Spoiled - Chapter 2

Fang Baijing was only a supporting male character in this drama, with few lines and even fewer scenes. Most of his day had been spent waiting on the sidelines.

In a little while they’d shoot the part where his character escorted Chen Yun home. For now, though, he lingered at the far edge of the set, watching the props team arrange an antique street that looked almost real under the brutal July sun.

He was a good distance from Chen Yun and the others. The heat was oppressive; it sat on his chest like a stone, making his heart beat too fast for no reason he wanted to name.

He pressed his lips together, glanced around—no one was looking—and let his gaze drift, just for a second, toward the Maybach parked incongruity among the faux Qing-dynasty facades. The tinted windows were rolled up tight. Nothing to see.

Fang Baijing’s brows drew together. Was Fu Feng really going to pretend he wasn’t here?

He’d been perfectly obedient all day, hitting every mark, delivering every line exactly as written. No ad-libs, no extra glances at the camera. Professional to a fault.

He and Chen Yun were both seasoned enough that the director rarely called for a second take. It was a commercial project, the weather was hell, and everyone wanted to wrap and go home. They made it easy on each other.

As soon as the director yelled cut on the last setup, Chen Yun peeled off the outer robe she’d worn over her modern clothes and sighed in relief. Fang Baijing wordlessly handed her the little handheld fan he’d been hoarding. When he smiled, the tips of his canines peeked out.

“Good work today, Sister Yun,” he said.

She snorted, taking the fan. “With you, it’s never work. With Zhuang Chengyan today? I aged ten years.”

The Maybach still hadn’t moved. Fang Baijing’s answer came out distracted. “Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

The driver’s door opened. Driver Wang stepped out.

Fang Baijing startled like someone had jabbed him with a pin. “I—I’ve got to change,” he blurted, already backing away. The hem of his costume caught under his heel; he stumbled, caught himself, and bolted.

Chen Yun stared after him, then turned just in time to see the rear door of the Maybach open. Driver Wang stood at attention.

The man who emerged was tall, posture perfect, black suit untouched by the heat. Even from thirty meters away he looked untouchable, like he belonged to some colder climate.

Chen Yun’s memory clicked. Charity gala, six months ago. She’d been tucked at the back of the first-floor hall, nursing a glass of warm champagne. Everyone had gone quiet when he walked in—hand on the ruby-studded railing, face cold enough to freeze the air, silver brooch with its dangling chains the only rebellious touch.

Fu Feng. The Fu family’s only son. Newly returned from overseas. The kind of name whispered with either reverence or fear, sometimes both.

He had looked straight through the crowd that night and disappeared upstairs. Tonight he was here, on a mid-tier period drama set that smelled of sweat and dry ice.

Chen Yun forgot to breathe for a second.

By the time she remembered, Fu Feng was already gone—vanished into the maze of temporary dressing rooms, driver closing the door behind him like a secret.

Inside the single-occupancy changing room Fang Baijing had claimed, the air was thick and stale. He locked the door, yanked off the heavy wig, and ruffled his damp hair with both hands. No messages on his phone. Good. Or bad. He wasn’t sure.

He grabbed the T-shirt he’d left on the chair and slipped into the small fitting cubicle attached to the room. The bulb overhead flickered, half-dead but stubborn.

The costume was a nightmare—layer after layer of silk brocade, ties in places ties had no business being. He’d never worn this particular set before; the knots fought back like they had a personal grudge. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. After five solid minutes of wrestling he was close to tearing the whole thing off with his teeth.

A rhythmic knock came from the cubicle door.

“Ji Weile?” he called, assuming his assistant had finally shown up. “Get in here and help me before I commit murder on imperial property.”

He twisted the lock and turned back to the mirror, yanking at another stubborn cord.

Heavy footsteps. One step. Two.

The hairs on his nape rose. He spun and kicked the door hard enough to rattle it in the frame.

Too late. A larger hand braced the flimsy panel from the other side, pushed once, and the door swung inward like it weighed nothing.

Fu Feng stepped inside, closed the door, and turned the lock again. Click.

The tiny space shrank around them. Fu Feng had to duck slightly so the dying bulb didn’t graze his hair. His shadow swallowed the light.

Fang Baijing’s back hit the wall. There was nowhere else to go.

“You—” His voice cracked. “Get out.”

Fu Feng didn’t answer. He just looked—slow, deliberate, the way a person studies something they’ve already decided belongs to them.

The cologne Fang Baijing had smelled earlier on set was stronger now, cold and expensive, curling into his lungs.

Fu Feng moved forward until barely a handspan separated them. Then he reached out, hooked two fingers under the half-undone belt at Fang Baijing’s waist, and tugged.

The knot finally gave. A cascade of silk slid free.

“Before,” Fu Feng said, voice low, “was it always your assistant who undressed you?”

His palm settled warm against the bare skin just above Fang Baijing’s hip, thumb tracing idle circles.

Fang Baijing’s breath hitched. The fitting room was too small, too hot, and suddenly the only heartbeat he could hear was his own—racing, traitorous, impossibly loud against the silence.

“None of your, none of your—”

The moment Fu Feng’s fingertips brushed the soft skin at his waist, whatever spine Fang Baijing had managed to scrape together dissolved. His knees buckled; he sagged forward, forehead knocking lightly against Fu Feng’s collarbone.

“…It’s only the outer robe that’s complicated,” he muttered, the words muffled against expensive wool. “I always wear the rest myself.”

Fu Feng made a low sound of acknowledgment, almost a hum, right beside his ear. It vibrated through Fang Baijing’s bones and turned the last of his resistance into smoke.

The knots Fang Baijing had twisted into hopeless snarls looked, under the sickly bulb, like some kind of cruel puzzle. Fu Feng crouched, suit jacket pulling taut across his shoulders, and studied them with the same detached focus he probably gave quarterly reports.

He worked in silence, patient, methodical. Long fingers slipped cords free one by one. When a particularly stubborn knot resisted, the space between his brows creased for half a second before smoothing again.

Fang Baijing stared down at the top of Fu Feng’s head, dazed. The man looked impossibly out of place—kneeling on a cracked linoleum floor in a thousand-yuan suit just to untie some actor’s costume—like a god who’d wandered into the wrong myth.

Less than a minute. That was all it took. The heavy outer robe sighed to the ground.

Fu Feng didn’t stop. His hands moved to the second layer, then the third.

Fang Baijing jolted awake. “Wait—I can—”

He tried to twist away. There was nowhere to go. Fu Feng’s arm snaked around his waist and reeled him back in until the wall kissed his shoulder blades again.

The last tie came undone. Cool air hit bare skin.

Fang Baijing’s arms flew up to cover himself, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I’ll do it, I’ll—Fu Feng!” His voice cracked. He flushed crimson, swallowed every real curse he knew, and finally managed a scandalized, “Pervert! Hands off, I can undress myself!”

The innermost layer—a thin silk under-robe—slid off one shoulder and caught on his elbow. Moon-pale skin, littered with last night’s bruises and teeth marks, glowed under the flickering light.

Fu Feng’s gaze tracked over every mark like he was cataloguing proof.

Fang Baijing’s chest heaved. He kicked out—bare foot, no real force. Fu Feng caught his ankle easily, thumb pressing against the fragile bones.

“Still angry?” Fu Feng asked, rising slowly. The hand on Fang Baijing’s ankle slid up to his calf, possessive. “I’m the one who should be settling accounts.”

Fang Baijing bared his teeth. “Let go—”

Fu Feng kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It never was. His mouth sealed over Fang Baijing’s, swallowing the rest of the protest. One hand clamped Fang Baijing’s jaw, tilting it exactly where he wanted; the other kept that captured leg hooked around his hip, pinning him open to the wall.

Fang Baijing made a helpless, furious noise in his throat.

Knock knock knock.

“Young Master Bai? You almost done?” Ji Weile’s voice, muffled through two doors. “Need help?”

Fang Baijing’s eyes flew wide. He scrabbled at Fu Feng’s shoulders, nails digging in—stop, stop—

Fu Feng broke the kiss but didn’t let go. Before Fang Baijing could suck in enough air to shout, a broad palm sealed over his mouth.

Hot breath spilled against Fu Feng’s fingers. Fang Baijing glared daggers, chest heaving.

Fu Feng glanced toward the door, perfectly calm.

“Go back first,” Fu Feng called, voice steady and authoritative, as if Ji Weile took orders from him every day. “He’s fine.”

A pause. Then the soft click of the outer dressing-room door closing.

The palm over Fang Baijing’s mouth lifted.

“Fu Feng, you—”

The threatened slap started upward, gained speed—then faltered. Fang Baijing’s hand froze mid-air, trembled, and finally dropped against Fu Feng’s chest with a defeated thud.

Fu Feng looked down at him, eyes pale and unreadable in the dim light.

“Be good,” he said quietly, fingers threading through Fang Baijing’s. “I haven’t settled the score with you yet.”