Let Me Be Spoiled - Chapter 37

Half a month later, White Whale officially wrapped filming.

The production had just received a big investment, so Sun Huaijun, for once, decided to splurge and booked a high-end hotel near the studio for the wrap party.

Shooting White Whale hasn’t been easy. Sun Huaijun and the assistant director had spent ages preparing, and now that it was finally done, even the VFX work looked promising. The two of them were so emotional they nearly cried over drinks. As the wine flowed and their faces grew warm, all the setbacks they’d faced during pre-production and filming were blurred over and brushed aside—in a joyful moment like this, they only spoke of joyful things.

As the lead actor, Xie Yan had to drink. He wasn’t much of a drinker and didn’t tolerate pressure from others, but tonight he was actually willing. The past few months with the crew had been pleasant and joyful. 

Zhou Yu, on the other hand, couldn’t eat a bite and was visibly stressed. One of his guys had just messaged him—there was a fight going on, and they couldn’t get things under control. They were asking him to come. As the boss, he obviously couldn’t refuse and he had to show up himself. But he was also supposed to make sure Xie Yan got home safely, so he couldn’t just leave.

Xie Yan noticed Zhou Yu looking restless, barely able to stay on his stool, and casually asked what was going on.

Zhou Yu, clearly anxious, told him the truth.

Xie Yan took a sip of wine and waved his hand. “Go on, what—am I gonna get lost?”

That was all Zhou Yu needed. He grabbed his keys and took off. Still, he remembered what Fu Qing had asked of him and sent him a quick message on the way, saying that Xie Yan was at the wrap party and had drunk quite a bit, and that he had to leave for something urgent.

Fu Qing was in a late meeting at the time, with his phone on silent—except for one exception, Xie Yan. Zhou Yu didn’t have that privilege. Fu Qing didn’t see the message until after the meeting, at which point he pushed all his remaining work to later that night and immediately headed out to pick Xie Yan up.

The party was still going. The photographer was loudly insisting on a group photo of the entire crew, and the place was chaotic. Xie Yan didn’t have a moment to check his phone. It wasn’t until he felt a bit dizzy and pushed open the private room door to head to the bathroom that he suddenly saw someone leaning against the wall.

He looked up, his vision slightly blurred, and squinted. “Fu Ge? What are you doing here?”

Fu Qing walked over and explained, “Zhou Yu had to leave. I came to take you home.”

Xie Yan was stunned for a moment. He had actually been wondering earlier—when Zhou Yu said he had to go—if it was because Fu Qing needed backup. But now that Fu Qing had come to pick him up, that clearly wasn’t the case.

Maybe to cover his embarrassment, Xie Yan mumbled in a hoarse voice, “It’s not like I can get lost on such a short walk.”

Fu Qing chuckled. “Just being cautious. After all, we’ve got a tipsy little guy here.”

Xie Yan didn’t reply. He couldn’t handle alcohol well and was already feeling a little nauseous.

He walked straight to a stall at the end of the corridor. Fu Qing waited outside and overheard two people talking in low voices.

“You know Xie Yan?”

“The one from the crew next door having dinner? Yeah, good-looking, I’ll give him that.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

The tone turned sharp. “I heard when his sugar daddy sent him roses, there was a check tucked inside.”

The other person sighed, “That’s pretty damn valuable.”

The first one sneered, “Romantic and cost-effective. Looks and profit, all in one. Isn’t he just one of those pretty boys you can screw as long as you’ve got money…”

He didn’t even finish the sentence before someone grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

Fu Qing was tall, and his right arm was incredibly strong—hoisting up a slim adult man was effortless for him.

The man flailed and couldn’t even get his feet on the ground. He screamed and looked up to see who it was. Fu Qing had a nearly shaved head, just a thin layer of stubble, and his brows were tightly knit. His face was dark with rage, and the long scar at the corner of his eye looked especially vicious.

Fu Qing shoved the other person inside and locked the door between the stall and the restroom. He lowered his head and asked, word by word, “What did you just say?”

The man was scared out of his wits, so much so that he didn’t even understand why Fu Qing had suddenly attacked him. “What did I say?”

Fu Qing didn’t respond. He kept restraining the man with one hand, turned on the faucet with his left, filled the sink with water, and shoved the man’s head into it.

The sounds of choking and begging overlapped.

Fu Qing remained unmoved. In fact, his expression hadn’t changed at all. He simply began counting beats slowly, then pulled the man back up from the sink and asked again, “What did you just say?”

The man felt like he had been dragged back from the edge of death. He was about to beg for mercy, but his instincts took over and he snapped, “F**k your mother—what, just because it’s Xie Yan? He does it but can’t let people talk about it—”

He didn’t get to finish. Fu Qing had finished counting and dunked his head into the water again.

Xie Yan’s head was spinning, his stomach churning, but he hadn’t thrown up yet. The voices outside were muffled, but Fu Qing was making such a racket that he straightened up and stepped out of the stall. He didn’t even glance at the man trembling in the corner—he went straight to bang on the door leading to the sinks. 

He knew Fu Qing had a good temper and didn’t usually resort to violence. But once he did, it was never anything minor.

Fu Qing didn’t open the door. He kept counting in that same slow, steady rhythm.

Xie Yan kicked the door open.

It wasn’t very sturdy, just a flimsy panel that served more symbolic than practical purpose.

He rushed in and, at a glance, saw the side of Fu Qing’s face—sharply defined features, eyes dark and cold, with a ferocity that was truly terrifying.

Fu Qing caught sight of Xie Yan from the corner of his eye and instinctively loosened his grip. The man struggled out of the sink and collapsed weakly onto the floor, coughing violently.

The other man bolted immediately, not even checking on his friend.

Xie Yan ignored both of them and walked over to Fu Qing.

His ears and cheeks were flushed red. His brows and eyes drooped slightly as he said softly, “Normally in this kind of situation, I’d be the one throwing punches.”

Fu Qing froze—he hadn’t expected Xie Yan to say that.

Xie Yan paused, then added, “But I’m drunk tonight and don’t have the strength. Thank you, Fu Ge, for standing up for me.”

He didn’t say things like stop fighting, you hit the wrong person, or this might cause trouble—those kinds of discouraging words that only make people feel worse.

Because Fu Ge had stood up for him.

Xie Yan wasn’t stupid. He had a vague idea of what rumors were going around.

Fu Qing understood what Xie Yan was worried about—that his street-fighter past might bring trouble. He gave a crooked, cold smile. “There won’t be any trouble. Don’t worry about them calling the cops. I dealt with the police all the time when I was collecting debts. I know the limits.”

He had actually held back just now. In a situation like that, any kind of violence would’ve been justified. But out of consideration for Xie Yan, Fu Qing hadn’t used any methods that would leave marks.

Xie Yan turned to the other sink and washed his face. “I’ll go tell the director we’re leaving.”

The man was long gone.

On the way back, the corridor seemed especially long.

Fu Qing asked softly, “The day those roses were delivered, was there anything else inside?”

Xie Yan lowered his gaze and answered casually, “Besides the roses, there was a ten-million check. For the crew. An investment.”

At that moment, Fu Qing forgot to breathe.

He had already suspected it from the things that man had said but hearing it confirmed from Xie Yan still felt unreal.

He had sent the roses, but there had been no check.

Xie Yan was annoyed by the whole situation, but he didn’t want to drag Fu Qing into it. He brushed it off lightly. “It was for the film. It’s done now. No big deal.”

How could it be no big deal?

Sending roses was an impulsive act of affection, something that could still be passed off as the gesture of a fan. But including a check? Even if it was for the film’s production, people would still talk.

What they had heard today was just one instance—there were surely many more people in many more places saying even uglier things.

Fu Qing had lived thirty-two years and never cared much about gossip or what others said behind his back. But now they were insulting and slandering the person he held closest to his heart—his Xiao Xie.

That wouldn’t do.

After saying goodbye to Sun Huaijun, Xie Yan went back, while Fu Qing went to find the hotel manager and paid for the door Xie Yan had kicked in. Then he headed downstairs to the parking lot, opened the car door, and waited until Xie Yan got into the passenger seat.

The night breeze was cool, both windows were open, and Fu Qing didn’t say a word the entire way.

He lit a cigarette but didn’t smoke it, just held it between his left index and middle fingers. His knuckles tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel—loudly.

The aftereffects of baijiu were strong. Xie Yan had forced himself to sober up earlier, but now the haze was back. He was about seventy or eighty percent drunk, eyes barely open, though his half-lidded gaze stayed fixed on Fu Qing.

Suddenly, he shifted toward the driver’s seat and gently tugged on Fu Qing’s sleeve.

Fu Qing turned to look at him.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but the corners of Xie Yan’s eyes were tinged with the deep red of a rose—vivid and heavy, flushed across his cheeks in wide, blooming strokes. His wrist was slender and pale, the veins clearly visible beneath his thin skin, and his grip on Fu Qing was delicate.

He spoke in a soft voice, “Don’t knock your left hand like that. It’ll hurt.”

Fu Qing unconsciously glanced at his left arm, at a scar he sometimes even forgot himself.

Xie Yan remembered. Even drunk and dazed, he hadn’t forgotten.

Fu Qing pulled the car over to the side.

Xie Yan’s mind wasn’t clear—every thought took a long time to process, and he had to carefully piece together words before speaking.

He kept holding onto Fu Qing’s sleeve, staying like that for a while before continuing, “Don’t care about what stupid people say. I won’t be upset. I really won’t.”

He paused for a moment.

Xie Yan hadn’t even considered the possibility that Fu Qing might believe the rumors—he only worried that Fu Qing would be upset by them.

He went on, “No matter what those people say, it won’t affect me. But if Fu Ge gets upset because of it, that’s what would make me sad.”

Fu Qing knew Xie Yan was truly drunk. When he was sober, he would never say a word like “sad”—to him, it sounded too much like weakness.

He was about to comfort his drunk Xiao Xie when, unexpectedly, Xie Yan sat up and leaned half his body onto him, clutching Fu Qing’s left hand tightly. Head tilted up, eyes shimmering with tears, he looked like he was pleading, “Fu Ge, can you not make me sad?”

That sentence made Fu Qing’s heart twist up into a knot.

Why was his Xiao Xie so lovable? Why did he make him fall harder every single second?

Fu Qing lowered his head and couldn’t help but press his lips lightly to Xie Yan’s black hair at the temple. It was only for a moment—not even skin touched skin, not even enough to count as a kiss.

He said, “I know.”

But he had indeed done something wrong.