The moment I spoke, I clearly saw Arthur's eyes flicker with panic.
Sylvia panicked too—if I vomited in this car, her carefully curated image would be collateral damage.
She tugged my sleeve, hissing in my ear:
"Xiao Yi, just... endure it."
?
I leaned in and whispered back: "Suck it."
Sylvia stared at me, eyes instantly glassy:
"How could you say that to me…?"
Oh please. You think you own the White Lotus playbook?
Channeling my "refusing overtime" office演技, I slumped backward with a theatrical moan:
"Sylvia... so sorry... this car's suspension must be defective... I'm dying here... Best friends forgive each other, right?"
For good measure, I pulled a tissue and dabbed at nonexistent tears.
Arthur snapped: "Vomit bag. Now."
The butler materialized an airline-issued bag (branded "XX Airways"). Huh. Even A-list stars recycle.
Miraculously, I never actually threw up.
By the time we pulled up at the film company, my "carsickness" had vanished.
In the original plot, Arthur would've given Sylvia his private number here.
This time? His tires screeched away before Sylvia's door fully closed.
She shot me a wounded look: "Xiao Yi—"
"Cured! Let's go!" I chirped, revitalized.
A flash of genuine anger crossed her face.