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Chapter 11: A Lonely Star’s Tears (1)
The next morning, Xu Zhiyi had two open classes to teach.
She was stunned the moment she reached the classroom door by the mountain of gifts piled up on the lectern.
“Today’s not my birthday, right?” she muttered as she walked in. It wasn’t even Christmas yet.
Just as she stepped into the room, the packed classroom erupted into cheers.
Since when had she become this popular among students? She frowned, trying to make sense of the noisy chatter, already feeling a headache coming on.
It turned out that last night, amidst envious gazes, she had “luckily” drawn the winning ticket to attend a dinner with “Music Demon King Shen Si.”
She had immediately tried to give the ticket to Jiang Chunyi, but the organizers said the prize could only be forfeited, not transferred.
She had just laughed it off and forgotten about it.
But thanks to the livestream, her lectern was now buried under a pile of gifts from students asking her to deliver them to their idol.
She hadn’t realized so many of her students were fans of Shen Si. In her mind, biology majors should care more about microscopic reality than superficial appearances.
But clearly, even though everyone is made of cells, some cell structures were more “gifted” than others.
Shen Si’s cells had formed a national idol.
Xu Zhiyi looked at the pile of gifts, caught between laughter and tears. She insisted she wasn’t even going to the dinner and asked the students to reclaim their gifts.
In response, she was met with tearful, pleading eyes from the girls.
Even Dean Wang, who happened to pass by, popped his head in to say, “Professor Xu, please get an autograph for my daughter, okay?”
She felt like she’d been forced into a heist she never planned.
Especially when she saw a huge bouquet of white chrysanthemums wrapped in festive red paper. She couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sure I won’t get kicked out if I show up with this?”
The girl who sent the flowers stood up hesitantly and explained that, due to time constraints, the only white flowers at the florist near campus were chrysanthemums.
Shen Si had grown up in England and probably didn’t know what white chrysanthemums implied in Chinese culture.
Xu Zhiyi shook her head in resignation. “Well, if I get thrown out, I’m keeping all the gifts!”
The classroom erupted in cheers again. Someone even shouted, “Long live Professor Xu!”
Xu Zhiyi laughed wryly to herself. Who knew she’d need Shen Si’s name to win such love?
After finishing her classes, Xu Zhiyi realized she had caught a cold—courtesy of last night’s lightly dressed Shen Si fans.
Feeling feverish, she skipped lunch and collapsed onto her dorm bed, unable to move.
She slept straight through to dusk. Dragging herself up, she took a hot shower to steam her blocked sinuses. Then she opened her medicine kit, mixed a packet of cold medicine, and drank it.
Looking at the gray sky outside and then at her worn black coat hanging on the wall, along with the chunky brown turtleneck sweater draped over the chair, she felt the urge to sigh heavily again.
She reluctantly opened her wardrobe and chose the thickest dark gray sweater she owned, layered a light pearl-gray wool coat over it, wrapped a long black scarf around her neck three and a half times until half her face was hidden, then put on a charcoal gray wool hat. Hugging the pile of gifts, she wobbled out the door.
In the blink of an eye, night had fallen.
As she kicked open the dorm’s glass door, a gust of wind mixed with fine rain cut right through her. If her face hadn’t already been buried in her scarf, she might have choked.
This kind of ghostly weather called for a warm bed and hot chocolate. In her head, she cursed Shen Si at least 180 times before she felt a bit better.
After a few steps, she saw her neighbor Zhu Ling gracefully approaching in five-inch heels. They were both researchers in the same lab, but somehow Zhu Ling always managed to look polished and pretty—unlike her, forever gray and disheveled.
“Off to your hot date with the superstar? I didn’t think you were the fangirl type, Professor Xu!” Zhu Ling raised an eyebrow at the gifts in her arms, pausing. “Didn’t see you at the lab this afternoon.”
“Caught a cold—” came Xu Zhiyi’s stuffy voice from inside the scarf. “No progress lately anyway. Might as well rest.”
“Running around begging for sponsors, and it made you sick?” Zhu Ling said sweetly, as if the unpleasantness between them a few nights ago had never happened. “I’ve got some cold meds—though they don’t work much.”
“Took mine already,” Xu Zhiyi replied curtly, not in the mood for chit-chat.
“Oh? Not toughing it out this time? No effort to dress up for your date?” Zhu Ling teased, eyeing her plain outfit.
Xu Zhiyi shrank deeper into her coat. She really wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “I’m going to be late.”
Zhu Ling gave her a meaningful smile. “Go on then… see you tomorrow.”
Xu Zhiyi smiled bitterly and pulled her coat tighter.
When it came to hot money, no industry had more of it than entertainment. Since Shen Si was clearly paying attention to her, she figured she should at least give it a shot.
Whatever he was curious about—or wanted—so long as it didn’t cross her bottom line, getting funding for her research would count as a win.
When Xiao Gu met Xu Zhiyi at the restaurant entrance, he was startled.
Plenty of fans brought gifts, but it was the first time a professor had arrived with so many it nearly buried her.
“Professor Xu, that’s very generous of you,” he said, quickly signaling staff to help.
“I’m just running errands for my students. Nothing to do with me,” she replied calmly.
Shen Si wore a polite smile the whole time, interacting graciously with his fans. But inside, he was in a foul mood—who wouldn’t be, waking up to find every major site listing you as “the male celebrity most anticipated by gay fans” and “most likely to be bent”?
And now—being handed a blindingly white bouquet of chrysanthemums—he hit rock bottom.
Was this professor here for dinner… or sabotage?
Seeing his reaction to the flowers, Xu Zhiyi knew she was in trouble. She quickly explained, “These gifts, including the flowers, are all from my students…”
Noticing his thick eyebrows still furrowed, she added, “Want me to throw them out for you?”
“No need! Xiao Gu—” Shen Si shoved the bouquet into Xiao Gu’s arms and muttered, “Toss it. Far away.”
Thankfully, Shen Si didn’t make things difficult for her. He simply had someone show her to a seat. Xu Zhiyi sighed in relief and settled herself in the most inconspicuous corner. The moment her back touched the chair, it felt like her soul returned to her body.
The French restaurant was lively but not noisy. Under Zhou Wen’s gracious coordination, everything went smoothly.
Shen Si had been born in London, raised in the city’s damp fog. One entertainment journalist who didn’t like him once said that though he was ethnically Chinese, his blood carried British arrogance. Even his flawless smile was cold and polite—lacking sincerity or warmth.
Though showbiz was like a glamorous robe full of lice, everyone in it wore a mask for so long that they forgot their true face.
Right now, Shen Si wore a perfect, unassailable smile, chatting with his fans.
Well—not all the fans.
Because Xu Zhiyi was sitting there… falling asleep over her plate of herb-seasoned filet mignon.
Yes, her head nodded slightly, eyes half-shut—she was truly dozing off.
Xu Zhiyi hadn’t meant to.
The cold medicine had a mysterious side effect: it dulled her thoughts and made her eyelids unbearably heavy.
She had tried to tell herself, Just one second. Just a quick rest. I’ll open my eyes right away… But against the drug’s power, her will was no match.
She was seated in a shadowy corner, right under the crystal chandelier. Its light cast a soft haze, hiding her face—making her almost invisible.
Almost.
Because Shen Si, under the influence of the prophecy, had secretly focused all his attention on her.
He gave Zhou Wen a subtle glance, then another toward Xu Zhiyi.
Zhou Wen immediately understood, got up without a word, and gently tapped Xu Zhiyi’s shoulder.
She jolted upright, suddenly awake.
Seeing Zhou Wen’s concerned look, she was overwhelmed with embarrassment. She had actually fallen asleep—right in front of the media.
She pinched herself hard, and her eyes instantly welled up with tears. Zhou Wen, misinterpreting it as shame, didn’t have the heart to scold her and quietly returned to her seat.
The rest of the meal, Xu Zhiyi forced herself to stay alert, stuffing herself to keep her mind busy.
While Shen Si smiled and chatted, he watched her silently.
All the other female fans had dressed to the nines—makeup, outfits, every smile practiced to perfection.
Only Xu Zhiyi had almost no presence. Gray sweater, gray coat, black scarf. Nothing about her drew attention. Her face was bare, without a hint of makeup. And she kept her head down, saying nothing, staring at her plate like the grilled lobster was far more interesting than Shen Si.
The usually unbeatable Shen Si felt a little defeated.
How was he supposed to get close to her—and complete the task the prophet had given him—if he couldn’t even get a line in her story?