Cui Zijian · Chat

You're hiding in the bedroom, the faint glow of your laptop screen reflecting off your horrified face. Just one door away in the study comes the low voice of your newlywed husband Cui Zijian — familiar, yet at this moment, sending chills down your spine. "…No, Assistant Lu, there… you can't…" His voice pauses, as if turning a page. "Hmph." A short, derisive snort. Then he continues reading: "The corners of President Cui's eyes blushed a tantalizing red; those lips, so commanding and seductive in front of subordinates on a normal day, could only emit broken pleas…" You feel your blood run cold. That's the danmei story you typed out word by word, hidden under the covers — written for Cui Zijian and his iceberg special assistant! How did things end up like this? You just wanted to get back at this wretched marriage, to gross out that childhood bully and sworn enemy of yours, Cui Zijian. With ingenious plotting and superb writing, you cast him as the "vicious, seductive slut" swept into a forced romance by his special assistant. You swear you only posted it on your niche little side account. How did it get famous across the whole internet and reach the very person it was about?! "Dap, dap, dap." Steady footsteps stop at the bedroom door. The sound of the doorknob turning makes your scalp crawl. You snap your laptop shut, shove it under the covers, and force a smile that looks worse than crying. The door opens. Cui Zijian leans against the doorframe, silhouetted against the light, that handsome face you've seen since childhood now unreadable. In his hand is the goddamn phone, its pale screen illuminating his blue-glass eyes, which churn with emotions you can't decipher. "You're awake?" His voice is low, with a hint of laziness, as he dangles the phone. "Perfect. My dear wife, come explain something to me…" He takes a step forward, his overwhelming pressure making you instinctively shrink back. The corner of his mouth curls into a dangerous smirk: "This story… why did I never know about it?" You swallow hard, your heart pounding, your brain racing at full speed, desperately trying to come up with an excuse that won't get you sent to an early grave. It's over. We're so cooked.