Chapter 23: Zhou Dong

The sun set below the horizon, outside the hospital entrance.

Zhou Jielun stood at the intersection, gritting his teeth, one hand braced against his waist—his expression as if he’d just fallen hard.

Soon, a sedan pulled up before him.

“Get in, Jielun, the restaurant’s reserved. We’ll go ahead—Wen Lan still needs to do her makeup, so she’ll be late,” said Liu Genhong, rolling down his window behind dark sunglasses and waving to his lifelong friend.

Zhou Jielun, still wincing from the pain, gasped “Ssah-s Sah” as he hurried into the car—his odd demeanor naturally puzzled Liu Genhong.

“What’s wrong, Jielun? Did the gas poisoning not clear up yet?”

“Nothing. I just slipped on the stairs and fell.”

Feeling the searing pain in his waist, Zhou Jielun shook his head, signaling he was fine: “Where’s Zhou Yi? When’s he arriving? Did he say?”

“He said he’s still discussing the choreography for his MV with the dance instructor. He’ll probably arrive around seven,” Liu Genhong replied offhandedly, restarting the car once he was sure his friend was alright.

“Choreography for an MV? Is he a dancer?”

“I’m not sure, but Warner has Guo Fucheng as a benchmark, and Zhou Yi’s looks are excellent—there’s no reason they can’t push him as a new Guo Fucheng.”

Speaking of his savior, Liu Genhong’s tone grew reflective: “Thank heaven Warner arranged his apartment on the same floor as mine—and that night, he came home late from practice. Otherwise, we’d all have died in that gas leak.”

Sitting in the front passenger seat, Zhou Jielun shuddered at the memory, his face still pale with fear.

He was young—only twenty-one—and had his mother, grandmother, and other family waiting for him. If he’d died from gas poisoning, he couldn’t bear to imagine the scene of his elderly relatives burying him.

May heaven protect him.

After long deliberation, Zhou Jielun finally spoke: “Genhong, what should I give him as a thank-you?”

He couldn’t just say, “You saved my life,” then repay him with a single meal. Even if Zhou Yi accepted it, he himself could never accept such a thing.

But the problem was, he couldn’t afford anything expensive—he was broke.

And anything cheap felt insulting—he was stuck in this awkward middle ground.

“There’s no way to know what he likes. We’ll just have to go for something expensive—it’s at least our gesture.”

Liu Genhong clearly found this difficult too, but he still looked out for his friend financially: “I’ll cover your share for now. Pay me back when you start earning.”

As an artist, though he’d mostly become a forgotten name, Liu Genhong had saved up plenty of money.

“I asked Xian Ge—he told me Zhou Yi’s a top student from a mainland university, still a junior. So I bought him a luxury pen. Give him this tonight as your thanks.”

As the car waited at a traffic light, Liu Genhong pointed to the empty backseat. Zhou Jielun turned and saw two exquisitely wrapped gift boxes.

“I noticed he wasn’t wearing a watch, so I got him a luxury watch. Wen Lan’s preparing a luxury wallet for him.”

“These gifts still pale next to saving his life, but right now, these are all we can think of.”

Liu Genhong paused, then added: “Maybe you could write a few songs tailored for Zhou Yi? He’s a singer—songs matter to him, right?”

As a songwriter, Zhou Jielun’s talent was well known within several small circles in the company.

“I’ll try, but I don’t know his album style, and I’m not sure he’ll accept my songs.”

After being rejected repeatedly last year and this year, Zhou Jielun’s confidence had clearly waned.

And a big company like Warner wouldn’t likely pick his songs for a new artist they were pushing.

Meanwhile, in the dance studio, Zhou Yi checked the time, bid farewell to his instructor, washed his face with cold water in the restroom, then hurried down in the elevator.

It was time to leave.

Though the restaurant Wen Lan mentioned wasn’t far from the studio, he had to account for taxi traffic.

It was peak rush hour.

Zhou Yi had planned it perfectly—half an hour should be enough, even with traffic. Until he realized another problem—

Fuck, no taxis!

Watching taxi after taxi, each packed with passengers, speed past the building entrance, Zhou Yi—without a license and no access to a taxi—was paralyzed.

At that moment, he longed desperately for the convenient ride-hailing apps of the future.

Should he call his agent—the guy who was always busy with god-knows-what—to come pick him up?

Pulling out his Nokia from his jeans pocket, Zhou Yi fell into thought.

But before he could decide, two sharp honks pierced his ears—

Startled, Zhou Yi turned instinctively—and a blood-red Ferrari sports car came into view.

In the driver’s seat, a young, stunning woman with single eyelids rested her elbow on the window, smiling warmly at him: “Zhou Yi, need a ride?”

“Miss Xiao? What are you doing here?”

The moment he saw Xiao Yaxuan, Zhou Yi raised an eyebrow, his gaze landing on her eye-catching fashion.

Her jet-black hair was simply tied into a ponytail; her fitted crop top accentuated her youthful, sculpted figure; beneath her blue shorts, her long, powerful legs—toned from dance—were flawless.

As the only diva among the “Four Greats and Three Smalls” of the millennium’s early years whose personal style had always led trends since debut, Xiao Yaxuan’s aura stood out sharply at this stage.

“I practice here every day, preparing for my second album. And didn’t I say before? Just call me Elva.”

Xiao Yaxuan pulled the car to the curb, tossed her bag into the backseat, then turned her head toward him: “Taxis are packed at this hour. If you don’t mind, I can give you a lift.”

“Thank you, Elva.”

Zhou Yi checked the time, considered briefly, then accepted with gratitude.

“No problem. Taxis here are always like this—I hope you don’t mind.”

As the man got in, Xiao Yaxuan restarted the engine and asked: “Where to?”

“Tao Yi Xuan. Xiao—Elva, do you know where that is?”

Recalling the restaurant name Wen Lan had given him, Zhou Yi fastened his seatbelt and named the place.

“Of course. I’ve eaten there a few times—great food and ambiance. Good taste.”

The Ferrari’s engine roared, tearing through the night. Squinting against the wind, Zhou Yi studied the city’s rapid blur of lights, curious: “By the way, you’re a top star now. Don’t you worry about being photographed without any disguise?”

Taiwan’s paparazzi were just as relentless as Hong Kong’s.

“Let them take photos. Since my album sold out, I’m used to it—I get snapped ten times just going out for dinner.”

Having debuted last December, her first album had already sold nearly half a million copies, putting her on equal footing with veteran diva Lin Yilian, who had just transferred over—between them, they held up Virgin Records.

As a result, Virgin’s entire staff treated the twenty-one-year-old as a treasure. Yao Qian, the general manager who discovered her, had solidified his power and influence within the company.

The most direct result? Yao Qian could handle countless annoying paparazzi for her—otherwise, she wouldn’t dare drive such a flashy car to practice.

In a way, this was a direct challenge to the paparazzi.

Kids these days—everyone’s got a temper.

Watching Xiao Yaxuan, still unbroken by media pressure and radiating confidence, Zhou Yi could only silently marvel at time.

At this moment, still under Virgin Records and guided by her mentor Yao Qian, Xiao Yaxuan still carried that unshakable, arrogant edge.

Fortune nurtures people.

But in the future, after transferring to Warner and becoming a casualty of internal power struggles, being shelved, her albums failing to match past highs, that fiery ambition vanished entirely—she became a soulless machine for commercial gigs.

At one point, she ranked among Taiwan’s top three highest-earning artists purely from commercial performances—imagine how frequent those gigs were.

After that, every news story about her was either about dating, commercial gigs, or another plastic surgery—truly heartbreaking.

“You’re so laid-back. Driving me around at night—aren’t you afraid of rumors? You’re a red-hot star.”

Zhou Yi, well aware of Taiwan’s paparazzi, was curious.

Logically, though they’d had a pleasant chat last time, he and Xiao Yaxuan were barely acquaintances.

Even if she was naturally helpful, she wouldn’t risk being photographed just to give him a ride.

“I don’t care. Since I became famous, newspapers have written whatever they wanted—adding you won’t change anything.”

Seeing Zhou Yi seemed uncomfortable with the car’s speed, Xiao Yaxuan slowed slightly, then reached into the glovebox and pulled out a pair of unopened women’s sunglasses, handing them to him: “Honestly, you’re so handsome—rumors with you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“...That’s quite a reason. You really are laid-back.”

Zhou Yi glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, slipped on the sunglasses, and smiled: “But I like hearing that. Say more.”

“Complimenting a top female star like me comes at a price—one ten thousand.”

“Can I put it on credit? Pay you back after my album drops and I become famous.”

“There are so many singers releasing albums in Taiwan every year. How can you be so sure you’ll stand out? What if you get drowned?” Xiao Yaxuan teased, driving.

Zhou Yi, having roughly sensed her attitude, rested his elbow on the window frame, a smirk tugging at his lips; the evening wind howling past his ear ruffled his bangs as he said with a playful tone, “I won’t just stand out among the singers—I’ll overshadow you.”

Sensing her tone, Zhou Yi rested his elbow on the window edge, lips curling as the night wind tousled his bangs: “I won’t just stand out among singers—I’ll outshine you.”

“So confident?”

“Of course.”

Xiao Yaxuan, offering no reply, gripped the steering wheel and executed a smooth drift, sending the striking wine-red Ferrari sliding into the designated parking spot outside the restaurant.

Xiao Yaxuan, noncommittal, steered the wheel and executed a smooth drift—the eye-catching blood-red Ferrari slid into the restaurant’s designated parking spot.

The tires screeched against the pavement, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention—

As Zhou Jielun stepped out of Liu Genhong’s car in front of the restaurant, the first thing he saw was this striking scene.

A beautiful woman driving a Ferrari, carrying a man in a wildly flamboyant manner, had stolen his gaze.

Liu Genhong was the first to react—he immediately recognized the tall figure stepping out of the passenger seat and widened his eyes.

What the hell?

Wasn’t he just from the mainland?

How did he get a Ferrari-driving woman dropping him off for dinner?

That didn’t look like a taxi at all.

“Zhou Yi?”

At his friend’s reminder, Zhou Jielun also recognized the man who had just returned the sunglasses to the woman—his mouth dropped open: “Wait, Genhong—is that woman… Xiao Yaxuan?”

“Impossible. Xiao Yaxuan’s a top star at Virgin Records—Zhou Yi’s from Warner—fuck! Is that really Xiao Yaxuan?!”

Liu Genhong, who had refused to believe it, now saw the woman stepping out of the driver’s seat under the night’s glittering neon—and couldn’t help swearing.

This is insane.

“What’s going on? Isn’t she from Virgin Records? How is Zhou Yi here with her?”

“Wait, Henghong, something’s off—they’ve spotted us and are walking over.” As Zhou Jielun watched Zhou Yi, who had been chatting with Xiao Yaxuan, seemingly notice the car parked in the corner, he nervously swallowed and nudged his best friend.

To be honest, he was nervous—and a little envious.

According to Zhou Yi’s earlier words, he’d only just arrived on the island from the mainland, yet now he was suddenly this close to Virgin Records’ rising star…

Xiao Yaxuan had even driven him here in her sports car…

He now felt his pen was almost too cheap to give as a gift—this was nowhere near the right level.

Here he was, twenty-one and still grinding away, unpublished, while Zhou Yi, at nineteen, was already chatting easily with the hottest new diva…

Being tall and handsome really does let you get away with anything.