Jiang Mu sent Liang Yan a screenshot of the CP supertopic, with three neatly lined-up pairings:
[Yan, I bow to you.]
Liang Yan’s eyelid twitched as she stared at it: [What’s that supposed to mean?]
Jiang Mu: [You’re the first person to ship this many CPs without getting torn apart or cursed out.]
Jiang Mu: [I even had PR drafts and marketing accounts ready to smooth things over, but turns out you didn’t need any of it.]
Liang Yan: [………………]
Sometimes CP chemistry was just… mysterious. Plenty of people in the industry tried to force pairings, but most of the time it backfired. A fake ship usually looked awkward no matter how you cut it—especially if one side was suspected of leeching off the other’s popularity. Fans hated that kind of thing. If the match didn’t feel right to begin with, shoving it in people’s faces only made them more annoyed.
But Liang Yan was different. She never forced it, yet somehow, whoever stood next to her, it just worked. With Yan Zhun, she had the status of “Lu Lincheng’s wife,” so no one could accuse her of clout-chasing. Later, Xu Jiafan and Zhou Yuqi weren’t even as popular as she was, so the heat-leeching narrative didn’t apply either. Fans just thought the pairings looked good, pleasing to the eye. Who doesn’t like watching a handsome boy and a pretty girl share a frame? So instead of backlash, there was praise.
Once On Screen finished airing, the show officially entered a one-week online voting phase.
Although Liang Yan’s on-site score from the judges hadn’t been high—thanks to the onstage accident—her short drama with Zhou Yuqi racked up the most views online, far ahead of the other contestants. Viewers praised her quick thinking: not only did she save Zhou Yuqi mid-performance, she also carried on as if nothing had happened. On top of that, her acting—whether in subtle glances or bold movements—radiated authority. Her fight scenes were crisp, clean, and free of fluff, proof of solid professional skills.
When the combined online votes and judges’ scores were tallied, Liang Yan narrowly but safely came out on top.
The show’s official account released the final rankings, and Liang Yan, elated, posted two selfies in celebration.
The comments section erupted in cheers:
[Congrats, Yan Yan!]
[Congrats to our Handsome Liang!]
(“Handsome Liang” was a new nickname fans had given her after her striking androgynous wuxia look. Liang Yan embraced it immediately—it suited her far better than the overly sweet “Yan Yan.”)
[Ughhh Handsome Liang just reached a whole new level of gorgeous.]
[Liang Yan, I’d say yes in a heartbeat!]
Seeing the harmony in her comment section, Liang Yan felt a rush of emotion. No daily hate, no constant ridicule—this divorce was so worth it!
After the rankings came the big announcement: the mystery superstar who would be performing with the winner on stage.
Liang Yan’s heart was caught between anticipation and nerves.
Since her debut, she had almost never touched mainstream resources. Most of her work had been web dramas and idol dramas, with equally idol-tier co-stars. The entertainment industry had its own hierarchy of snobbery: film actors looked down on TV actors, TV actors looked down on web actors, actors in general looked down on singers, singers looked down on idol trainees, and idol trainees looked down on variety-show comedians. Each circle had its walls, and the higher up you went, the more rigid the ranks. For someone like Liang Yan—no connections, no backing—breaking in was nearly impossible.
Fans of idols might flood polls and charts every day, making their star seem larger than life, but in the end, most remained just that: idols. The mainstream circle barely acknowledged them.
The world of top-tier directors, Best Actors, and Best Actresses had always been something Liang Yan could only look up to from afar.
And the saddest part? Even when she had been married to one of those top-tier Best Actors, she hadn’t even managed to brush against the edge of that world.
Take a few months back, for example. While Lu Lincheng was starring in a big-budget film by a genius director—obviously gearing up to sweep year-end awards—she was stuck in a cheap, shoddy, hopelessly cliché fantasy web drama that didn’t even stand a chance of airing on TV.
Because Lu Lincheng never took her along.
Liang Yan wrinkled her nose and reminded herself that even if they had been married, he was never obligated to give her opportunities. Now, she had worked hard enough to land a chance to act alongside a superstar on her own. Even if it was just a fifteen-minute short drama, it was still something she had dreamed of.
The production team was airtight with their secrecy. Not even Liang Yan was told in advance, so she could only wait eagerly by the show’s official account, rubbing her hands in anticipation like any other fan.
They knew exactly how to build suspense. Instead of making the big reveal outright, the official account first dropped a teaser photo—a tie and an Adam’s apple.
Liang Yan spotted the Adam’s apple and thought: so the mystery guest is a man.
Next came a close-up of the eyes—deep-set, with a light amber hue, and a striking peach-blossom shape.
Liang Yan stared at the photo. Gorgeous eyes, yes, but… oddly familiar.
Of course they were familiar. She reassured herself—he’s a household name, of course he’d look familiar.
The final photo showed his mouth.
The man’s lips were thin, but perfectly shaped, the kind that made people imagine sinking their teeth into them, greedy to tear at that softness.
By then, the fans crowding under the post had already pieced it together.
[Wm, has the production team lost their minds?!]
***