"Where the hell did you disappear to without a word, Lin Qingyan? I've called dozens of times, and you finally pick up! Do you know the entire company has been searching for you? You think you can run away like a coward after causing this mess?" Li Heng, Lin Qingyan's manager, bellowed into the phone.
Lin's face remained impassive, dried tears still staining his cheeks, as he replied calmly: "Brother Li, believe it or not, the truth isn't what it seems. I'm innocent." The girl who'd "fallen" at the airport—her phone wallpaper was a photo of An Nanyi, and the "pregnant woman" had stuffed her clothes to fake a bump. This was all a setup, but explanations were futile. No one would believe him.
Even if he clarified, the damage was done. Like every scandal before, the public saw only what they chose to see. The truth mattered little; perception was reality in the court of public opinion.
Li Heng continued his rant, but Lin stood from the corner, cutting him off abruptly: "I'll book a flight back now. I'll take full responsibility for everything."
"Now, now, don't be like that. Of course I believe you," Li backtracked, voice softening. "But there's a brand event tomorrow night—you can't miss it, even if you're reluctant to appear in public…"
"I'll be there on time."
No one knew Lin had traveled to United States only to leave hours later, a fleeting shadow in the bustling airport. It was in the taxi to the airport that his phone rang with a call from his doctor:
"Mr. Lin, have you considered our proposal? The cerebral hematoma is compressing your nerves. Delaying surgery could lead to irreversible complications—or worse."
Lin leaned back, wearily closing his still-reddened eyes. He'd forgotten the fall down the stairs—no pain, just his assistant's panicked shout about the blood pooling from his scalp. "I'm sorry, I've been busy. I'll deal with it after my work is done."
"The most important work is preserving your life," the doctor urged, frustration lacing his tone. How could someone so young, with such promise, wear a smile that couldn't hide the darkness in his eyes?
Twenty-four years old—so much potential, yet Lin smiled bitterly. What future? He'd fought to climb a mountain of thorns, only to find the path blocked long ago.
The next evening, he stood on the stage of the mall event as scheduled. The audience buzzed with fans and curious onlookers, their chatter a dull roar as the host finished the opening remarks. It was time for his performance.
A gentle, melodic accompaniment filled the mall as the young man stepped into the spotlight, clad in a black silk shirt that draped elegantly over matching cropped trousers. The top two buttons remained undone, revealing a simple silver chain around his neck and a glimpse of his pale collarbone, adding a subtle allure to his otherwise pristine, refined appearance. Clad in black, his porcelain skin glowed, his lightly made-up features a striking blend of innocence and understated sex appeal—he seemed born to command the stage.
But as Lin Qingyan lifted the microphone to sing the first note, a storm of vitriol erupted from the audience:
"Ugly noise! Get off the stage!"
"How dare you show your face here, you shameless fraud!"
"Pretty boy with a rotten soul—you don't deserve to be a star!"
"That pregnant woman is still in the hospital, and you're here performing? Greedy and heartless!"
"Get out! Get out! GET OUT!"
The scornful jeers merged into a deafening chorus, drowning out the music. Spectators crowded closer, phones raised to film the spectacle. Lin stood frozen, his face ashen beneath the stage lights, eyes wide with panic as the mob's hatred bore down on him. His mind went blank, his murmured "It's not what you think…" swallowed by the tide of abuse. Even in his daze, he recognized the setup—An Nanyi's tactics hadn't evolved beyond cheap theatrics.
Then, a shrill scream: "Your face makes me sick!" A sealed soda can flew toward his head. He didn't flinch, too drained to evade, his grip on the mic trembling as he braced for impact. Instead, a tall figure surged forward, blocking the blow. In the last second before darkness, he fell into a warm, solid embrace, a subtle scent of cedar calming his frayed nerves.
He awoke in a hospital room at midnight, the harsh light making him squint. Alone in the silence, fragments of the attack replayed: the crowd's malice, the protective figure whose face he hadn't seen. A phone buzzed on the nightstand—dozens of missed calls, mostly from his mother, a few from Wen Yan, even An Nanyi. Lin knew better than to expect genuine concern there—just thinly veiled schadenfreude.
He tugged at his pale lips, answering the call with a soft, tentative "Mom…"
Surely, somewhere beneath the criticism and demands, there was still a mother's care left for him. Wasn't there?