After I Started Dating the Scum Gong Substitute, the White Moonlight Returned - Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Jiang Yan’s running routine shifted from morning to evening. Brushing against the gentle sea breeze, he ran along the coastal highway, quickly easing the fatigue of the entire day.

Late at night, the hotel was sparsely populated. A few couples snuggled sweetly in the lobby booths, whispering secrets. Jiang Yan glanced over a few times, finding it boring and uninteresting.

He swiped his room card and opened the door. A dim yellow floor lamp was lit in the living room. Cheng Jianyu was lying back on a rattan chair on the balcony, his bare feet resting on the low tea table in front of him. His posture was leisurely. The orange lamplight rippled across the dark silk loungewear on his body, emitting a faint glow. His skin looked even fairer than usual, possessing the texture of amber-coated ivory—a kind of classical, cold beauty.

His breathing rhythm was steady and slow; he had actually fallen asleep just like that.

Separated by the glass door, Jiang Yan stared at him for a few seconds. He lifted his T-shirt with both hands, intending to wake him up “vividly” through action.

Lying there with his clothes in such disarray—wasn’t that simply seducing a man?

The phone on the tea table buzzed and vibrated. According to domestic time, it was now ten o’clock in the evening.

Before Jiang Yan could wake him through action, Cheng Jianyu opened his eyes. He pressed the bridge of his nose to refresh himself and picked up the phone with a soft “Mm.”

His voice carried a low, lazy rasp that made one’s heart itch. Jiang Yan was very familiar with this tone; the hand clutching his T-shirt dropped down. He leaned against the wall, a cigarette held loosely in his mouth, and pulled out a copper lighter.

“Jianyu, how is your time on South Island?” Bei Xinhong asked cheerfully.

Cheng Jianyu ignored his hypocrisy. Leaning against the chair, he cut straight to the chase with two words: “Didn’t write.”

His voice was colder than dripping water in the dead of winter, yet it was like a sudden clap of thunder that made Bei Xinhong break into a sweat. “What did you say? The deadline agreed upon with Party A is almost here! Do you realize this is a breach of contract?!”

Bei Xinhong hadn’t placed all his hopes on Cheng Jianyu. He had tried to “attach a dog’s tail to a mink coat,” sloppily writing a few scenes himself and tentatively sending them to Director Liang Qiu. It made the sixty-something-year-old man so angry he called in the middle of the night to scold him for an hour, picking out a heap of flaws and finding nothing right with it.

Now, having run out of tricks, he could only pin his hopes on Cheng Jianyu.

Cheng Jianyu was slow and methodical, his finger tapping the edge of the phone rhythmically. “My name isn’t on the contract. Why should I bear the responsibility?”

Bei Xinhong shook with rage, wishing he could reach through the phone and strangle him. According to the contract, the penalty for breach of contract increased by 5% daily; the deposit he had just received, which hadn’t even warmed in his hand, couldn’t withstand such squandering. When the time came, he would even have to pay out of pocket to compensate Nanka Media.

Money was a small matter, but Nanka had invested a massive amount of manpower and resources, even inviting Liang Qiu out of retirement to personally handle the project. If it died in the womb because of him, he could forget about ever selling a script again in this lifetime.

Bei Xinhong tried to gauge his psychology, attempting a “curved road” to salvation. “Jianyu, you can’t fail the cultivation I’ve given you. Your scripts were able to sell; I may not have the primary glory, but I have the credit of hard work. You can’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

The industry’s ecological environment was such: big fish eat small fish, and small fish eat shrimp. True, Cheng Jianyu’s scripts had been like “adding wings to a tiger” for him, allowing him to step into the core circles of film and television in one stride. But if it weren’t for a bit of his prestige, whether Cheng Jianyu’s scripts could have sold at all was another matter.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Bei Xinhong continued to himself: “You need to be more tactful as a person. What good does it do you to bring me down? Back then, if you had been a bit more perceptive and agreed to let Zhou Jueqing star in Summer End Accident, would you be where you are today? Don’t repeat the same mistakes. If you leave me, no one will want you even as a ghostwriter.”

When Summer End Accident was casting its lead years ago, Zhou Jueqing was a newcomer. The capital behind him pushed him toward this potentially hit project, wanting to use this arthouse film to win an award and provide him with a layer of “golden protection.” On his first day on set, Zhou Jueqing brought two hired screenwriters to perform major surgery on the script, changing the originally gloomy “Rattlesnake” story into a bright “Sunflower.”

Though they shared a similar homophone in the title, the core stories were diametrically opposed.

Afterward, Cheng Jianyu joined forces with the director, defying all dissenting opinions to kick Zhou Jueqing—whose seat as the lead wasn’t even warm yet—out of the cast.

If that movie had flopped silently back then, Zhou Jueqing might have put the matter behind him. But the movie happened to become a hit. Zhong Lunian, who replaced him as the male lead, became famous overnight and was favored by several major directors, soaring to the top tier of acting ever since.

Meanwhile, Zhou Jueqing drifted for a few years before finally seeing some progress. How could he not hate Cheng Jianyu?

He couldn’t touch the director with deep background, but couldn’t he touch the isolated and helpless Cheng Jianyu?

In Bei Xinhong’s eyes, Cheng Jianyu had brought it on himself, seeking his own death. How much did “lofty integrity” weigh, and how much was it worth? How sweet was a life of luxury and worry-free comfort?

“Jianyu, are you listening to me? It was indeed a bit much of me to force you to sign the agreement back then, but ultimately the problem is you…”

“Mm.” Cheng Jianyu interrupted him, relaxing his body completely against the chair. Looking at the glowing phone screen, his voice was steady. “I signed the agreement voluntarily. I misjudged a person and I accept the loss. I can bear this responsibility.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then gave a very shallow laugh, saying nonchalantly: “I don’t believe that sticking to one’s principles leads to ruin. There is no such logic in this world.”

Bei Xinhong’s face burned as if he had been slapped twice. Petty calculations and mutual deception seemed not worth mentioning in Cheng Jianyu’s heart; those little thoughts were as clear as a mirror before him. A few short sentences made Bei Xinhong feel like an incompletely evolved human; walking the streets of a skyscraper city, his mere glimmer of spirituality made him feel utterly ashamed.

That wasn’t all. Cheng Jianyu’s voice came through the receiver, word by word hitting home. “Don’t bother rushing me anymore. My scripts—I wouldn’t give them to you even if I threw them in the trash.”

“You… don’t be in a hurry. We’ll talk more when you return to the country.” Bei Xinhong was speechless. He hung up the phone as if it were a hot potato, realizing for the first time that Cheng Jianyu’s words were so sharp they made one’s liver ache.

The call interface ended. Cheng Jianyu’s eyes drooped. He pulled in his long legs, picked up the small half-glass of red wine on the table, and took a sip. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the deep blue night sky was like water, filled with the brilliance of stars from billions of light-years away.

Jiang Yan’s lighter was in his hand. The blue flame was vigorous, and the rising temperature made his palm feel numb. He had forgotten to light the cigarette hanging in his mouth.

Separated by the glass door, Cheng Jianyu’s voice had come through in bits and pieces; he had heard most of it. The amount of information was small, but Jiang Yan had been with Cheng Jianyu for these years. He could vaguely judge from Cheng Jianyu’s tone that what the other party was saying wasn’t anything good.

What surprised him was that Cheng Jianyu’s expression and state were completely different from usual. He was even more composed than he had been at the door that night. When he laughed, there was no trace of his usual obedience, gentleness, or quiet elegance. He was confident and calm, radiating light from the inside out.

Like a thousand-year-old fox who had calculated every move.

Jiang Yan’s heart felt itchy, as if scratched by a fluffy fox tail.

He really wanted to strip away that fox skin to investigate and see just how many unknown secrets Cheng Jianyu was hiding.

Cheng Jianyu turned around and reached for the wine. Suddenly his body felt light; he was tightly hugged around the waist from behind by the man and pressed against the railing. Jiang Yan rubbed against him forcefully and lightly bit his earlobe. “What kind of contract did you sign?”

The warm body in his arms stiffened instantly. Cheng Jianyu turned his head to look at him and whispered, “You scared me.”

“Fake it.” Jiang Yan sneered. He was very confident; regardless of whether Cheng Jianyu was willing to talk, he could investigate everything clearly and thoroughly.

Cheng Jianyu blinked slowly, looking at him quietly. Jiang Yan asked as if casually, “What kind of wine are you drinking? Let me taste.”

Between words, he leaned in and kissed Cheng Jianyu’s slightly cool lips. The touch was soft, emitting a rich fruitiness. Cheng Jianyu turned his face away and adjusted his breathing. Jiang Yan was an old hand; he grabbed Cheng Jianyu’s wrist and pinned it against the cold railing, giving him no space to dodge, kissing him over and over.

“What else are you hiding from me? Hmm?”

“Speak.”

Cheng Jianyu’s breathing was erratic, the corners of his eyes moist, and his voice was a bit clingy. “Don’t kiss me here… people will see.”

“If not here, where do you want to go?” Jiang Yan bit his earlobe wickedly, his breath so hot it made Cheng Jianyu’s ear go numb.

Cheng Jianyu leaned weakly against the railing. The words he wanted to say were blocked back into his throat by Jiang Yan. His fingers gripped the railing behind him. The sea breeze from thousands of miles away made his back feel cool, but his front was burning hot, relentless and unyielding.

Until they separated, Cheng Jianyu seemed a bit tipsy, as if slightly drunk. Jiang Yan’s hand remained around his waist. He narrowed his eyes slowly, scrutinizing the expression on his face.

His chest felt tingly, as if something were about to break through the soil.