Chapter 13

Fei Bolin took the bowl back, not entirely at ease, smoothed his expression and turned around. Wen Fu's gaze tracked him, step for step.

He went to the table, wiped his hands first, then pulled out a napkin, walked over to Wen Fu, bent down to wipe his mouth, refusing to meet his eyes the whole time. 'Nap in fifteen minutes.'

Wen Fu waited for him to finish, licked his lips on reflex. He watched Fei Bolin head into the bedroom for his jacket — figured he was leaving — so he trailed after him. 'What's for dinner?'

Fei Bolin asked fast, low: 'Is KFC enough?'

Wen Fu said, 'What?'

Fei Bolin was silent for two seconds up ahead. 'Nothing.'

He let the shirt sleeves he'd rolled to his forearms drop, picked up the coat from the foot of the bed, walked to the window and closed the curtains. He turned back. 'Get some sleep. This afternoon—'

Fei Bolin cut himself off. He remembered his afternoon was booked straight through to evening — no time to come back at all.

'I'll have food ready.' He patted the blanket. 'Come on, get in.'

Wen Fu kicked off his slippers and climbed in, burrowing under the covers. Fei Bolin leaned over and tucked the edge tight around his back so no draft could get in. 'Don't nap more than an hour. Get up when the alarm goes off — did you set one?'

Wen Fu looked at the water spots on Fei Bolin's suit vest from the dishwashing, then followed them up to the scar on his jaw. He really wanted to reach out and touch it. In the end he just shook his head.

Now he was lying there, every inch of him tucked in by Fei Bolin — stiff as a cocoon. The second he reached a hand out, Fei Bolin would have to tuck him back in all over again.

Fei Bolin picked up Wen Fu's phone — a three-year-old model. Back when Wen Fu had just blown up, Stella had been at some event and realized Wen Fu had never changed his phone in all these years. Full screens were standard by then, and his old thing couldn't even do fingerprint unlock. Turns out the soft, fuzzy look on those singing videos that had gone viral wasn't a nostalgic filter — it was just Wen Fu's camera being garbage. So she'd forced him to get a new one.

That phone had been in use another two or three years since. Luckily it had face unlock. Fei Bolin held the dark screen up to Wen Fu's face. Wen Fu blinked, the screen lit up. Fei Bolin pulled it back, glanced at the wallpaper, and froze for a second. Then, like nothing had happened, he tapped into the alarm to set the time.

He was still setting it when Wen Fu asked quietly, 'Are you leaving?'

Fei Bolin said, 'I'll go after you're asleep.'

Wen Fu's eyes opened a little wider.

Fei Bolin seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. Didn't look up, just kept tapping the screen, said flatly, 'Close your eyes. Sleep.'

Wen Fu: '...'

Wen Fu closed his eyes. He heard Fei Bolin set the phone on the nightstand, then get up and leave the room.

After the door shut, the silence around Wen Fu was absolute.

He opened his eyes, stared into the dark room, and stubbornly held out for sleep.

Sounds from outside the room got hazy. First the doorbell downstairs rang, then cut off quickly. Fei Bolin seemed to open the door, take a delivery, head to the kitchen, close the kitchen door, and start cooking with the ingredients he'd ordered in.

Wen Fu finally fell asleep to that familiar, muffled sound of someone cooking.

The nap was deep and long. In his dream he was back on the small bed in their rental apartment years ago, listening to the sounds from the kitchen, falling asleep feeling safe, already looking forward to whatever Fei Bolin would make when he woke up.

Until the alarm jolted him awake. The room was no longer flooded with daylight the curtains couldn't block out. There was no creaky old electric fan beside him. Wen Fu sat up in the dark, looked at the bedroom door, and tried, 'Bo-ge?'

Only the silence of eight years later echoed back, like a bell.

Wen Fu sat there spacing out for a while. When the last traces of the dream faded, he pushed back the covers and got up. The living room was empty. On the dining table sat a brand-new insulated lunch box with a sticky note on top, in Fei Bolin's handwriting: Eat dinner before 6:30. Fruit is in the fridge — take it out half an hour before eating. If you can't finish the food, save it for when you're hungry tonight, but don't eat it the next day. Wash the dishes after you eat. Tomorrow let the assistant check them. If they're not clean, have the assistant help. Don't put dirty dishes back.

Looked like Fei Bolin hadn't finished what he wanted to write. The sticky note ran out of room — he'd written two more characters at the end, then scribbled them out.

Wen Fu, by some stroke of inspiration, peeled the note off and flipped it over. Sure enough, on the back, a few sharp, fierce characters: Eat less KFC.

He lowered his eyes, thought for a moment, then slapped the 'Eat less KFC' side of the note against the wall. He looked at the longer side — the instructions — and gave a quiet nod.

-

The next day, Wen Fu flew to Beijing for Weibo Night. He left before dawn so they could shoot the departure photos outdoors at sunrise.

Stella had someone change him into the first haute couture look. While sorting out the venue crew, she stole a moment to point at Wen Fu and tell the makeup artist, 'Cover that tattoo on his wrist with concealer — saves us work in post.'

On the inside of Wen Fu's left wrist was a very visible Butterfly Tattoo — a butterfly caught mid-flight, wings about to take off. No big patches of color, just a vivid blood-red outline tracing the shape and pattern. Simple and a little wicked. Up close, you could see a rough, uneven scar underneath the ink.

He'd gotten it on a whim one night abroad years ago — snuck off behind Stella's back to some street tattoo shop. After it was done, he'd gone and sat outside the Airport where he'd first landed and stayed the whole night. Flight after flight from China touched down. Wen Fu stared unblinking at every East Asian face that came through the exit. Finally, at dawn, his manager — who knew exactly where to find him — dragged him back.

While the makeup artist worked, Wen Fu dozed with his eyes closed.

Zhou Ji handed over a bottle of water with a straw in it. 'Want something to eat? Once the event starts, there's no food.'

Wen Fu took a sip through the straw, then thought about Stella being right there — anything he ate would just be a leaf of salad — and shook his head.

Stella came over barking orders, saw Zhou Ji feeding him water, and commanded, 'No more water. If he drinks anything, it's black coffee — so he doesn't look puffy on camera.'

Everyone knew Wen Fu wasn't the type to get fat or puffy easily — but Stella had always controlled her artists' diets, and no amount of 'everyone knew' could budge her stubbornness. Zhou Ji could only quickly pull the water back. 'Got it, Sister Dai.'

Wardrobe and styling were done. The first light of day broke over the city skyline. The team started shooting.

Wen Fu didn't smile much — most of the time his face was pretty blank. In social settings that wasn't exactly welcome, but it had its small perks. Editorial shots, for instance, came out ridiculously easy.

One rooftop, one sunrise. Wen Fu stood there, long legs, narrow waist, threw out two poses and the photographer just went click click click.

What makes an Elie Saab gown stand out isn't some wild design — it's the expensive fabric and the intricate embroidery. Simple on the outside, complex underneath. The haute couture cut is always clean and bold. The materials and the handwork are what really matter.

Stella picked the cream-white one out of the three gowns for Wen Fu's departure shots. Against the morning light, the silver embroidery caught the sun and scattered it from every angle.

Fei Bolin had probably thought of this too — the brand's whole thing was going all out on glamour — so when he prepared things for Wen Fu, he hadn't added any extra jewelry or watches. No point in gilding the lily. Would just look tacky.

After the shoot, Wen Fu went back to the hotel and used the wait before the event to memorize his speech.

The Weibo Night awards ceremony — in industry terms, it was a 'hand out the pork' kind of event. Meaning: as long as a star showed up, the organizers could always come up with some flashy award to give them. Rain and dew for everyone, a slice for all.

Out of politeness, every star going up to accept an award naturally said a few words to match.

The awards themselves carried basically no weight, so the artists' speeches were almost always ghostwritten by their teams ahead of time — a few lines, then handed to the artist to recite on stage.

Wen Fu had typed his speech in his phone's notes app on the way to the airport. Before they left, the team had gotten word early that morning: the award he'd be receiving was 'Most Watched Pop Male Artist of the Year.' Zhou Ji told Wen Fu and asked if he wanted help writing the speech.

Wen Fu thought about it. 'I'll write it myself.'

Zhou Ji nodded — he knew Wen Fu was always easy about this stuff. 'The organizers want it under three minutes.'

The speech was simple. Thank the team and the organizers for their support and recognition. Say he's been working hard but still has room to grow. Then look ahead — something about 'keep at it, won't let everyone down.'

Because it was so easy, Wen Fu had never understood why his team kept asking if he needed help writing his speech. Anyone who'd been to school for a few years should be able to handle something easier than a middle school essay.

He was used to being busy, so he couldn't really grasp that in this industry — where you could rake in cash lying on your back — most people's laziness had long since beaten out their sense of responsibility.

Today Wen Fu changed outfits several times — from the departure shoot to the red carpet to the main event — shifting with each occasion.

Every outfit looked more or less the same to him. In the past, Wen Fu usually wore one gown from start to finish at events. Tonight, maybe because it was his first big gala, the wardrobe kept changing. Wen Fu noticed but didn't ask questions — when Zhou Ji told him to change, he just changed. Stella already looked swamped. Not only did she have to keep an eye on him, she had her own red carpet prep to deal with.

Stella hadn't worn any of the Zuhai Haute Couture or BVLGARI High Jewelry Fei Bolin had given her. As a manager working behind the scenes, showing up at events meant something different than it did for the stars. She didn't need gowns and jewels to pad her fashion résumé. Competing for media attention wasn't her job. Whether it was Zuhai Haute Couture or BVLGARI High Jewelry, on her it would just steal the spotlight — and that kind of spotlight meant nothing to a manager who only cared about getting things done.

She'd passed the gown and jewelry along through her contacts — actively lent them to a top-tier actress in her early forties, to build some bridges. Stella had been in this industry for twenty years. Twelve years ago she'd started her own agency. She was twenty-eight then, young and hungry. She'd signed a 400-million-RMB bet with a film company, promising that within three years her agency's net profit would top 400 million. But the year after she signed, her most popular male artist was poached by that same film company — lured away in breach of contract. Stella went crazy pulling jobs for her still-unproven younger artists to hit the bet target, while simultaneously fighting the company in court. Three years of giving everything she had, the bet still fell apart under their rigged games — and her agency got snapped up by them at a rock-bottom price.

Stella was proud. She refused to bow down under a company like that. She'd rather give up the business she'd built with her own hands, throw herself into some no-name small firm, start from scratch, personally invest in shows, pick artists, and grow them slowly.

Wen Fu was one of them.

In the years Wen Fu had been getting the company's attention, Stella had been butting heads with upper management more and more. Her philosophy for booking jobs for her artists was 'fewer but better.' The company only saw money. Every Commercial Performance — no matter how big or small — if a collaboration invite came in and Wen Fu's schedule had any room, they'd take it. Last year there'd even been an opening at a supermarket in some nowhere county town, and they'd had Wen Fu go stand on stage and sing.

Most of the time Stella turned a blind eye. She could block one or two of Wen Fu's pointless Commercial Performances, but blocking every single one would start to look like she was deliberately picking fights with the company. And she knew the company was on its last legs. No matter how good she was, she was still just an employee. They were in the same boat — if the company went down before she'd figured out her next move, she and Wen Fu would be even worse off.

But the company — at a point where Wen Fu's status and value as an artist had long outgrown this — kept going over her head, again and again, booking him for Commercial Performances that didn't fit his positioning. That was crossing her line.

Back in the day her reputation outshone the company, so they respected her — however she wanted to plan her artists' careers, the top brass never interfered. Later she produced two A-listers, and the company's market value shot up. Once they were making money, they stopped treating her with the same deference. Now one of those A-listers had run into trouble, and the company wasn't even pretending to be polite anymore. No power-sharing. They didn't take Stella seriously at all. They'd been throwing endless cheap, disorderly Commercial Performances at Wen Fu — a rising pop singer. The optics alone, never mind anything else, were enough to mess up his whole future trajectory.

The higher-ups just had Wen Fu running Commercial Performances year-round like a pack mule — no days off — and when the negative press piled up, they wouldn't spend the money to manage it. If this kept up, it was just burning the candle at both ends, a vicious cycle. The worse the public image, the harder it was for Wen Fu to land high-caliber resources. Eventually he'd just be stuck doing small Commercial Performances forever, completely burying the rise he should have had — the one his talent deserved.

The day his value got squeezed dry, the contract would end, and nobody would take responsibility for this kid.

Logically, if Wen Fu had so much as said one word — one sound — about not wanting to run those pointless Commercial Performances anymore, Stella would have used it as an excuse to turn down some of his workload. But this guy was like an energy black hole. No matter how much you piled on him, he wouldn't even grunt. Almost seemed to enjoy it, like he'd been used to suffering since he was a kid.

He never complained when he was tired. Who around him could even step up and say something on his behalf? There was no opening to even back him up.

If a person can take hardship, they'll keep taking hardship. Same logic as the kid who cries gets the candy — the more you make a fuss, the easier your life in this world. Wen Fu just kept his head down and bore it no matter how much, so the company kept treating him like a perpetual motion machine.

Maybe being able to suffer and whether you should suffer are two different things. Wen Fu was someone Stella had built with her own hands. What happened to him later wasn't her business — but at least while he was with her, she was his first responsible party. On the big stuff, even Fei Bolin had to stand aside.

The company had no vision. They only wanted money they could see in the short term.

Stella had chosen this place ten years ago to prove herself — to make her name on a blank slate. Ten years on, the company's capabilities were still stuck in place. She wasn't about to keep playing along. She had to find a next stop for herself and her team before the top brass went down, so that when the company became the market's discard, her own value didn't take a hit too.

The actress she'd sent the jewelry and gown to had been A-list back in the nineties. She'd worked with countless famous directors on serious dramas, made a fortune and earned every honor. Later, as she aged, her drive shifted. She gradually faded from public view, occasionally cameoed in a few big-name director films, but mostly moved behind the scenes, becoming one of the industry's rising investors. Right now she was looking for a partner to co-found an agency.

Sound into the Ear was the first music variety show she'd primarily invested in.

Back then, when Stella had proactively reached out about getting Wen Fu on that variety show, she'd already been testing the waters. She hadn't expected the production team and the investor to agree so readily. Sending the gown this time was another step in that probe — if the other side accepted happily, then it would be natural to set up a few dinners.

Sure enough, after her assistant handled the handoff outside, she came back and told her: 'Sister Dai, Sister Cola accepted. She says thanks for the gown, she really likes it, and she'd love to find time to have dinner with you.'

Stella was in a great mood. Even on the red carpet signing, she was glowing, and she and Cola exchanged a few knowing looks.

So the moment she got Zhang Chao's message inside the venue, she was still smiling.

Very quickly, that smile started to freeze in place.

[Zhang Chao: Sister Dai, Boss Fei heard there'd be no food inside tonight's event, so he had someone send some food in for Xiao Fu. Our people will tell him it's from you. If he asks about it later, please cover for Boss Fei.]

Stella's eyelid twitched. She quickly looked up, scanning the whole venue for Wen Fu.

No matter how big Fei Bolin's face was — even if God himself walked in tonight — Wen Fu could not be sitting there in an Elie Saab gown, openly eating snacks in front of the cameras!

Since the organizers had shown her the seating chart at the start, Stella followed her memory like a map and quickly spotted Wen Fu.

Just then, the people going up to accept awards were Qi Yichuan and a few other traffic actors in the same lane. The venue was being livestreamed tonight, and the director was a real pro at stirring things up. Knowing full well that 'this Qi, that Fu' had been sitting on the trending list for dozens of hours the day before, while Qi Yichuan was giving his speech, they deliberately cut the camera to Wen Fu in the audience.

So on camera — while everyone at his table was smiling politely and clapping like proper guests — Wen Fu, in focus for a full five seconds, was holding a burger, demolishing the food in front of him at a rate of two bites per burger.

And right next to him sat a giant McDonald's takeout bag.

Ten minutes later, Sina pushed #WenFuMcDonalds up the trending list.

Under the trending topic, a post by @YuDaji mysteriously got boosted to the top by an account with the ID @User1876037465 — paid promotion.

[@YuDaji: Wen Fu going wild on McDonald's during the Weibo Night livestream — suspected response to yesterday's #ThisQiThatFu KFC gathering rumor. What do you think? /doge]