Lu Zixiao’s eyes locked onto her with a stubborn intensity. Cheng Youran hesitated—what was the point of reasoning with a patient?

She leaned into his embrace, listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat. Hooking her arms around his neck, her fingertips met the heat of his skin, the warmth seeping all the way to her chest.

“I’m hugging you too,” she murmured.

Tilting her head up, she could only see the sharp, clean lines of his jaw from this angle.

Before she could say another word, Lu Zixiao’s hand moved up her back, pressing her tightly against him. Caught off guard, she found herself flush against his scorching body.

The world seemed to fall into silence. The only sound she could hear was the steady beat of his heart.

His voice was deeper than usual, almost hoarse, as he held her even closer.

“From now on, you can only hug me.”

Pressed against his chest, Cheng Youran struggled to breathe. But after hearing those words—breathing became even harder.

Lu Zixiao closed his eyes after speaking, his thick lashes casting a shadow over his face as he drifted into deep sleep.

It must have been just sleep-talk.

Cheng Youran hesitated at the thought. She tried to get up, but even in his dreams, Lu Zixiao held onto her tightly, showing no intention of letting go.

Suddenly, the door burst open, followed by hurried footsteps.

“Sister Youran, it’s time for your scene—oh no, I shouldn’t have come in!”

Xiao Su had barely stepped inside before freezing at the sight in front of her—Cheng Youran lying against Lu Zixiao, his arms locked firmly around her. Her face instantly turned red, and she spun around at lightning speed.

But before she could step out, Cheng Youran called after her.

“Xiao Su, come give me a hand.”

Give her a hand?

Xiao Su turned back, eyes wide with alarm. Her voice trembled. “Sister Youran, I work hard, but I don’t sell my body!”

Cheng Youran looked utterly baffled. “…Who asked you to sell your body?”

With Xiao Su’s help, Cheng Youran finally managed to climb off the bed. After tucking the blanket securely around Lu Zixiao, she immediately dialed 120.

Fortunately, the film set was in a county town, less than a thirty-minute drive from the county hospital. The ambulance arrived quickly.

After a brief examination, one of the doctors gave a preliminary diagnosis while the rest of the medical staff efficiently lifted Lu Zixiao onto the stretcher and carried him into the ambulance.

“Doctor, it’s not serious, is it?”

Cheng Youran hadn’t been too worried at first, but now, seeing Lu Zixiao lying pale on the stretcher and the medical staff’s solemn expressions behind their masks, she suddenly felt uncertain.

“Most likely acute gastroenteritis,” the doctor replied coolly before stepping into the ambulance.

Cheng Youran: …So Lu Zixiao really can’t handle spicy food.

The sharp, rhythmic wail of the ambulance siren echoed through the set, drawing everyone’s attention. Fang Liuyun approached with concern.

“Is President Lu okay? He seemed fine yesterday.”

Cheng Youran had planned to reassure her that it wasn’t serious, but before she could say anything, Fang Liuyun hesitated for a moment before awkwardly advising, “You two should really take better care of yourselves.”

Yeah, they really should take better care of their health.

Cheng Youran watched as the ambulance disappeared into the distance, sighing to herself. But then, something clicked.

Wait—what did Fang Liuyun mean by you two should take better care of yourselves?

She immediately became alert. “What does this have to do with me?”

Xiao Su leaned in. “President Lu was carried out from your bed.”

Cheng Youran: …………

She suddenly felt the need to defend her reputation. Clearing her throat, she explained, “I went back to my room after filming last night. Lu Zixiao was already asleep.”

Right at that moment, a fellow actress walked by, giving her a knowing look.

Cheng Youran: …………

She decided to make one last effort to explain.

“You guys have no idea how hardworking Lu Zixiao is. When I got back after filming last night, he was already asleep.”

“I turned on the light, and he woke up. He sat up in bed, opened his laptop, and said, ‘I can still work.’ The next morning, when I woke up, he was still staring at the screen—but his whole body was stiff. I panicked and shook him awake.”

“But he didn’t respond at all. I was so scared I called 120, crying the whole time.” Cheng Youran’s voice wavered with emotion as she wiped the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “Xiao Su, you saw it, didn’t you?”

Xiao Su blinked in confusion. Something felt off about this story, but… technically, it did seem to match the events she witnessed. So she nodded hesitantly.

The others were momentarily stunned into silence. Especially Fang Liuyun, who lifted her gaze to the sky as if processing what she’d just heard.

Just then, the crisp sound of applause echoed behind Cheng Youran.

She turned to find a journalist in a plaid shirt, holding a camera. At some point, they had quietly approached, their eyes slightly red.

“Success doesn’t come without reason,” the reporter said, voice filled with admiration. “I came to the set for an interview, and I never expected to hear such an inspiring story. How is President Lu doing now?” She pulled out a notepad and pen, ready to document the moving tale.

“Him?”

All eyes were on Cheng Youran. She paused for a moment before continuing, “The doctor said he stayed up working late. If we hadn’t found him in time… he would have died suddenly.”

Died suddenly…

Died…

Fang Liuyun kept staring at the sky, struggling to suppress her laughter.

Xiao Su gasped in shock. In a hushed voice, she asked, “Sister Youran, maybe we should stop filming and go to the hospital? That seems more important.”

If they delayed any longer, they might not even get to see him one last time.

But, considering Cheng Youran’s emotions, she swallowed the rest of that thought.

“I want to go too,” Cheng Youran sighed, her eyes subtly reddening. With a slightly nasal tone, she said, “But the last thing Lu Zixiao told me was, ‘Youran, you have to work hard.’”

“In that moment, I thought—I can’t let him down.”

She turned to Xiao Su, her gaze full of unspoken emotion.

“Xiao Su, don’t you think so?”

Xiao Su’s eyes turned red as she nodded fervently.

The journalist was visibly moved, scribbling furiously in her notebook.

Not far away, Zhang Ping watched Cheng Youran with a rare look of satisfaction in his eyes.

The cinematographer, adjusting the equipment, followed his gaze and spotted Cheng Youran, who seemed to be struggling to contain her emotions. He sighed gravely, “Looks like President Lu’s condition is really serious.”

Zhang Ping shook his head.

If it were that serious, they wouldn’t have sent him to a county hospital.

“I have a feeling today’s shoot is going to go very smoothly,” Zhang Ping said, flipping open the script with a knowing smile.

The cinematographer wasn’t convinced. “I trust Film Emperor Yan, sure—but Cheng Youran’s performance is all over the place. You can’t say that with certainty.”

Zhang Ping smirked. “Wanna bet on it?”

Zhang Ping set down his script and patted the cinematographer’s shoulder. “If you lose, let me have a go with the camera.”

The cinematographer immediately pushed his hand away and clutched the camera protectively. “Forget it. If I let you shoot, who knows how much film you’d waste?”

Zhang Ping was notoriously demanding when it came to visuals. If his debut film hadn’t been Tibetan Antelope, he doubted he would have won any awards—there were simply too many visually stunning but narratively unnecessary shots.

The investors had even threatened to pull their funding more than once during post-production.

“Alright, everyone, get ready!”

Seeing that it was about time, Zhang Ping clapped his hands, signaling the crew to take their positions. The cinematographer adjusted the camera, making sure everything was set.

Because of Zhang Ping’s comment, he paid extra attention to Cheng Youran’s performance today.

To the cinematographer’s surprise, Cheng Youran seemed like a completely different person. Every scene was a one-take success, and she even made up for all the delayed shots from the previous day.

To be fair, her acting wasn’t top-tier, but her rate of improvement was exceptionally rare.

Promising.

That was the word that suddenly came to mind.

In stark contrast stood Xu Chi. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that even with his minimal lines and mostly shared screen time with other actors, he had a certain… presence.

A presence that made it painfully obvious he was the weakest actor in the room.

“That’s a wrap for the afternoon! Extras, come get your meal boxes!” the assistant director shouted from the top of the stairs, speaking into a megaphone.

Cheng Youran’s posture instantly relaxed. She leaned against the wall and tugged at her school uniform. Xiao Su quickly handed her a bottle of water.

“What time is it?”

Cheng Youran paused, her hand resting on the bottle cap.

“Almost seven.”

Xiao Su glanced nervously at her phone, unsure if Mr. Lu was still around. Should she go ahead and order a wreath on Taobao just in case?

“Let’s go. Change clothes and head to the hospital.”

Cheng Youran sipped the water as she walked.

If she didn’t show up soon, she figured… Lu Zixiao would probably stay mad at her for a long time.

“Cheng Youran.”

Suddenly, someone called out to her from behind.

Cheng Youran turned around and saw Yan Junze. He was still wearing his school uniform, which he hadn’t had time to change, and silently handed her a bouquet of blue baby’s breath.

Cheng Youran accepted the bouquet. “What’s this for?”

“It’s for the patient,” he said before heading down the stairs, accompanied by his manager.

“Thank you,” Cheng Youran called after him.

Yan Junze’s manager sighed. “Lu Zixiao is practically on his deathbed. The least you can do is show a little concern.”

Yan Junze nodded lightly.

…

Lincheng County Hospital.

Gao Qiao pushed open the door to the hospital room, the sharp scent of disinfectant lingering in the air. “Mr. Lu, there are reporters requesting an interview with you.”

Lu Zixiao was hooked up to an IV in his left hand, while his right hand casually flipped through an old newspaper on the bedside table. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and said coldly, “It’s already seven.”

“Seven-oh-one,” Gao Qiao corrected cautiously after checking the clock.

He was used to it by now—really.

Ever since Mr. Lu had woken up that afternoon, he’d been keeping a close eye on the clock. At every hour on the dot, he’d make a point of announcing the time, all while looking increasingly displeased.

He couldn’t help but wonder… was Mr. Lu secretly a cuckoo in disguise?

Gao Qiao took a deep breath and continued, “The reporter said she interviewed your wife first. Seeing how upset she was, crying her heart out, really moved her, so she wanted to interview you as well.”

He didn’t expect Mr. Lu to agree. After all, Mr. Lu rarely liked giving interviews, and this one was from some obscure little magazine.

“Let her in,” Lu Zixiao said unexpectedly, lowering his gaze to hide the emotions flickering in his eyes.

Gao Qiao hesitated for a second. “…Understood.”

It wasn’t long before the reporter knocked on the door and stepped into the room, a camera hanging around her neck.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview,” she said, raising her camera and snapping two quick shots of the man lying on the hospital bed.

She finally understood why her colleagues in the gossip department were so relentless in chasing after Lu Zixiao—he was simply photogenic from every angle.

Even while looking ill, with an IV in his left hand, his striking appearance remained undiminished, enhanced instead by a fragile, almost ethereal charm.

“You said she cried?”

Lu Zixiao closed the newspaper in his hands and asked calmly.

“Yes,” the reporter answered quickly. “Your wife’s tears started falling on the spot. It was heartbreaking just to watch.”

“What drives your passion for work?” The reporter took out a voice recorder. “After all, it’s well known that you’re the sole heir of the Lu Group. You wouldn’t actually need to push yourself so hard…”

Lu Zixiao fell silent.

Was that question a bit too deep? The reporter grew nervous at the thought. She tapped her head lightly—she really should’ve eased into it with simpler questions first.

“How did she cry?”

Reporter: ??!

=^_^=