It took Jiang Mu quite a while to reply to Liang Yan’s message—whether it was because he’d only just seen it or because her suggestion had completely stunned him into silence, she couldn’t tell.
“Yan, is your head still hurting? How about I take you back to the hospital tomorrow? Let’s book an appointment with neurology and get a proper checkup.”
“Whether someone makes it big in this industry is basically superstition. Trust me—don’t do anything foolish, okay?”
“Screw you.” Liang Yan shook her head, frustrated. “Honestly, you should just switch careers and open a housekeeping business. If we keep this up, we’ll be broke for the rest of our lives.”
Three years ago, fresh out of film school and still struggling to get her foot in the door, Liang Yan had met Jiang Mu on set while she was playing an extra and he was working as a crew assistant. At the time, she’d been looking for a personal assistant. The two of them hit it off and ended up sitting at a late-night food stall in Gudong City, grilling skewers and making grand plans—she was going to break into the A-list within three years.
Unfortunately, judging by how things were going now, that dream had crashed and burned before it even left the runway—all thanks to Jiang Mu’s reckless, unlicensed driving.
Liang Yan gave up on trying to discuss her public persona with Jiang Mu. Logistics were more his speed. So she said, “I’ve moved out of that house. I’ve been staying in a hotel for now. Can you help me look for a new place? I want to rent something for myself.”
Jiang Mu knew she’d had a fight with Lu Lincheng and replied, “Alright, I’ll take a look. Got any specific requirements?”
Liang Yan replied: “I want one that faces south with good feng shui. No rush—take your time. Once you find something, get a feng shui master to check it out. See if anything needs adjusting in terms of layout. Maybe we need a mystic mirror or a peachwood sword—whatever it takes. The energy has to be thriving.”
Jiang Mu felt an imaginary set of black lines appear on his forehead.
“I’ll… try my best.”
“You got thisヾ(°°)，I believe in you~” Liang Yan cheered him on.
Jiang Mu stared at her messages, speechless. Ever since she lost her memory, this woman had completely changed. She’d gone from a laid-back, goji-berry-sipping, peace-loving actress to someone who now obsessed daily over how to make it big in showbiz. Was she that desperate? Even the whole “abandoned woman” image seemed like something she was seriously considering. It was like she’d been hexed or something.
He downloaded a rental app and scrolled through a sea of colorful listings, swiping for ages before finally giving up and opening Baidu instead.
Jiang Mu solemnly typed into the search bar: “What to do if a female celebrity has been cursed?”
Liang Yan had holed up in her hotel room for two days, trying to come up with a solid “abandoned woman” persona. But Jiang Mu, that blockhead, clearly didn’t appreciate the effort.
After stewing for a while, she finally decided to step out and get some air—and maybe grab something to eat while she was at it.
She put on some light makeup, grabbed her small purse, and headed out. But just as she got into the elevator, she noticed someone glancing at her.
“Hey, look over there. She’s really pretty. Doesn’t she look like Liang Yan?”
“Who’s Liang Yan?”
“You know, Lu Lincheng’s wife.”
“Ohhh, that’s her? Wow, it really is Liang Yan! I don’t think they’re divorced yet, are they?”
“Exactly! Why haven’t they split already? I check their divorce hashtag every single day—I’m about to lose my mind!”
Liang Yan: “………………”
Expressionless, she got out of the elevator and took the stairs back up to her room. Once inside, she dug out an oversized pair of sunglasses and put them on, covering nearly half her face.
On her second trip down, she finally made it through the elevator without being recognized.
Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, Liang Yan couldn’t help but feel how absurd it all was. Despite how miserable her current situation was, she still had strong public recognition—all thanks to Lu Lincheng. That meant she couldn’t just wander around freely like she’d planned. What was supposed to be a casual stroll had now turned into a quick food run before heading back to her hotel room.
As a true southern girl who couldn’t live without spice, she’d been suffering these past few days—eating either bland set meals from the crew or generic hotel food. Her cravings had reached a breaking point. So when she passed by a hotpot restaurant, the smell of chili oil hit her like a punch. She froze on the spot, unable to walk away.
It wasn’t even dinnertime yet, but the restaurant was already starting to fill up. Liang Yan stood at the entrance, pulled out her phone, and opened her contacts list.
From what she remembered of her life three years ago, she’d had a few friends—mostly fellow struggling actors she’d met on sets in Gudong City. Word was, a few had already switched careers, and some were still grinding it out at the film base, but none had really made it. They’d all drifted out of touch.
She scrolled through her contacts, only to be hit with the harsh reality: her social circle over the past three years was painfully narrow. The only person she could realistically call up for a spontaneous meal… was Jiang Mu.
But Jiang Mu couldn’t handle spice at all. The guy had been loyal to the same bland chicken mushroom instant noodles for what felt like a lifetime.
Sighing, she slipped her phone back into her bag, pushed her sunglasses higher up her nose, and walked into the hotpot restaurant alone—like a lone swordswoman wandering the desert who had finally stumbled upon an inn.
Liang Yan ordered a massive spread of dishes and sat by herself, dunking ingredients into the bubbling pot. A kind-hearted server, worried she might feel lonely, even brought over a giant teddy bear and placed it across from her.
“Miss, would you like me to clean your sunglasses for you?” the waiter asked with a friendly smile.
Liang Yan, finding it annoying to eat hotpot while wearing them anyway, handed over her shades and dug in with gusto.
By the time she returned to the hotel, she was practically holding onto the wall for support. Like most actresses, she usually kept a strict diet to maintain her figure, and her appetite was generally modest. But hotpot was her one true weakness. And today, she figured—no projects, no scripts, no appearances—who cared about her waistline anymore? She’d eaten herself into a food coma and was now sprawled on the bed, clutching her stomach and unwilling to move.
After resting a while, she figured she might as well go all in. She popped open a can of soda—the kind topping every “Forbidden Foods for Female Celebs” list—and started sipping it as she pulled out her phone.
Opening Weibo, she saw that her selfie from two days ago still hadn’t even broken 100 likes—and she’d even lost a few hundred followers.
So other people post on Weibo to reward their fans. She posts just to remind people she still exists—and they unfollow her.
Liang Yan took a deep swig of her soda to console herself, then logged out of her main actress account and into her alt. She tapped into the trending topic #DidLuLinchengGetDivorcedToday to check what everyone was gossiping about.
The first post she saw nearly made her choke.
User @yiluzhicheng: “Was that Liang Yan?! Saw her at a hotpot place this afternoon. Didn’t dare go say hi. She was eating alone—and wow, she can eat. She had three plates of beef by herself.”
Attached was a candid photo, taken from who-knows-what angle. In it, Liang Yan had her hair tied back, lips bright red from the spice, eyes focused as she dipped food into the pot. Across from her sat the giant stuffed bear.
Beneath the post was a meme ranking levels of loneliness. “Eating hotpot alone” was listed as Level 5 on the international loneliness scale.
Liang Yan stared at the screen, then let out a curse under her breath.
She wasn’t particularly bothered about being photographed—after all, she was good-looking enough that even unedited candids worked in her favor.
But what was with the emphasis on her eating three whole plates of beef alone? And then attaching that international loneliness scale meme? What was the point—mocking her for being both a glutton and alone?
Lu Lincheng’s fans were really something else. Enough to make a person choke with rage.
And just like that, #DidLuLinchengGetDivorcedToday had a brand new discussion topic: Liang Yan’s solo hotpot dinner.
Casual followers and some small-time or occasional fans zeroed in on how she seemed “lonely but could eat,” turning it into a talking point. But the big-name fans—the heads of Lu Lincheng’s fan groups—were having a very different, much more nuanced reaction.
These fan leaders weren’t just ordinary stans. As core figures of the fandom, they had real influence: managing organized fan activities, rallying support, sometimes even acting as intermediaries between the agency and the fanbase. Some of them were even in contact with Lu Lincheng’s management team—or with Lu Lincheng himself. When companies needed fans to promote rankings or manipulate comment sections, they often went through these top fans.
That meant the fan leaders were always the first to know what was going on behind the scenes.
The average fan might’ve only known that Lu Lincheng was currently filming a project with a renowned auteur director. But what the fan leaders knew was that said director had recently hit a creative block and put the production on hold—giving the cast and crew a short break. Lu Lincheng had taken advantage of the downtime to return to B City for a bit of rest.
Now, here’s the thing: both Lu Lincheng and Liang Yan were in B City. Both supposedly on a break. Yet it was Liang Yan who got photographed eating hotpot alone by a random passerby.
Even if it hurt to admit, the fan leaders couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room:
If Liang Yan was eating alone, then where the hell was her husband, Lu Lincheng?
The implication was clear—and brutal. Lu Lincheng had no interest in being around Liang Yan. Their relationship behind the scenes seemed even colder than it appeared in public.
Fans had always been experts at connecting dots with a magnifying glass, scouring for the tiniest details. Now, having drawn this conclusion, they were practically ecstatic—as if they’d just gotten a sneak peek of Lu Lincheng’s impending freedom. One of the fan leaders got so excited, she immediately updated her Weibo giveaway post, announcing that if Lu Lincheng actually got divorced, the prize pool would now include an extra 10,000 yuan in cash.
Soon after, a smaller fan account asked why the giveaway prize had suddenly increased.
The fan leader didn’t outright say that Lu Lincheng was currently on break in B City. Instead, she replied cryptically: “If Liang Yan can go eat hotpot on her own, then she’s clearly not looking to trouble our Brother Lu. That’s ideal.”
With that, the discussion on tonight’s trending hashtag took another sharp turn. The Weibo square lit up again, and no one knew who started it, but soon everyone was posting.
Some were a little gentler:
“Then let’s hope Liang Yan always eats hotpot alone from now on.”
Attached was the now-viral photo of Liang Yan eating hotpot opposite a stuffed bear.
Some were more aggressive:
“If Liang Yan dares to make our Brother Lu eat hotpot with her, I’ll be her anti for life.”
Same photo.
Some took a lofty, moral stance:
“At least Liang Yan knows her place.” Also paired with the same photo.
Staring at the chaos flooding the hashtag square, Liang Yan was so furious she crushed the soda can in her hand.
She could tolerate a lot of things. But wishing she’d always eat hotpot alone? Absolutely not.
She couldn’t swallow that insult. Since she was logged into her alt account anyway, she found the most-liked and most-retweeted post and furiously commented:
“Don’t worry. Liang Yan won’t need Lu Lincheng to eat hotpot with her for the rest of her life!”
Knowing full well she’d probably get flamed for it, she didn’t even bother to stick around. She tossed her phone aside and headed to the bathroom for a shower.
By the time she’d washed up, dried her hair, and crawled back into bed, her phone had been buzzing non-stop.
The screen lit up—Jiang Mu was calling.
“Hello?” Liang Yan picked up.
Jiang Mu didn’t even bother with a greeting.
“My dear ancestor… did you forget to switch accounts?”
Liang Yan frowned slightly. “What account?”
Jiang Mu: “Go look at your Weibo. Now.”
A bad feeling hit her. Heart sinking, she reopened the post she’d angrily replied to earlier.
And there it was.
Her official account—red verified badge and all, “Actress Liang Yan”—had retweeted the original post and replied: “Don’t worry. Liang Yan won’t need Lu Lincheng to eat hotpot with her for the rest of her life!”
Three seconds of complete silence.
Then Liang Yan practically burst into tears.
Everyone in the industry knew how terrifying Lu Lincheng’s fanbase could be once they went on the attack. Pissing them off was practically suicide.
The same Liang Yan who couldn’t even get 100 likes on a selfie…That one hot-headed reply about hotpot had already broken a thousand likes.
Trying to calm herself down, she kept repeating in her head, don’t let online hate affect real life… don’t let online hate affect real life… She took a deep breath, hands trembling, and finally tapped open the comment section.
“…Huh?”
Liang Yan’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Where she expected to find insults and ridicule… Instead, the comments were strangely uniform:
“Thank you, Liang Yan. Please stick to your word.”
“Thank you, Liang Yan. Please stick to your word.”
“Thank you, Liang Yan. Please stick to your word.”
………
Still stunned, she rubbed her eyes and took another look at her follower count.
That’s when she noticed something even more unbelievable.
She had…
Apparently…
Somehow…
Gained followers.
***