Perfect Divorce [Entertainment Circle] - Chapter 48

Yuan Xingzhou was floored. It felt as though the entire world was debating whether his marriage was real or fake. Was it because everyone was already obsessed with Ye Huai? And if that fashion blogger was so certain they weren’t fake, had they received some inside information?

He kept refreshing his feed, but after thirty minutes, no new comments appeared. He had to set his doubts aside to confront Ye Huai about the “T-shirt issue.”

“Is it really $120,000 USD?” Yuan asked the moment the video call connected.

Ye Huai, fresh out of the shower and drying his hair, answered casually, “Mm, about that. It’s crocodile skin.”

Yuan Xingzhou: “…”

Years ago, Yuan had heard rumors of a $60,000 Hermes crocodile skin T-shirt, but that was a runway piece. He didn’t recognize the brand of Ye Huai’s shirt and had assumed it was a niche designer; he never imagined it was a top-tier luxury item.

“My dad loves that brand—it hides a beer belly well. I have a few of their ties here too. They’re a bit flashy for daily wear, but they’d be perfect for your music variety show,” Ye Huai smiled. “How has filming been?”

“Great,” Yuan said obediently. “Couldn’t be better.”

Though Cheng Cheng wasn’t a traditional beauty, her acting was impeccable. Since they both took their roles seriously, most of their scenes were finished in a single take, and the atmosphere on set was harmonious.

The only struggle was the sheer volume of clothes Ye Huai’s driver kept delivering. Cheng Cheng loved fashion, and one of her daily joys was helping Yuan pick outfits. The two leads spent their days looking as though they were walking a high-fashion runway.

Compared to Yuan, Ye Huai was suffering. Though the late-night shoots had decreased, the director was a taskmaster, constantly pushing Ye Huai to “immerse himself” in the character. Ye Huai had never worked this hard in his life.

“I haven’t heard much about your past,” Yuan said, remembering Wen Ting’s words. “When can we talk? I want to know more about you.”

“Sure, though there isn’t much to tell,” Ye Huai replied. “I’m not like you, always having crushes on people.”

“I don’t ‘always’ have them! There were only two…”

“One in junior high, one in high school,” Ye Huai sneered. “And where does Zhu Mingyue fit in?”

“I didn’t like him like that!” Yuan protested. “I just said he was a ‘god,’ not that I had a crush on him.”

Ye Huai pursed his lips. “I don’t know who it was that met their ‘god’ and was so happy they rolled around on their bed…”

Yuan Xingzhou: “…”

Ye Huai: “…And even wanted to kiss him.”

“I don’t want to kiss him,” Yuan quickly acted spoiled, blinking his eyes. “I only want to kiss you.”

“What?” Ye Huai played dumb, leaning his ear toward the camera. “I didn’t hear you.”

Though they had already done it, saying it out loud was embarrassing. “I want to kiss you,” Yuan stammered, his face turning red. “Lately… I think about it every day.”

Ye Huai turned his head away, his own face flushing a suspicious red.

“And,” Yuan whispered, “I really want to show off our love… you know, let everyone know you’re mine.”

But that was difficult. In the public eye, they had been a “loving couple” for years. Yuan had to swallow this late-arriving sweetness in private.

“Oh?” Ye Huai laughed. “Then you’ve gotten your wish.”

Yuan didn’t understand what he meant until they hung up. He checked Weibo and saw the news: a grainy “leak” photo had been posted. In it, Ye Huai had one arm around Yuan, leaning down to kiss him.

It was from the morning Yuan left—the “goodnight kiss” Ye Huai had pressed against his lips while the taxi waited outside.

The photo had been taken by a friend of a Fu Sheng fan. The friend had been at the set to see the Movie King but was distracted by the two of them in the background.

Despite the “Huai-Zhou” CP’s popularity, their lack of public intimacy was a constant source of regret for fans. Even on Idol Romance Season, their biggest “sugar” moment was an anklet and a lingering look. In “Sweetest Couple” polls, they usually came in second for this exact reason.

The fan had hesitated to post it, fearing backlash from “solo” fans of both stars. She shared it with a friend instead, who happened to be a Huai-Zhou shipper. The shipper got permission and posted it to the Super Topic, sending the fandom into a frenzy.

By the time Yuan saw it, “Huai-Zhou Hot Kiss” had rocketed into the mid-section of the trending searches.

“I swear on my life, it’s real. My friend even has a video, but she’s too scared to give it to me,” the fan explained online. “It’s definitely not photoshopped. Look at Xingzhou’s schedule—it matches perfectly.”

Yuan Xingzhou: “…”

He watched as his “private” schedule was dissected by fans contacting airline friends and scalpers. Within an hour, his entire trip was laid bare.

Li Yu and Li Yan both called.

“You two are for real?” Li Yu asked, his shock evident. “Well, that’s good. It removes a lot of risks.” Since Yuan had resigned, Li Yu had become much more polite, which Yuan found hard to get used to.

Li Yan was more direct. “Since you two are the real deal now, perfect. Qu Mai’s theme for the next round is ‘Love.’ He’s too young to be convincing on that topic, so you’ll record the material. I’ll give him your WeChat; discuss the song selection.”

The music variety show involved a guest partner. Yuan’s partner, Qu Mai, was the handsome young man he had met in the parking pool. Only twenty, Qu Mai was a “dark horse” at Bass Records, with a top-ten digital album under his belt.

Yuan looked at the competition—they were all heavy hitters. He felt a sudden wave of stage fright; he hadn’t had a proper solo stage since his debut.

Qu Mai sent a friend request and immediately began discussing the song.

“I’m picking from these few. The original is in D major. I’m familiar with the first one, but the last one is better for showing off technique,” Qu Mai said. “What do you think, Brother Yuan?”

“I’ll follow your lead,” Yuan said hurriedly. “You’re the professional. I just don’t want to hold you back.”

Qu Mai was just being polite; he proceeded to analyze every song. The director wouldn’t let him sing original songs, but Qu Mai wanted to weave his own elements into the arrangements.

Yuan was shocked to learn that Qu Mai did his own arrangements for the show. This wasn’t just “talented”—it was elite.

“Isn’t that standard? People like Yuan Cheng are the rare ones—humming a tune and calling it ‘original,’ making a short video and calling themselves a ‘producer,'” Qu Mai scoffed. “I heard a contestant is begging him to come as a guest, probably just for his brainless fans.”

Guest partners were either industry icons to gain judge votes or “hot” stars like Yuan and Yuan Cheng to gain fan support. Qu Mai didn’t know for sure if Yuan Cheng was coming, but Yuan Xingzhou knew if they both appeared, the show would explode. Their respective fanbases would start a war regardless of whether they interacted.

“I’ve heard the full version of your improv piece from Brother Pan,” Qu Mai said after they switched to a voice call.

Yuan froze.

“I want to arrange it into the song. Your jazz section would be a perfect bridge,” Qu Mai continued. “Only a part of it, but it overlaps with the section Yuan Cheng plagiarized. I wanted to ask your opinion.”

Yuan Xingzhou: “…”

Objectively, Yuan had performed the improv at a concert; there was video proof. He had the high ground. But Yuan Cheng’s fans were vicious. And when the group disbanded, the news of his marriage to Ye Huai had made him a target for all the group’s fans.

“I… I’m not sure,” Yuan hesitated. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” Qu Mai said. “It’s your work.”