MACRM Chapter 48

A public relations crisis that nearly turned into a backstage brawl between two well-known celebrities was swiftly averted by a quick-witted manager before it could escalate onstage.

“Sorry, sorry, it was our mistake. We didn’t coordinate the rehearsal times for you two properly.”

The on-site director broke out in a cold sweat, hurriedly sent Zheng Yi away, and apologized profusely to Zhong Yao. “We’ll strengthen communication, I promise this won’t happen again…”

Zhong Yao didn’t care about Zheng Yi. He frowned and turned around to check Lin Zhu from head to toe. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Lin Zhu shook his head quickly. “I’m fine…”

Still uneasy, Zhong Yao briefly excused himself to the staff and took Lin Zhu backstage for a proper check.

Since bribing was something that couldn’t see the light of day, Zheng Yi had chosen a discreet corner, so no one had seen clearly what happened. Everyone thought he had just lost his temper and came to pick a fight. 

The director, terrified that Lin Zhu might be injured, shouted for someone to look after him and fetch the first aid kit. Seeing the commotion getting worse, Lin Zhu found a secluded spot and quickly explained everything to Zhong Yao.

“He was probably scared out of his wits and came up with such a lousy idea. Now he’s probably even more terrified.”

Lin Zhu looked up, unable to hold back a smile. “Honestly, I kind of wanted to punch him too. But since you praised me before, I couldn’t act too rashly or let my temper get the better of me…”

Zhong Yao coughed lightly and tapped him on the head.

Lin Zhu obediently let him tap his head, the smile in his eyes deepening. He teasingly said, “You’ve got great reflexes. I saw his wrist, it’s red all over.”

“I held back. No bones were broken.”

Zhong Yao’s ears flushed slightly as he tried to stay composed. “Next time, remember this, don’t act on impulse, we—”

He suddenly stopped mid-sentence, looking down at the manager who had happily thrown himself into his arms, his smile softening. “If something like this ever happens again, no matter what I’m doing, come to me first.”

Lin Zhu’s heart fluttered, and he nodded in his arms.

“And also—”

Remembering what the producer had said before the show, Zhong Yao kept him close and pulled out a candy. Peeling the wrapper open, he said, “If something else comes up, you can tell me too.”

Lin Zhu blinked, confused, and before he could react, Zhong Yao had already popped the candy into his mouth.

The warm pad of a fingertip brushed against his lips, and Lin Zhu instantly lost all his teasing bravado. His whole body stiffened in Zhong Yao’s arms as he nodded vigorously. “Okay…”

Even Zhong Yao felt that what he’d said sounded too ambiguous. He was about to clarify, but Lin Zhu’s overly eager agreement made him pause. “Really okay?”

Corrupted by too many fan forum posts, Lin Zhu’s mind was a swirl of nonsense. He nodded with the candy still in his mouth.

Zhong Yao assumed the young manager was just shy and let it drop. He ruffled Lin Zhu’s hair, put his watch — thankfully undamaged from the scuffle — back on, and said, “Then it’s settled. I’ll finish rehearsal, and we’ll have lunch together at home.”

Once he confirmed Lin Zhu was fine, Zhong Yao finally relaxed and returned to the stage with the apologetic staff to resume the interrupted rehearsal.

Lin Zhu was seated in the nearest row of audience chairs. Two assistant directors fussed over him endlessly until, out of sheer desperation, he requested a cup of chrysanthemum tea. A stagehand immediately dashed off to brew it and carefully handed it to him.

Golden petals unfurled quietly in the paper cup. Lin Zhu took two reverent sips, eyes closed, calming his nerves.

The forum that the screenwriter had recommended wasn’t all nonsense. There were also fan art and short stories about the two of them. Lin Zhu had gotten addicted without realizing it. These past few days, he’d been sneaking peeks and, unknowingly, picked up quite a lot.

The candy still rested in his mouth, its sweetness slowly melting down his throat.

Lin Zhu lifted his gaze to the man in the spotlight on stage, took another sip of chrysanthemum tea, and felt his heart settle.

“As an actor, I’ve always been proud of my profession and hold it in deep respect…”

On stage, Zhong Yao was rehearsing the closing remarks.

Since this part was meant to match the live commentary, it was mostly for lighting cues. There was no finalized script. It didn’t matter if he drew it out a bit.

Zhong Yao was used to these formal speeches. He spoke the usual lines with practiced ease. “Being able to return to this stage again, I must thank the audience, the fans who’ve stayed with me all this way, and—”

His gaze drifted toward the seats, landing on the manager quietly sipping tea. He paused mid-sentence, the corners of his eyes softening into a smile.

“Anyone else you’d like to thank?”

They still needed to fill time, so the host played along with a grin. “Zhong-laoshi’s career has been nothing short of legendary. Everyone wants to know how you made it here. Don’t be shy, you must tell us…”

Zhong Yao chuckled, his tone gentle. “And, a certain little one at home.”

The “little one,” who had been feeling calm and serene, jolted so hard that his tea spilled all over the assistant director’s pants.

The tone of that last sentence was different from the rest. It was so soft and affectionate that, amplified through the speakers, it made hearts tremble.

Lin Zhu was completely out of it afterward. While he fumbled to apologize for the spilled tea, the entire crew kindly waved it off, wrapped up the rehearsal quickly, and arranged a car to send both of them home.

Once his mind caught up, Lin Zhu was giddy the entire afternoon and finished a whole bowl of pork rib soup for lunch.

Since post-holiday transitions shouldn’t be overloaded with work, the afternoon was free. Stuffed and sluggish, Lin Zhu sprawled on the bed, still secretly delighted over that one line. He quietly logged into the biggest Jinjiang fan forum under his alt account.

Fans had given them countless playful nicknames, but after scrolling through them all, Lin Zhu still thought none sounded as good as what he’d heard today.

The chrysanthemum tea had clearly failed to calm him. Smiling without realizing it, Lin Zhu scrolled through the fanfics, resisting the crazy urge to show off. In a good mood, he even tipped a few of the most popular posts and artworks.

“Feeling any better?”

The door opened gently. Zhong Yao walked in with a bowl of candied hawthorn, curious. “What are you looking at? You seem really happy.”

“Nothing!”

Lin Zhu hastily hid his phone, sat up straight, and blurted, “I was just thinking about today’s rehearsal, finding if there were any mistakes. And about our next project… This variety show will wrap up in a week at most, so once we rest up, we should pick a good production, something with a lead role for you, of course…”

His thoughts were still half-stuck on that drawing of a panda hugging bamboo shoots, but thanks to his professional instincts as a manager, he kept a straight face. “Would you be interested in another historical drama? I got a great movie script the other day. The director has worked with you before, and the filming crew is goo—”

Zhong Yao raised an eyebrow, sat on the bed, and handed over the glossy red hawthorn. “You like it when I call you that?”

Lin Zhu: “!!”

He instantly deflated, cradled the bowl with both hands, and nodded obediently.

“That’s good. I was worried it might sound too flirty.”

Zhong Yao smiled, finally relaxing. He ruffled Lin Zhu’s hair again. “It just slipped out… Sorry, I didn’t ask first.”

“It’s fine!”

Lin Zhu’s chest warmed. He sat up straight on the edge of the bed, his expression serious. “No matter when, say whatever you want. I’ll be here, nothing will go wrong.”

He wasn’t saying that just to comfort Zhong Yao.

Light and Shadow had a tradition of stirring controversy by targeting contestants. With Lin Zhu keeping an eye on things, they wouldn’t cross any real lines. But, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t play tricks during the live recording.

When watching the rehearsal earlier, Lin Zhu had already been thinking of potential mishaps. He didn’t want Zhong Yao to be constrained by such nonsense, so he made that promise first.

Zhong Yao sat up slowly, his gaze settling on the steady, confident light in Lin Zhu’s eyes.

“Anytime?” he asked.

“Yes, even in the future,” Lin Zhu said with a nod. “Say whatever you want.”

Zhong Yao smiled, nodded slowly, and reached over to rub his ear. “Alright. I’ll remember that.”

His tone was as gentle as it had been on stage earlier. Lin Zhu’s ears flushed hot, and he smiled faintly, finally calming down. He took out his tablet and showed Zhong Yao the scripts. “Let’s change the subject. Look at these, I collected them over the past couple of days—”

He paused when he realized Zhong Yao wasn’t leaning over to look at all. “Ge…?”

“You’ve already called me that three times today,” Zhong Yao said, hiding his amusement as he took the tablet away. “Shouldn’t we stick to the rules?”

Lin Zhu immediately tensed. Whenever he felt guilty, he forgot to switch his form of address. He nodded in surrender. “We should…”

“Then you’re getting a punishment.”

Zhong Yao glanced around, got up, and went to the head of the bed. He shook out the blanket and pulled over a beanbag chair. “Lie down. Take a nap.”

Lin Zhu blinked in confusion.

“You stayed up again last night studying material, didn’t you? Your phone was still lit up in the middle of the night. You even helped me beat a level in Candy Crush?”

Zhong Yao looked at the faint shadows under his eyes. His tone was firm, but his voice remained gentle. “Lie down and sleep for a while. I’ll stay here and read through the scripts.”

“I was just watching a variety show. It got boring, so I signed in by habit.”

Lin Zhu’s guilt was showing. He kicked off his shoes and socks and crawled under the blanket, still keeping his eyes on Zhong Yao. “They gave me an hour of infinite energy in Candy Crush. It’d be such a waste not to use it…”

“I know. I couldn’t get past that level myself.” Zhong Yao chuckled, drawing the curtains tightly closed. “What are you looking at? Close your eyes and sleep.”

Lin Zhu’s heart was blooming with warmth. His eyes sparkled as he whispered, “Ge… are you going to read here? I’ve got a little bedside lamp. Reading in the dark will hurt your eyes. Next time I’ll buy one of those e-ink screens for scripts—”

“Put it on the studio account. I’ll reimburse it.”

Zhong Yao’s heart softened painfully. He sat by the bed and ruffled Lin Zhu’s hair. “I’ll read here. I’m not going anywhere. Sleep.”

Lin Zhu couldn’t stop smiling. He shut his eyes, content.

After a while, he cracked them open just a sliver.

The curtains blocked out the daylight completely. Zhong Yao sat comfortably in the beanbag, one hand resting on his knee, the other flipping through the script page by page, absorbed.

Lin Zhu quietly scooted a few inches closer, bit by bit, until he was a little nearer to Zhong Yao. Then, he closed his eyes again, satisfied.

Under Zhong Yao’s meticulous supervision, Lin Zhu had come out of the Mid-Autumn holiday looking healthier and more refreshed than before.

The following days passed peacefully.

Zheng Yi had once requested to withdraw from the show but was forced by his company to stay. That episode was recorded and aired smoothly. Though his performance was mediocre due to poor mental state, his solid skills still allowed him to outshine several other contestants.

Canxing used the chance to stir up buzz and managed to wash away much of the earlier scandal. They even tried to buy more trending topics, only to run headlong into [Light and Shadow]’s massive publicity campaign for the new episode.

Given Zhong Yao’s status, [Light and Shadow] didn’t dare invite random guests to fill the lineup. Every guest was a respected director or professor, and the competitors were heavyweight veterans who rarely touched variety shows.

These people didn’t care much about winning or losing. They were here to test their craft — art for art’s sake, act for acting’s sake. No matter the result, no one would hold grudges afterward.

The PR team members accompanying Lin Zhu stared at the star-studded backstage, hearts pounding. “If a fight breaks out here…”

“I already said there won’t be any fights. Calm down.”

Lin Zhu sighed helplessly, flipping quickly through the scripts prepared by the production team and getting a sense of the setup. “I’ll go to the control room later and keep an eye on the camera feeds. If anything happens, call me immediately.”

All three rounds of the competition were to be completed that night, with very short breaks between them. Lin Zhu had spent half the night debating whether to stay with Zhong Yao or monitor from the control room. In the end, professionalism won. He booked himself a seat in the control room.

“Got it, we’ll keep a close eye on Zhong-laoshi.”

The PR staff, filled with a sudden sense of duty, followed him out. Then one of them remembered their real reason for coming and lowered his voice. “By the way, Lin-ge, Clozeya’s been keeping their distance lately… Did we freeze them out too much? Should we reach out first?”

“That obvious?”

Lin Zhu paused mid-step, shook his head. “Unlikely. Someone’s probably stirring things up behind the scenes. Tonight, you head to Canxing and sync up all our latest resource deals.”

The PR staff nodded quickly but couldn’t help asking, “Why are they so intent on going against Zhong-laoshi? Things were fine before, his farewell press conference was handled pretty decently too. Even if they held a grudge after he came back, why not try to make peace instead of sabotaging him again and again?”

Lin Zhu stopped briefly and shook his head lightly. “It can’t be fixed.”

“Why not?” the PR staff asked. “Grievances can be evened out. Everyone in this industry maintains appearances. As long as things look fine on the surface, people let each other be…”

Lin Zhu didn’t answer. He tucked the scripts under his arm. “Go. And if the company accepts any new offers for Zhong-laoshi, tell me right away.”

The PR staff, half understanding, nodded and called someone as he left.

Lin Zhu made his way to the control room.

It wasn’t exactly proper for an agent to be there, so he dressed inconspicuously and carried a staff badge. No one paid much attention to him.

He didn’t intend to interfere with the show’s production, just to make sure nothing went wrong. He was about to find a seat when the control room door opened again.

Lin Zhu looked up and couldn’t help smiling. “You’re this free tonight?”

The old station director raised an eyebrow, strolled over, and sat beside him. “I was worried some people might think this venue’s too shabby for a big star like Film Emperor Zhong. Maybe they’d rent a studio out of pocket, post security guards at the door to screen every reporter, ban the gossipmongers and the ones trying to force him to whitewash his image…”

Lin Zhu: “…”

The director gave him a sidelong glance, his irritation simmering. After holding it in for three years, he finally let it explode. “Is this Zhong-laoshi’s first day in the business? His first time handling reporters? He knows how to handle himself better than you do! …Why didn’t you tell him about this earlier? You just let us play the good guys, are you really that generous?”

Lin Zhu was speechless. “You knew?”

“He was chatting politely with the deputy director, saying he wanted to thank the organizer from that time. How could I not know?”

The station director frowned, looking at Lin Zhu’s still-unruffled expression. “What’s the point of hiding something like that from him? You were a bit overbearing back then. Reckless, and even childish. But, you did it for his sake. Why keep it from him?”

“You’ve already called me every name under the sun,” Lin Zhu said wearily, rubbing his temple. “I still think it’s necessary to keep it from Zhong.-laoshi”

His head throbbed from the director’s roundabout scolding. He lifted his eyes toward the monitors showing the live recording. “Besides, this isn’t about that.”

Lin Zhu smiled faintly. “I just wanted Zhong-laoshi to be happy… Couldn’t this favor have gone to Tianxing instead?”

Of course it could have. The problem was, Zhong Yao was far too perceptive. He might not be directly told, but he’d piece it together sooner or later.

The director didn’t understand what Lin Zhu was thinking. He twisted open a bottle of water and handed it over. “Does it even make a difference? If the favor’s done in your name, just steer him a little closer to our side afterward.”

“It makes a difference.”

Lin Zhu nodded, murmured a thank-you, and took the bottle. “I’ve told you before… my family is in this business. In this circle, there’s hardly a shady thing I haven’t heard of.”

The director knew that, and frowned in acknowledgment.

Lin Zhu smiled again. “So… to me, there’s almost no such thing as warmth in this world.”

“You’re still so young, why talk like an old man?”

The director couldn’t stand it, about to lecture him, but Lin Zhu briefly tore his gaze from the screen and smiled. “I know. There’s more filth in this circle than outside it. Stay too long, and it rubs off on you. The outside world is at least a little better, relatively speaking.”

The director’s words died in his throat. “You already understand all that, don’t you?” he said at last, grudgingly.

“So,” Lin Zhu closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, “I want his world to be just a little better.”

It was all in the past now, and no longer affected anything. If, when Zhong Yao looked back on that darkest time in his life, he could remember not just the pain but also a few small kindnesses, then even the bleakest memories might still hold a glimmer of light.

And Lin Zhu knew better than anyone what that single glimmer could mean.

The director fell silent, then sighed softly and patted his shoulder.

“You… can really be content like this?”

After a long pause, the director couldn’t help but continue, his tone unconsciously softening, cautious. “To like him in secret like this, without anyone knowing—just quietly watching over him…”

Just then, Zhong Yao’s impromptu performance wrapped up. Lin Zhu was watching the screen with full concentration. He turned back, startled. “Huh?”

The director, who’d spent years reviewing melodramas for the station’s prime-time slot, had already imagined an entire silent, touching love story. He looked at Lin Zhu with pity. “Is it really worth it, doing all this for him?”

Lin Zhu: “…”

Lin Zhu thought the director must have seriously misunderstood, but since Zhong Yao’s critique segment was about to begin, he had no time to explain. He gave the older man’s arm a reassuring pat. “Not worth it, not worth it. Let me just watch this part…”

Among the four judges below, two were directors who had worked with Zhong Yao before, and one was the professor who had taught him in his student days. Zhong Yao’s acting had been honed to new heights, clearly a level above where he’d been three years ago. The old professor was moved beyond words and showered him with unreserved praise.

“At your level, every step upward is a giant leap,” he said.

Even the one unfamiliar director couldn’t hide his admiration, leaning forward slightly. “Lao Li already covered the detailed analysis of your performance, but there’s something I’d like to ask. When you rolled up your sleeves at the start, what were you trying to convey?”

“You can’t do this!” The director beside Lin Zhu still hadn’t gotten over his dramatized fantasy, and the more he thought about it, the more agitated he became. He grabbed Lin Zhu’s wrist. “You’ve done so much for him, all these good things — and in the end, no one will ever know—”

“The sleeve-rolling is actually just a personal habit,” Zhong Yao said with a small smile on screen. “It slipped in without me noticing.”

Under the camera’s light, he stood tall and elegant, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples from the performance. He unrolled his sleeves again, carefully buttoning the cuffs.

Then he lifted his gaze, eyes bright. “Do you think these cufflinks look good?”