my head and yawned. "No. I'm exhausted. I'm going back to the hotel to catch up on sleep."

As Dylan left set and climbed into Guo's ostentatious yellow sports car, I felt a spark of life return and turned the opposite way from the hotel.

Last night, scrolling on my phone in bed, I noticed a bar near the studio had a live band. And it was a rock band.

I, Claire Bennett, live for rock shows. Jump around, lose yourself—that’s the whole point.

I was about to leave when I remembered my charger was in the makeup room on set. I went back for it and nearly ran into Hazel Bennett. Her eyes were red, like she’d just been crying, and the moment she saw me she lunged: “Hazel…”

I couldn’t dodge and ended up with her in my arms. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

She shook her head and wouldn’t speak—just kept crying.

I waited a beat, getting impatient, then noticed she’d come out of Jason Chase’s makeup room. I guessed, “Did Jason Chase bully you?”

Hazel hiccupped and said, “I told Jason not to blame Vivian Cross. She wouldn’t intentionally make things hard for him. But Jason wouldn’t listen—he said I was tricked by you and Vivian, that you’re a bad person, told me never to trust you…”

She sobbed as she spoke.

My teeth clenched. I wanted nothing more than to drag Jason out and teach him a lesson.

“Where is Jason? Is he still in there?”

I rolled up my sleeve. “Don’t cry. Come on—we’ll go settle this.”

Hazel shook her head through her tears. “Jason’s already gone. Before he left he said I didn’t know right from wrong… Claire, I’m really upset. Can you stay with me tonight?”

I hesitated. “Hazel, I want to, but I already planned to go to a bar to see a show tonight.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“That…might not be a good idea.”

I froze. “Places like bars probably aren’t great for you…”

That was the persona line—what people expected of her.

Hazel ignored me and insisted on coming. When I pushed back hard enough, she just looked at me with red-rimmed, pleading eyes.

Considering Jason had yelled at her while she’d been trying to help me and Vivian, and even if we didn’t need her help, I relented.

So we ended up at the bar together.

Hazel was oddly earnest—when the bartender asked what she wanted, she blinked wide and asked, “Do you have warm milk?”

The bartender went “?” and I quickly pulled her behind me. “One Long Island iced tea and one lemon soda.”

I remembered from before that Hazel couldn’t hold her liquor—at the kickoff banquet she’d gotten wasted after only a couple drinks. Dylan Mercer wasn’t here tonight; if she got drunk again, I’d have a hell of a time getting her out.

We sat near the stage, but the band didn’t come out. I told Hazel to hang back and wandered backstage. I almost bumped into the boss and learned the guitarist had a sudden appendicitis and was already in the hospital.

The singer looked helpless. “If we can’t do anything else, just go on. We can’t cancel the show.”

As he and the drummer and bassist passed, I couldn’t help myself. “Are you missing a rhythm guitar or lead?”

“If it’s rhythm, I can try. I know your songs—playing harmonies and choruses isn’t that hard.”

The lead singer stopped, stared in surprise, then asked the boss, “Who’s she?”

The boss looked at me. “Who are you? How’d you get back here?”

I had five excuses ready in my head, but none of them came out. I just met his gaze and said, “I’m a guitarist, too.”

Before I became Hazel Bennett, I was a boring, by-the-book programmer. Before that, I’d studied guitar for eleven years and dreamed of being a singer-songwriter.

The year I graduated college I planned to skip the corporate offer and try out for a music competition. My mom chased me around the neighborhood swinging a clothes rod while yelling, “Claire Bennett, don’t be ridiculous. You know what our situation is—what makes you think you can compete with those people?”

I hugged my guitar, running and looking back. “Why not? My songs online have over a million plays!”

“What good is that?” She gave that knowing, world-weary look. “We don’t have money to buy you a debut spot. You just graduated—your job pays over ten thousand a month. Do you know how many people envy you? Your father left early. I raised you so you wouldn’t go off chasing some stupid contest!”

I stopped. My mom accidentally bumped my back and yelped, rubbing her nose. I slipped the guitar into her arms and laughed softly. “Fine. I won’t go. I’ll start work tomorrow.”

Dreams are fragile; life is heavy. I couldn’t make my mom carry more weight. I let it go.

When I finally did get on a stage holding a guitar, I saw Hazel in the crowd. She looked so surprised she almost dropped her cup. The lights hit me from above and the heat of the crowd was intoxicating.

The first chord felt like something inside me waking up after a long sleep. I didn’t play many songs, but after the set, the buzz in my veins lingered.

Hazel watched me with a strange expression. “Claire, when did you learn to play? How did I not know?”

“I learned when I wanted to. We’re just friends—do I have to tell you everything?” I gave her a defiant eyebrow. I realized I was suddenly so rebellious.

Before she could reply, a sleazy voice chimed in. “Hey beautiful, nice playing. Come on, drinks on us.”

I glanced toward a table and saw a few guys with dyed hair eyeing Hazel and me like we were targets—their faces practically screaming “villain scraps.”

I ignored them and checked my phone. As expected, Jason messaged: “Weren’t you going back to the hotel to get some sleep? Where are you?”

“Don’t sweat the details,” I texted back, then told the truth: “At the Long Corridor bar, watching the show with Hazel.”

Jason: “Send location.”

I sent it. The sleazeballs kept pestering, “Why so quiet? Don’t you like us?”

One of them with blue hair slid close enough to touch my face. I didn’t think—I threw my drink, cup and all, into his face.

Blue-hair screamed. Hazel screamed.

A red-haired guy moved toward Hazel, but she shoved him away with everything she had and backed into the corner, terrified.

I swore under my breath, vaulted the table, and put myself between Hazel and them. “What do you think you’re doing? This is a civilized society. Also, I know the boss and the band—don’t start anything.”

Blue-hair clutched his face and sneered. “That’s no fun. The boss can’t stop us from making friends.”

Hazel whispered from behind me, “Claire, don’t be scared. I already contacted Dylan Mercer. He said he’s on his way.”

“Calling in the king won’t change the law. Buying someone a drink isn’t illegal.” Blue-hair scoffed. “I’ll tell you straight—I’ve got people everywhere here…”

I didn’t want to hear his nonsense. I punched him square in the face and, as I pulled back, told Hazel quietly, “Call the police.”

My voice was calm and loud enough for the guys to hear. Blue-hair froze, rage flashing in his eyes, and swung at me.

I braced to dodge and strike back, but the punch never landed. Behind him came Dylan Mercer’s cold, authoritative voice: “If that punch lands, make sure you don’t expect to keep that hand.”

Blue-hair snapped to the side to let Dylan through. At Dylan’s side was a tattooed guy who looked like serious muscle—definitely the kind you don’t mess with.

Blue-hair immediately dropped his fist and became meek as a quail.

Dylan walked up a few steps and stared at me. “Did you bring her to a place like this?”

No way I was taking that blame. “I didn’t bring her—she insisted. I came on my own.”

“Just answer yes or no,” Dylan said flatly. “I only care about the outcome.”

I thought, What an act. Before I could retort, Dylan reached around me and pulled Hazel to her feet, hauling her toward the exit.

Hazel turned back, panicked. “Claire! Mr. Mercer, my friend is still back there—”

Dylan didn’t even stop. Without looking back he said, “I only take my people with me. The rest is your problem.”

He walked out with Hazel. She tried to fight to rescue me but he snapped, “Don’t test my patience,” and shut her down.

Something nagged in my head—this sequence, of Hazel going to a bar, getting into trouble, and Dylan taking her away, did happen in the original story. But that scene shouldn’t have involved me, and it should have been later in the timeline.

I was confused as Dylan’s tattooed enforcer left. It was just me and Blue-hair again.

He grinned like a villain. “Let’s see who comes to save you this time!”

Before he finished, a cool, clear voice cut through: “Me.”

It was Jason Chase.

Every muscle in me relaxed instantly. Strange—if I’d come here alone in this world, I’d be on permanent alert. But the moment I knew Jason was here, I could let my guard down. In this strange reality, he and I could trust each other with our backs.

Of course, with his eyebrow-raising actor face, no one would fail to recognize him.

Blue-hair gaped. “Vivian Cross? The goddess!”

I stared, utterly bewildered.

He pulled a blue glow bracelet from his pocket and snapped it onto his wrist, then tied a blue ribbon around his forehead. Then, with unfiltered excitement, he lunged toward Claire: "Vivian Cross, I'm your fan—I'm Ether!

Look at my support bracelet, my support ribbon, even my hair is dyed your support color!

Vivian, Vivian, number one in the world!"

I winced. "…"

I felt my lip twitch and asked Ethan, "Your fan's named Ether? Sounds like it has some illegal connotations."

Before Ethan could answer, Blue-Hair was glaring at me like I'd insulted him. "What are you saying? You hater—you're just jealous that Vivian's so popular!"

Me: "…"

Ethan rubbed his forehead and sighed, then, all businesslike, he turned to Blue-Hair: "I'm here to pick up my friend. She told me you were giving her a hard time."

Blue-Hair glanced at me and then at Ethan, his smile stiffening. "This—this lady is Vivian's friend?"

Ethan: "Yes."

Blue-Hair immediately moved closer, carefully brushing off nonexistent dust from my coat, straightening my hair, and flapping like a courtier to let his boys make a path: "Please, please. Vivian, I didn't mean any harm to your friend. I just thought her guitar playing was good and wanted to ask her about it. Since you're here to pick her up, we won't bother you."

Then he turned on his heel and left with his crew.

I had to admit—Blue-Hair actually was a model fan. Running into your idol in public and not demanding photos or autographs, saying something heartfelt, and then dashing off—truly focusing on the work and not the private life.

Ethan came over and took my hand. "Let's go."

I sniffed and let him lead me along.

By our old pattern, we would've been trading barbs the second we met. He should've teased me a little.

But he seemed to read the fear tucked under my calm. He didn't say a thing; he simply gripped my hand and walked me out, step by steady step.

A star's hands are kept up like jewelry—each finger pale, soft, nails rounded and pink. But Vivian was too skinny; her hands had a thin, bony look. When they settled in my palm they were cool like jade.

Yet those hands also had tendril-softness, and they gently supported the panic and confusion in my chest, smoothing them, holding them in his palm.

We stepped out of the bar's heat and chaos into a quiet night. A cool breeze rolled over us; I shivered and was pulled into a not-large but very warm embrace.

Ethan pulled his coat around me and lightly touched my head. "Don't be afraid. Aren't I here?"

I kept my head down and kicked at a pebble along the curb, whispering, "Dylan Mercer came earlier too. He only took Claire and blamed me for bringing her here, saying that’s why she ran into danger."

Ethan's hand paused at the top of my head. "He didn't get you out too?"

"No." Saying it made the fresh surge of anger and helplessness bubble up again. "Isn't that how alpha-CEO sweet romance novels go? The hero and the rival see everyone except the heroine as air."

I felt both regret and relief.

When Dylan took Claire and said, "Do whatever with the rest," my legs were shaking, but I had to stare down Blue-Hair and act calm. I couldn't show fear—if they saw it, they'd be worse.

That terror peaked when I heard Ethan's voice. I remembered—whose body I'm trapped in is still a woman.

And a fragile pop star who lives on salad to stay skinny.

If Blue-Hair hadn't been Vivian's fan—what would have happened? Would my moment of rashness have dragged an innocent person into the abyss?

Ethan didn't blame me. I felt honest guilt.

He shifted, a teasing lilt in his voice, as if to distract me: "Hazel Bennett, I didn't know you play guitar."

"I do." I murmured. "If my family hadn't been so strapped, I would've tried out for music shows sooner—maybe I'd be a pop star now instead of transmigrating into this mess and putting up with that dumb hero. If pushed too far, I would've said screw it—let Claire and those idiot guys have their fun."

Long Island iced tea packs a punch. I was probably still tipsy, leaning against Ethan and asking, "Is the matter with Mr. Guo's company resolved?"

"Fixing bugs tomorrow after work."

"Why are you here as a female star and still debugging code?"

"A worker's soul never dies."

I nuzzled Ethan, taking a little comfort from occupying a beauty's body. "Ethan, don't you notice—when we act like normal people in this sweet romance novel, the whole world seems off."

"I notice."

My last conscious thought before I passed out was Ethan at my ear, low and certain: "The world can be messed up, but at least I'm normal when I'm with you."

Then I blacked out.

I woke to chaos.

Because Ethan—no, Vivian Cross—was trending. Seven or eight hot topics, all high-ranking and all negative. The biggest one read: "Vivian Cross Bullying Jason Chase"—and someone had appended the explosive tag.

I stared at those eight characters—especially the verb in the middle—wondering if my eyes were playing tricks or if whoever started that tag had a screw loose.

Other trending items included: "Vivian Cross Drinking Alone at a Bar"—complete with last night's photo of Ethan walking me out. The stealth photographer managed to make it look like Vivian was leaning on Ethan like a crutch.

"Vivian Cross Scandal": a candid shot of Ethan and Mr. Guo in a yellow sports car, taken from the right angle.

"Vivian Cross Acting": a leaked clip from Vivian's earlier audition as Princess Lian, linked to the other tag to imply Ethan got the role by sleeping with Mr. Guo.

"Vivian Cross Cosmetic Surgery": photos from before Vivian lost weight, her features puffy, posted beside a heavily refined glam shot—easy to call it plastic surgery.

…Reading all these out-of-context scraps and made-up dirt took me half an hour.

I went next door to find Ethan. He was sitting by the window with a Switch, calm and composed as if nothing had happened.

I gaped. "Where'd the Switch come from?!"

"Mr. Guo gave it to me."

Ethan glanced my way and motioned for me to sit beside him. "Director Ross contacted me. The set's swarmed with reporters; he said I don't have to go this week. Oh—Mr. Guo also sent you one. It was in my bag; I meant to give it to you last night, but you got drunk and unconscious and I carried you home."

His tone was steady, so I breathed and calmed down, sitting next to him.

After a moment I asked, "How are we going to handle this?"

Ethan looked up and smiled. "Handle it how? This is literally the original plotline—Vivian drowning in scandals. Let the director and writers go through their process. We don't need to worry."

He went back to his game. Then he paused, pressing the controller, voice sinking a bit: "It's good that I'm the one in Vivian's body right now. Those comments—they're hateful and shameless, but I don't take them to heart. Still, it stings to see."

Only then did I understand. He meant that it was better he was the one reading those vile, slut-shaming insults—not the original Vivian.

How did original Vivian spiral into becoming the story's villain? The author only showed her cruelty and malice, glossing over the suffering that led there.

Now living it, I suddenly felt Vivian's path. She'd been a spotlighted actress who had also been fat, ugly, bullied—clawing out of the muck and getting scarred under the lights. She loved boldly and openly; she confessed to Dylan Mercer in front of reporters, got rejected, and humiliated. She had a burning ambition to be the best actress—an Oscar-level dream—but rivalry and envy blindfolded people, and she took irreversible steps down a dark road.

All of that complex, carved life got boiled down to "villainous supporting female"—four words as a label, tacked onto her role to heighten the hero's love story.

I took the Switch from Ethan and fixed him with a sharp look. "Ethan, let's do something."

"What?"

"None of these hot topics are true—especially the one about you bullying Jason Chase. It's total bull."

I grabbed a pen and started sketching on paper. "There's a gala in three days—this year's big charity event. All the stars and the media will be there. We'll lay it all out in front of everyone. No PR spin—plain facts."

I drew diagrams and kept talking. "If that won't do, we'll make a mind map and a PPT. Use our worker skills—get the message across clean and clear."

It was reported as bullying when it had been self-defense. Drinking to cope got twisted into 'drinking alone at night.' Weight loss became 'surgery.' Coding in the office became 'scandalous favors.'

People judge and smear, but we can't sit quiet and do nothing. We're not saints—we're workers. We push only if given overtime pay. Meticulous, nitpicky workers.

I walked him through my plan. Ethan just smiled. "Okay."

Three days flew by. Ethan spent most of his time at Mr. Guo's company fixing bugs.

I ran into Jason Chase once in the hotel corridor. The moment we saw each other I gave him a cold look. Jason, who always bullied the weak and flinched from the strong, immediately faltered in his voice. "You… why are you glaring at me?"

I sneered. "Vivian Cross bullying you? That's rich. Didn't you feel guilty when you saw the trending posts?"

"The trending was bought by the company. It has nothing to do with me," Jason blustered. "Besides, I had them take it down as soon as I saw it. Hazel, I'm warning you—don't make trouble where there isn't any."

"Make trouble?" I echoed low, my voice suddenly climbing. "Make trouble?! Jason Chase, you even get to say that?"

"That top trend stayed up for eight whole hours before it was taken down—did you not look at your phone once in those eight hours? Posting one lightweight 'we'll clarify soon' and 'please focus on the work' and sweeping it under the rug—do you really think I wouldn't notice what game you're playing? Work? What work do you even have?"

I stared at him, enunciating each word. "Do you know why Claire Bennett won't like you? Because you are a despicable, petty little man."

I hit a nerve. Jason exploded, lunging and raising his hand high. My heart dropped and I reflexively dodged backward—only to bump into someone.

At first I thought it was Shen Lang. When I turned, it wasn't him at all. It was Claire Bennett.

Her eyes were red. "Hazel, are you okay?" she asked.

It took me a beat to realize she meant the bar incident. I shook my head. "I'm fine."

"That night, after Mr. Mercer took me, I felt uneasy and insisted on going back to rescue you," Claire said, her eyes raw. "We argued in the car, he made me get out, and on the way back I ran into my brother. He helped me find you, and that's when I learned you had been taken by Vivian."

The brother she mentioned had to be Ethan King, who hadn't shown up in a while.

She paused, then asked, "I saw the trending. Is Vivian okay?"

"Not really," I lied offhand. "She saw the trending and was devastated. She's been crying in her room for two days and hasn't come out. I went out to get ice packs for her swollen eyes."

Claire glanced over at Jason. He'd meant to hit me, but seeing Claire, he quickly lowered his hand and gave an awkward smile. "Claire, I didn't mean—really, that trending has nothing to do with me…"

"Jason," Claire said in disappointment, "I never thought you'd do something like this." She turned away from him and looked at me. "Hazel, can I go see Vivian later?"

"…No."

Jason's face went ashen. "Ms. Cross said she's too upset and doesn't want to see anyone related to Jason Chase." Jason's expression contorted—he clearly wanted to argue, to explain, but he also knew pushing it would only make him look worse in Claire's eyes. I saw indecision flicker across him before he swallowed it and clammed up.

I felt triumphant.

Claire let it go, patted my hand, and said, "All right. Hazel, take good care of Vivian. If there's anything I can do, don't hesitate."

Then she left without looking back.

Watching her go, I sensed something different about Claire—something had changed.

Once Claire was gone, Jason snapped back and leapt up to argue with me again. I ignored him and dropped a line: "I happened to record you pushing Vivian into the water."

Silence immediately clamped onto Jason like someone had grabbed his throat.

I went to the convenience store for snacks. When I returned, Shen Lang was back, propped on the sofa with a tired look.

Fixing that massive algorithm alone wasn't simple; I felt a pang of pity. I rummaged through the paper bag, tossed him my favorite sandwich, and asked, "By the way—how are we getting to the charity gala the day after tomorrow? It's a high-society event; the roads are blocked. Any word from the agency? We can't exactly ride shared bikes."

Shen Lang opened his eyes and smiled faintly. "Mr. Guo said he'll drive us."

That night I had a dream. The plot jumped ahead to the latter half—I'm protecting Claire, telling her to run while I stall a group of thugs. They pour gasoline on me and set me on fire, leaving me horribly disfigured. The searing, heart-rending pain felt alarmingly real. I woke screaming. Shen Lang burst in from the next room.

I looked up at him. "Is this dream a sign that I can't escape the original plot?"

He stroked my head and murmured, "Don't overthink it. It's just a dream."

When Shen Lang and I left the hotel it was five in the afternoon and a light snowfall had started. Deep winter makes the sky dark early; heavy clouds smeared lead-gray with delicate flakes seeping through. Street lamps were starting to glow. I exhaled a white puff and regretted not wearing one more layer.

Thankfully, Mr. Guo's flashy yellow beast of a car sat nearby.

As we got closer I noticed Mr. Guo had cleaned up—well-dressed and coiffed. He even opened the door for us with a broad smile. "Ms. Cross! Hazel! Please get in, we're ready to go."

I slid into the warm car and said, genuinely surprised, "Mr. Guo, you're different."

He seemed to have shed that brash villain persona from the first time I met him. He bowed his respect. "Thanks to Ms. Cross. After she fixed those bugs and updated the system, our company's stock all recovered—and then some."

"But Ms. Cross," he added more softly, an edge of wistful regret, "you seem different than before."

His words reminded me of something he'd said earlier. At first Mr. Guo had given Vivian tremendous help and resources, clearing her path. Later it turned coercive. Perhaps Mr. Guo had genuinely liked the old Vivian once.

The car pulled up in front of the Garden Hotel. The street was sealed off and lined with luxury cars with license plates I didn't even recognize. I spotted the car Claire had ridden in with Mr. Mercer and pointed. "Look—the male lead's car."

Shen Lang glanced over. "Rolls-Royce Phantom. Classic male-lead standard."

At that moment Dylan Mercer stepped out. He was every inch a male lead—handsome to the point of predatory, perfectly tailored suit, diamond cufflinks flashing. The top film star's eyes locked on a corner of the entrance. I followed his gaze and saw Ethan King bending to open a door, helping Claire out.

Claire was stunning in a diaphanous white off-shoulder gown. A translucent jade necklace rested at her throat. Her hair was carefully styled.

Dylan's eyes flickered with admiration, but when he took in Ethan beside Claire and Jason, who'd also stepped out looking sharp, his expression soured into jealousy and anger.

This was the first three-men face-off scene, the kind of battlefield the original story loved—but I had no interest in being an audience.

I checked my pocket to make sure the USB was still there, skimmed my phone to confirm the backup files, and gave Shen Lang a small nod. He smiled, "I'm ready too."

Mr. Guo practically vibrated. "Yes! Ms. Cross, perk up! I think you're way prettier than Claire. That dress is expensive, but you won't lose! Take off your coat!"

Shen Lang obliged, unzipping and shrugging off a down jacket to reveal—surprisingly—just a blue-and-white plaid shirt and jeans.

Mr. Guo blinked.

"That's fine," Shen Lang said, and opened his door. Mr. Guo protested, "You're really going like that? The gala's full of stars; the red carpet is where the actresses show off—"

Shen Lang paused and looked back.

I asked Mr. Guo seriously, "Is the gala about charity, or about the party? If it's about charity, does what you wear matter? If it's about the party, why hide behind the banner of charity?"

Mr. Guo froze at my question. I gave him a big smile and stepped out with Shen Lang.

Not far off, the three men were arguing about who Claire should walk the red carpet with. In the end, Jason pulled the dumb victory. "Claire's been shooting with me lately. With Vivian drowning in scandal, the director's cutting her scenes and promoting Claire to female lead. It's perfect if we walk together—"

He fell quiet when Shen Lang and I approached.

Claire looked over in astonishment. "Ms. Cross, why are you dressed like this?"

"What's wrong with this?" Shen Lang asked, looking down. "It fits my usual professional style."

He'd grabbed a plaid shirt and jeans from the wardrobe and left; short hair washed and dried. Even without makeup, a celebrity face still stood out. Dylan Mercer and Ethan King both glanced over. When they looked at Shen Lang their faces were impassive; when they looked at me their brows each knit.

Jason couldn't meet my eyes.

Shen Lang shot Jason a look full of contempt and chill, then guided me straight toward the red carpet.

Reporters had already formed a circle; seeing Vivian Cross—whose scandal had been dominating the news—appear sent them into a frenzy. Cameras and mics thrust forward with questions.

"Ms. Cross, what do you think about the trending these past two days?"

"Ms. Cross, did you really bully Jason on set?"

"Ms. Cross, what's your relationship with Mr. Guo from Suyun Technology?"

"Ms. Cross, dressing like that to come—have you given up completely?"

Ethan King scanned the room, took the microphone, and said, "One last question—I can only answer one more thing: I dressed like this tonight because I… wanted to."

The reporter who'd asked the question looked startled. Ethan tossed the mic aside and led me down the red carpet.

Security moved in to block the reporters, so they could only take pictures from the edge of the crowd, glowering with frustration.

A security guard blinked when he saw me. "Staff, this way."

He was about to shepherd me off the carpet when Ethan stopped him with one hand. "She isn't staff. She's a guest I brought to the gala."

So we walked into the banquet hall—plaid shirt, flats, no makeup—just like that.

The noise of the party swelled behind us, but I heard nothing. A warm, lively buzz washed over us as Ethan and I found a corner, grabbed some food, and looked up at the stage, still empty.

It all worked because the gala's big-screen control ran the same AI system from NumCloud Tech. A couple nights ago, Ethan had been patching bugs; in the version scheduled for tonight he slipped in something special, stayed up all night, and pushed the updated build to the venue's system.

Right after we left the car, Jason Chase—presenting himself that night as NumCloud's exec—went backstage under the pretense of fixing a system hole and plugged the USB drive I gave him into the main control computer. There wasn't anything fancy on it—just a PPT and a mind map I'd drawn all day.

Now we lay low in the glitter and laughter, waiting.

A charity gala basically means celebrities donate luxury items or antiques to be auctioned. The highest bidder wins; the proceeds go to charity.

When the big screen showed the donated item—a sparkling blue jade snowflake pendant—Ethan, who'd been picking at fruit beside me, suddenly raised a bid card. "Two hundred fifty thousand."

"What?"

I still had a cherry in my mouth. I looked up in shock.

Then a cold voice cut across: "Three hundred thousand."

Of course—Jason Chase.

I glanced at him and murmured, "Forget it. He wants to buy that for Claire. Don't fight that idiot heir for it."

Ethan shook his head and lifted his card again. "Five hundred thousand."

Then he lowered it and whispered with a small grin, "It's not my money anyway."

His smile made my head spin. I blinked and a thought flitted through my mind again: who could resist a beautiful smile?

It looked like Jason might counter, but Claire slammed his hand down hard enough to stop him.

Soon someone brought the snowflake down. Ethan paid, then handed it to me. "He Qingxue—it's yours."

"…What?"

"For Qingxue. It suits you."

I took the blue jade snowflake, chilled and smooth in my palm, its fine veins resting against my skin. After a long moment I tucked it away and stood up.

On stage the host was saying, "The next auction item… Su… Su Vivian, auctioneer—Hazel?!"

Hazel's name came out clipped and incredulous. Clearly, apart from the core players, nobody present knew who Hazel Bennett actually was.

And the most shocking part: the item up for auction was Su Vivian herself.

Ethan and I rose and walked onto the stage, one after the other. Eyes of every color and intention turned toward us, rolling like a tide.

I felt nervous—then a prick of exhilaration. I wasn't just resisting a ridiculous original script; I was declaring war on this world.

"Good evening. Standing to my right is the item I'm auctioning tonight: Su Vivian."

I gripped the mic, drew in a steady breath, and continued, "She's twenty-five, one hundred seventy-two centimeters tall, forty-one kilos, measurements eighty-four–sixty–eighty-eight. Opening bid: thirty-nine thousand."

People stared. They were used to perfectly curated faces that never twitched. Reporters in the back perked up, cameras raised, a few dashed forward—sensing news.

The four main players in the front row reacted differently: Claire bewildered, Jason frowning, the other two expressionless.

I smiled and said, "Why thirty-nine thousand? Because that's the basic price some gossip accounts use. A few days ago someone paid dozens of times this to pin her to hot search, to make you judge her. Reporters—want a scoop? Bid. Buy an hour of her. Judge her for an hour."

Silence swallowed the hall. No one raised a paddle.

The screen behind us shifted to the mind map I’d spent the day making.

"I'm going to walk through this map and present a complete chain of evidence to clear up those fabricated hot searches. First: Su Vivian bullied Jason Chase? It's more accurate to call it 'Su Vivian bravely fighting back against Jason Chase's bullying.'"

Jason sprang from his seat, furious and panicked. "Hazel Bennett, what nonsense are you spouting?!"

"When filming that scene, for the sake of realism, Su Vivian and another actress staged a real altercation. To avoid misinterpretation, Su Vivian would even slap herself afterwards—making sure it was fair. That actress, however, is Jason's childhood friend, which made him unhappy. He took advantage of the fact that Su Vivian was on her period—"

His mic cut off. Someone backstage had muted him. Credit where it's due: Jason's agent's crisis team was fast.

I glanced at the screen. The mind map kept scrolling. Jason was reliable.

I didn't falter. I pulled the wireless teacher's amplifier out of my jeans pocket—the kind I used the one semester I taught at a tutoring center. Loud, sturdy, long battery. I'd bought a strengthened model.

I pressed it to my lips and kept talking. "Jason shoved Su Vivian into the lake during that period. Later, when she pushed him in—that was just tit for tat."

The screen switched to the PPT. After the contents list scrolled by, the first piece of evidence appeared: the seconds of footage showing Jason pushing Su Vivian into the water.

I'd gotten it from a crew member's phone who'd been sneakily shooting. That person had been a fan of the ship—wanted exclusive shots—and ended up capturing Jason pushing Su Vivian.

Gasps swept the room. All eyes landed on Jason.

He sat expressionless, sipping wine in one smooth motion, then fixed his gaze on me with cold, still eyes like ice.

I smiled. "Jason, you're a mega star with resources most people can’t imagine. You don't understand ordinary feelings. We—people treated as props—have emotions too. When we're wronged, we shouldn't be forced to swallow it; when we fight back, it shouldn't be twisted into 'bullying.'"

Claire lifted her chin slightly and looked at me. Her watery eyes glittered faintly. Dylan Mercer snorted.

I moved on: Su Vivian went to the bar to pick me up and bring me back to the hotel; she got into Jason's car to go help at the company; the decision to cast the heroine was Director Ross's alone; she hadn't had surgery—makeup and weight loss can change a person massively.

My amplified voice echoed through the opulent hall, a hint of distortion from the little amp. Whether they believed me or not, I'd presented the truth behind the hot searches in the plainest way I knew.

A female reporter in the front row, eyes bright, asked, "Who are you?"

"I'm Su Vivian's assistant," I said.

"So you say the hot searches were bought—who do you think did this?"

Ethan took the amp from my hand and looked at me steadily. I relaxed. He was telling me: trust me with this.

He held the amp and met the reporter's gaze without flinching. "Does it matter who? I'm here to clear a name. The investigation should be left to the police."

Another reporter sneered, "Ms. Vivian, you're just an actress—what can you do for Mr. King's company? Unless… are we talking biological issues?"

The smirk in his tone aimed to humiliate. Ethan stayed calm. "Oh, sorry. In my spare time I self-studied Python and Java and some natural language understanding algorithms—I helped Ethan King fix a bug. Mr. Andrew Wang—are you that surprised that an actress can do more than… whatever you implied?"

He glanced at the reporter's badge and read it aloud as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The reporter named William Shaw froze for a moment, then stubbornly continued, "But Miss Cross, as the old saying goes, a gentleman doesn't stand beneath a crumbling wall. You and Mr. King were two people—alone in a car—and in the middle of the night you went to a bar to pick up an assistant—"

"A gentleman doesn't stand beneath a crumbling wall, but nowhere does it say the whole world is full of crumbling walls."

Ethan cut him off without politeness, a cold smile tugging at his mouth. "William Shaw, are you saying that if someone's photographed taking a cab with a male driver it proves they're gay?

What’s wrong with picking up my assistant from a bar?

Does my assistant have fewer rights than I do, so I'm not allowed to take her home after she gets drunk?

Imagine I'm standing perfectly still in an open lot and you come over and smash a brick on my head, then lecture me about how a gentleman shouldn't stand beneath a crumbling wall.

Did your ancient sages teach you 'if you want to invent a crime, you can always find the words'?

I'm willing to take full legal responsibility for everything my assistant and I have said—do you have the courage to be responsible for your words?"

Ethan's gaze swept across every face in the crowd, then he let out a soft laugh. "Since no one captured Vivian Cross on camera, this item has been withdrawn."

"Ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the rest of your evening. Good night."

He tossed the mic and the loudspeaker aside and turned, his clear eyes locking onto mine.

We walked down the steps side by side, through the press of bodies, toward the exit.

A thousand shutters clicked behind us, but neither Ethan nor I looked back.

I pushed open the heavy door and a blast of cold air rolled in, snowflakes flying around us.

Night had fallen; only a few lonely streetlamps glowed. The red carpet that had been loud and packed with people moments ago was now empty.

Without looking back, Ethan and I walked toward an uncertain future—and toward a freedom I could finally respect.

Jump to the next column to continue reading Section 9: "Do What You Want to Do"

I, Claire, Fell Into a Novel with My Idol