Seeing his expression, Pei Qingjian understood everything.
Lan Xingchen argued, “I didn’t say to him that we’re just friends.”
“Didn’t you?” Pei Qingjian asked. “When you called Zhang Zong earlier, you said we’re just friends.”
Lan Xingchen: … Fine, he had said that.
“Then I’ve exposed myself too,” Pei Qingjian admitted. “Everything that should be said, and shouldn’t, I said it all.”
Pei Qingjian: !!!
“For example, that you’re my sugar daddy?”
Lan Xingchen: ……
“For example, forbidding you from filming kissing scenes!”
Pei Qingjian finally relaxed. Thankfully, to Zhou Pengyue, they now appeared to be just a normal male-male couple.
“This drama doesn’t have any kissing scenes,” Pei Qingjian said with a smile.
Lan Xingchen snorted. “No kissing, just deep master-servant affection!”
He looked at Pei Qingjian, gritting his teeth at the words “deep affection.”
Pei Qingjian: ……
He couldn’t help but laugh at how sour Lan Xingchen sounded over this.
“So sour~” Pei Qingjian teased. “Did Zhou Ge put lemons in the car?”
Lan Xingchen: ……
He turned away, pouting, and focused on driving.
Pei Qingjian watched him and leaned close, smiling softly. “Here.”
Lan Xingchen lowered his head. Pei Qingjian took the opportunity to pop a candy into his mouth.
“My makeup artist gave it to me, said it’s super sweet. Sweet?”
Hearing his voice and seeing his expectant eyes, Lan Xingchen finally smiled faintly. “Not bad.”
“Just one piece,” Pei Qingjian said, blinking. “I couldn’t even bring myself to eat it, so it’s yours.”
His tone was sweet and soft, lightly stirring Lan Xingchen’s heart.
Lan Xingchen looked into his pure eyes, spellbound, and stopped the car.
Pei Qingjian, puzzled, was about to ask, but Lan Xingchen cupped the back of his head—and in the next moment, kissed him.
The candy’s sweetness melted into Pei Qingjian’s mouth, and Lan Xingchen kissed him slowly, lingering before finally ending the sweet kiss.
“I share it with you,” he said.
Pei Qingjian’s cheeks flushed immediately.
The taste of candy lingered in his mouth, accompanied by the memory of the kiss—both intoxicating and heart-racing.
Pei Qingjian turned to look out the window but couldn’t hide his sly smile.
Lan Xingchen noticed, smiled faintly, and didn’t speak, restarting the car.
When they arrived at the scenic spot, they finally got out.
One was a regular person; the other an 18th-tier minor celebrity with barely any fame. Neither bothered to wear masks, blending in with other tourists, exploring the sights, taking photos.
This was Pei Qingjian’s first outing in this world in nearly two months, and his mood couldn’t have been better.
Standing on the bridge, he took out his phone. “Let’s take a selfie.”
Lan Xingchen agreed, standing next to him and playfully forming two “V” shapes on Pei Qingjian’s head like rabbit ears.
Pei Qingjian laughed at the gesture, the curve of his lips illuminated by Lan Xingchen’s gentle gaze—beautiful and captivating.
They wandered, explored, and played until sunset, only then reluctantly heading back.
“How long can you stay?” Pei Qingjian asked.
“Three or five days,” Lan Xingchen replied.
Pei Qingjian brightened. “So long!”
Lan Xingchen, smug, said, “Of course. I’ve worked hard for so long. Now that they’re back, it’s time to rest properly.”
“Then tomorrow we can go out again, visit the spots we missed today.”
“Sure,” Lan Xingchen agreed.
“I can’t take too much time off, so we’ll have to wait until filming ends,” Pei Qingjian said apologetically.
Lan Xingchen had come mainly to accompany him—visiting sights, watching him work, it was all the same to him.
“No worries. Work comes first. Finish filming, then I’ll take you out.”
His words were like a parent coaxing a child: “Do your homework first, then we’ll play.”
Pei Qingjian blushed, a shy, delighted smile creeping onto his face.
After a brief laugh, he asked, “Nothing happened these past few days while I was gone, right?”
“Nope,” Lan Xingchen said. “Though I heard Tang Wenzhen’s mom might have been hospitalized.”
Pei Qingjian nodded. “No wonder he hasn’t shown up recently.”
He had thought Tang Wenzhen might have tried to bother him during filming while Lan Xingchen was away.
It looked like things would stay quiet for a while.
But then again, Tang Wenzhen was the protagonist’s top rival, destined to fall in love with the main character. In the book, their relationship had already accelerated rapidly after returning to the country—so the timing matched.
Pei Qingjian calculated that with Tang Wenzhen’s mother in the hospital, Tang Wenzhen would be anxious and restless. Xu Jianian could stay by his side, taking care of him, showing concern—and naturally, feelings would develop over time.
Perfect. Let nature take its course.
“And what about Xu Ya?” Pei Qingjian asked.
“Same as before you left,” Lan Xingchen replied.
“So, clocking in on time at work?”
Exactly. Pei Qingjian nodded. Xu Ya’s value right now was entirely in his labor.
“And you? Looks like you’re getting along well with that Lord Kong,” Lan Xingchen teased, voice dripping with irony.
Pei Qingjian chuckled lightly. “You know, Song Ge helped me, and he’s a senior. During rehearsals, he corrects me sometimes, so I respect him.”
“Respect?” Lan Xingchen raised an eyebrow.
Pei Qingjian laughed. “I also respect you.”
Lan Xingchen squinted at him. “Respect?!”
“Well, then… love?”
“Love?!”
“Love! Love! Enough with the respect—just love, okay?”
Lan Xingchen couldn’t believe the things he dared to say!
Could their relationship even be called love?!
Clearly, it was friendship!
…Well, friendship was a kind of love, too.
Feeling slightly uneasy, Lan Xingchen cleared his throat to change the topic. “What about Yang Hao? Anything else from her?”
“Nope,” Pei Qingjian shook his head. “I don’t really interact with her, so I doubt she even notices me anymore.”
After all, he was just the fourth male lead!
Completely ordinary, unremarkable, fourth male lead!
Who would bother keeping tabs on the fourth male lead day after day?
Yet soon, he realized that while others might ignore him, Yang Hao certainly wouldn’t.
Because she was starting to stir trouble again.
It happened the night after Lan Xingchen arrived. That evening, Zhou Pengyue received the shoot schedule for the next morning.
The schedule included “revisions”—scenes not in the original script, whether added, adjusted, or shortened.
This was normal. Many directors and scriptwriters adjusted content on set based on actor traits or unforeseen circumstances during filming to ensure the drama looked its best.
At first, Pei Qingjian and Zhou Pengyue didn’t pay much attention.
The revisions adjusted three scenes: Kong Mingxiu with the female lead, Qin Yuyu with the female lead, and Tan Xin with Kong Mingxiu.
Tan Xin’s scene was minimally altered—just a few lines cut, and his posture changed from standing directly in front of Kong Mingxiu to hiding in the rafters, unseen.
Pei Qingjian didn’t understand the purpose of this change.
But since the scriptwriter made it, he assumed there was reasoning behind it. Questioning it recklessly would make him seem distrustful.
So Pei Qingjian and Zhou Pengyue did nothing and just filmed it as revised.
However, the next day, he received another set of revisions—this time affecting the third male lead, the second female lead, and himself.
The second female lead got extra lines; the third male lead had some lines adjusted; Pei Qingjian, however, had parts of his lines cut, and his actions changed from sitting beside Kong Mingxiu to bending over with his back turned, tidying things.
Pei Qingjian frowned. “What’s this about?”
He couldn’t understand the purpose. The scene’s content hadn’t changed; his cuts eliminated much of Tan Xin’s concern for Kong Mingxiu, and the posture change made the scenes meaningless for him.
To put it bluntly, if he weren’t dedicated, he wouldn’t even need to appear on set.
Hidden in the rafters, unseen—only his voice mattered; he could dub it later.
Back turned to Kong Mingxiu? A stand-in could handle that—no one would see his face.
If it weren’t for the requirement of original audio, Pei Qingjian could have even skipped post-production entirely, letting the crew use any voice actor while he relaxed and got paid.
Pei Qingjian looked at Zhou Pengyue, slowly expressing his concerns.
Zhou Pengyue said nothing. At first glance, these revisions wouldn’t even draw attention to Pei Qingjian—many actors’ parts were altered, and he wasn’t among the most changed.
But Pei Qingjian’s minimal changes weren’t because he was overlooked—they were because he already had far fewer lines and scenes than the main cast. The space to manipulate was tiny.
The key point: these changes almost erased his screen time entirely.
How could an actor gain fans without appearing on camera?
No matter how good his acting or how handsome he was, if the camera never filmed him, how could audiences notice him?
He wasn’t an actor—he was effectively a voice actor.
Zhou Pengyue immediately suspected one person—Yang Hao.
She always worked this way, never giving her hand directly. You had to think a bit before realizing the problem stemmed from her.
“Wait here. I’ll go check with the scriptwriter,” Zhou Pengyue said.
He needed to confirm it was Yang Hao before confronting her.
Zhou Pengyue got up to find the scriptwriter, while on the other side, Song Ye arrived first and knocked on Yang Hao’s door.
Yang Hao, in the middle of negotiating with a brand on Zhou Bin’s business, hung up when she heard the knock. Opening the door, she was surprised to see Song Ye.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Song Ye held the newly issued script revisions. “What’s going on here?”
Pei Qingjian’s scene partner happened to be him, so the revised shoot schedule had also been sent to him—to prevent any mistakes on set the next morning due to Pei Qingjian’s lines being cut.
However, Yang Hao, mindful that he was the male lead, hadn’t dared to alter his scenes.
Thus, she didn’t feel guilty when confronted.
“This isn’t just a schedule?” she smiled. “You’ve been filming for so long; it’s not your first time receiving one.”
Song Ye stepped into her office and slammed the door, voice sharp. “You know exactly what I mean. Enough of this—about the makeup changes earlier, I didn’t confront you, but do you think I didn’t notice anything at all?”
Yang Hao, of course, thought he hadn’t noticed.
She had even pretended after the shoot that day, claiming that as the male lead, Song Ye shouldn’t meddle in minor things, or else he’d come across as overbearing.
Back then, how had Song Ye responded?
Nothing. Just a calm, cold gaze out the window.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yang Hao denied, “Changing makeup was the makeup team’s issue. Like this schedule, it’s the scriptwriter’s problem—what does it have to do with me? Why are you coming at me?”
Song Ye, of course, knew she wouldn’t admit it.
She didn’t need to. Even if he asked, the makeup team and scriptwriter wouldn’t reveal it was under her direction.
They were just crew members—they had no authority and wouldn’t challenge her.
“Yang Hao, I don’t mind you boosting Zhou Bin’s career. You gave him extra scenes and cut almost all my romantic highlights—I was displeased, but since I accepted the role, I let it go. But now, why are you targeting Pei Qingjian?”
“You’re so afraid he’ll steal Zhou Bin’s spotlight? If even a minor character like him can overshadow Zhou Bin, then Zhou Bin isn’t all that. You and Xingyun should pick someone else to boost.”
Yang Hao frowned. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t? Fine, I’ll spell it out.”
“Pei Qingjian’s scenes cannot be touched. Not a single one!”
“You wanted Zhou Bin to rise at my expense. I’ve already provided him with a free boost, so I won’t take the blame anymore.”
“When did I ever make you take the blame?” Yang Hao asked, confused.
“What you’re doing now—and what you did before—was all making me take the blame!”
“You had the makeup team alter Pei Qingjian’s look—they didn’t think you were doing it for Zhou Bin. They thought it was me, as the male lead, afraid he’d upstage me. Especially since nearly 80% of his scenes with the lead involve me!”
“Now you’ve got the scriptwriter cutting his lines and hiding him from the camera. When the show airs and fans notice it differs from the original story, they’ll blame me—the co-lead and male lead—not you or Zhou Bin!”
“So I’m not just giving him free boosts for Zhou Bin; I’m taking the blame for things I didn’t do, so Zhou Bin’s rise looks smoother. You really know how to use people—you’d practically dismantle my body to feed him, right?!”
Yang Hao hadn’t expected him to say this.
Yes, she did want Zhou Bin’s rise to go smoothly, so she had chosen to sacrifice Pei Qingjian.
But she never intended for Song Ye to bear any blame.
Her feelings for him were complicated and hard to let go. She resented him for rejecting her as his manager, but the reason was her love—her desire to always stand by him.
Because of that affection, her anger toward him intensified, which led her to dig the “Drunken Moon” pit for him to fall into.
She brazenly used Song Ye to boost Zhou Bin.
But she never meant for him to shoulder the blame.
“I didn’t intend for you to take this on,” she said. “I just wanted to temper Pei Qingjian’s spotlight a bit.”
“But what you’re doing now… is exactly that,” Song Ye said.
Yang Hao remained silent.
Song Ye looked at her. “Restore those two scenes, and don’t touch his parts again.”
Yang Hao stayed quiet, not agreeing.
Song Ye sneered. “See? You still claim you didn’t want me to take the blame?”
Hearing his voice, Yang Hao softened. She looked at him, only able to see mockery and disappointment in his eyes.
When had it come to this?
How had it come to this?
They had started as the best partners, trusting each other.
“You’re not renewing your contract—planning to start your own studio?”
“None of your business,” Song Ye said coldly.
“If I quit too, would we have a chance?”
“No,” Song Ye said. “In this lifetime, we’ll never work together again.”
Yang Hao smiled.
She knew it would be like this. Song Ye had decided to part ways with her; no matter how hard she tried, he wouldn’t turn back.
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll have the scriptwriter restore the scenes.”
“I said I didn’t want you to take the blame—I didn’t lie.”
“Good.”
Song Ye turned and left, unwilling to linger another second.
Yang Hao watched the door close, realizing he had already suspected her long ago but hadn’t said a word.
He had already treated her as nothing.
Yang Hao sighed. She hadn’t intended for Song Ye to take the blame; in that, she hadn’t lied.
But filming—what did that matter?
What really mattered was whether it would make it to the final cut and be seen by the audience.
She hadn’t lied to Song Ye, but she couldn’t allow Pei Qingjian to influence Zhou Bin’s rise.
So Pei Qingjian’s content would inevitably be cut.
The only difference was whether it would be cut now or later.
Yang Hao smiled faintly and went to the sofa, resuming her call with the brand.
“How’s it going?” Pei Qingjian stood as he saw Zhou Pengyue return.
“It’s her,” Zhou Pengyue frowned.
Although the scriptwriter hadn’t directly mentioned Yang Hao, just the hint was enough to reveal her expression.
He was thinking about how to negotiate with Yang Hao when Pei Qingjian’s phone rang.
He picked it up, his expression shifting slightly. “Song Ge said not to worry—he’s taken care of it. Tomorrow’s scene will follow the original script, yesterday’s scene will be reshot, and nothing like this will happen again.”
Zhou Pengyue asked curiously, “How did he know? Did you tell him?”
Pei Qingjian shook his head. “No. He probably got the revised schedule too—after all, he’s my scene partner.”
Zhou Pengyue nodded. True. If Song Ye received it, noticed the changes, and went after Yang Hao, that wouldn’t be impossible.
He exhaled a brief sigh of relief.
But they had only been filming ten days, and Yang Hao had already caused two incidents. Who knew what else she might do?
They couldn’t rely on Song Ye every time. Once was his good temper, twice might be his fondness for Pei Qingjian, but would he help a third, fourth, or fifth time?
Especially since Song Ye wouldn’t always be able to intervene in post-production. A man about to leave Xingyun couldn’t exactly meddle in its editing.
At that thought, Zhou Pengyue glanced silently at Lan Xingchen sitting beside Pei Qingjian.
Pei Qingjian followed his gaze to look at Lan Xingchen.
Zhou Pengyue smiled. “President Lan, I want to talk to Yang Hao, but my position is weak. She might not take me seriously, so… could I borrow your name?”
Lan Xingchen silently thought, oh, it’s his turn.
He lifted a corner of his mouth, voice dripping with disdain. “Her? I doubt she deserves to hear my name.”
Zhou Pengyue: ???
Pei Qingjian: ???
“But if we don’t confront her directly, she might try other methods in post-production,” Zhou Pengyue hurriedly reasoned, thinking Lan Xingchen refused.
Lan Xingchen looked at him. “Fine. You go rest. I’ll handle this.”
“That’s a relief,” Zhou Pengyue finally relaxed.
Pei Qingjian watched him leave, curious. Once he was gone, he leaned toward Lan Xingchen. “So, what are you going to do?”
Lan Xingchen’s expression was calm. “Some people understand reason—they’ll hear reason. Others don’t—they don’t need to hear it.”
Pei Qingjian: ???
“So… what exactly are you doing?”
Can you speak human language for once?
Lan Xingchen pinched his face. “It’s late. Time for your shower.”