Spoiled - Chapter 5

The fingers covering the rim of Fang Baijing’s glass were clearly jointed, resting lightly on the edge as if merely shielding it. The voice reaching his ears was exceptionally clear amid the noisy banquet, and with it the sounds from the entire table slowly quieted.

Fang Baijing subconsciously turned his head and met his eyes.

This was the first time he had looked at the man beside him since sitting down. He had deep-set brows, a high straight nose, and every gesture carried a natural nobility. Yet there was little emotion in his eyes; his gaze fell on Fang Baijing without any discernible fluctuation.

The man’s brows slightly furrowed, and he repeated: “No more drinking.”

Fang Baijing, already muddle-headed from alcohol, reacted slowly. His tone was as belligerent as ever: “Who are you?”

The unspoken meaning was—What business is it of yours?

Fang Baijing normally was not so abrasive toward strangers, but the excitement of the moment and the alcohol rushing to his brain brought out his stubborn streak.

The moment he finished speaking, his back was tapped by his manager sitting beside him.

Sister Cai whispered a reminder in his ear: “Speak nicely.”

Fang Baijing only felt baffled. He was in a good mood and had drunk a few cups. This stranger beside him was acting like his father, forbidding him to drink.

He heard Sister Cai’s words, but they went in one ear and out the other.

Fang Baijing opened his mouth, ready to retort again.

“Baijing!” The director, sitting on Fu Feng’s other side, stepped in to smooth things over. He gave Fang Baijing a meaningful look and said: “This is President Fu. Baijing, why don’t you toast President Fu?”

Fang Baijing finally belatedly realized who the man beside him was. He had heard Fu Feng’s name because Fang Baijing happened to have a friend who could loosely be considered Fu Feng’s childhood friend—Xiao Jing.

Even more coincidentally, Fang Baijing had actually gone to the same high school as him. However, Fu Feng was three years his senior; Fang Baijing started high school just as Fu Feng graduated.

This was his first time meeting Fu Feng, but he had heard Fu Feng’s reputation mentioned countless times.

Fang Baijing tentatively called: “Fu Feng?”

The alcohol did not affect his pronunciation; the name was uttered clearly and accurately.

Fu Feng’s gaze lingered on him a long time. Just when Fang Baijing thought he would not respond, Fu Feng finally gave an “Mm.”

Fang Baijing’s eyes curved in a smile, and he casually struck up conversation with Fu Feng like an old acquaintance: “I’m Xiao Jing’s friend. He talks about you often.”

The moment he said it, Fang Baijing regretted it—why did that sound like shamelessly cozying up to someone important?

To Fang Baijing’s surprise, Fu Feng seemed to give him respect, or perhaps it was merely simple courtesy.

Fu Feng slowly and deliberately nodded and said: “I know.”

Fang Baijing rubbed his nose, not quite believing Fu Feng really knew. He raised his cup and gently clinked it against Fu Feng’s glass, smiling as he said: “A toast to you.”

There was wine in the stemmed glass before Fu Feng, but he had not touched it.

Fang Baijing assumed he would not drink this time either. To his astonishment, amid the crisp clinking of glass on glass, Fu Feng’s fingers lightly supported the base of the cup. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He did not drink much, but he drank at least a little.

Fang Baijing felt quite surprised and muttered quietly to himself: “Wow, giving me face like that?”

For the latter half of the banquet Fang Baijing did not continue talking to Fu Feng. After all, he felt he and Fu Feng were not the same type of person, and there was no need to waste effort on someone indifferent.

Moreover, with the numerous things Fang Baijing had heard about Fu Feng before, he had already formed a rough impression—probably a distant and difficult-to-approach “flower of the high mountain.”

He was the only son of the Fu family. He had studied many times more subjects than others since childhood. Anyone else might have broken down, but Fu Feng excelled at everything. Xiao Jing used to complain to him constantly about being compared to Fu Feng.

Fang Baijing took the opportunity to sneak a peek at Fu Feng’s plate.

He had barely touched his food and did not speak, only responding expressionlessly when other investors and the director complimented him.

Fang Baijing could not help inwardly grumbling: What is this obsession? Just coming over to sit?

Because filming had wrapped, Fang Baijing was in a mood so good he felt he was floating. He drank a lot, refusing no one. By the end he was incoherent, sitting where he was with head lowered, trying to maintain a semblance of consciousness.

The male second lead, who had a decent relationship with him during filming, walked over with a glass of wine. He placed his hand before Fang Baijing, intending to put an arm around Fang Baijing’s shoulder, but Fang Baijing subtly avoided it.

He did not mind and continued to smile: “Baijing! One more drink!”

“I…”

Before Fang Baijing could refuse, Fu Feng inexplicably interjected again. He blocked the male second lead with an indifferent expression and said: “He’s not drinking anymore.”

Fang Baijing’s nerves were dull right now and he could not react, but the male second lead standing beside him paused. He quickly turned his face to smile at Fu Feng: “President Fu, then may I toast you?”

Fu Feng’s cool eyes met his gaze and he said concisely: “No need.”

The male second lead, having been rebuffed, tactfully left, leaving only Fang Baijing rubbing his temples. He held his head up with his hand, looking very uncomfortable.

Fang Baijing’s face was pale. The sudden surge of nausea in his stomach made him stand up abruptly and head for the restroom.

Sister Cai, worried, hurried after him on her five-centimeter high heels.

She finally caught up to Fang Baijing and was about to take his arm, but a force shoved her hand aside. What appeared before her was the perfectly neat cuff of a shirt.

Fu Feng supported Fang Baijing’s arm. He slightly tilted his head and said: “I will look after him.”

Sister Cai’s steps were hesitant. She was a dedicated manager, and since Fang Baijing was young and prone to trouble, she was always cautious.

Fu Feng lowered his eyes and explained to Sister Cai: “We are friends.”

Fu Feng had been low-key for more than twenty years, but as soon as he returned to the country and took over the Fu family, reports about him flew all over the world.

He had suppressed much of the information, but he could not stop the photos that leaked for a few minutes. At the very least, Sister Cai knew who he was.

Moreover, Sister Cai had heard Fang Baijing talk to Fu Feng earlier and guessed they truly had some history. She originally had other work scheduled for the evening but had only come because she was worried about Fang Baijing.

It turned out her presence was useless; that brat Fang Baijing simply would not listen.

The phone in her handbag rang again like a death knell. Sister Cai hesitantly scrutinized Fu Feng—he had a handsome and proper appearance; he looked quite reliable.

Sister Cai smiled apologetically at him and said: “Then I’ll trouble you, President Fu. Just get a room and dump him on the bed.”

There was no one else in the empty corridor. Fang Baijing’s legs were as weak as cooked noodles, and he kept falling into Fu Feng’s arms like a teetering tumbler.

Fu Feng circled Fang Baijing, who was leaning on him, and asked: “Do you still feel like throwing up?”

The discomfort in his stomach came and went in waves. Fu Feng’s scent was very calming.

Fang Baijing shook his head impatiently.

Fu Feng walked him toward the elevator without changing expression. He pulled an access card from his pocket, scanned it at the elevator panel with a “beep—” and finally pressed the button for the top-floor suite.

Fang Baijing was completely drunk. His head was spinning like a small fishing boat in waves. He could only feel himself being helped onto a soft sagging mattress. The feeling of nausea vanished; all he wanted now was sleep.

He flopped onto the bed, rested his head, and prepared to drift off, but a pair of slightly cool hands cupped his chin, gently lifting his face.

Fang Baijing let out an irritated “Tsk.” He wanted to open his eyes to see who was being so bothersome, but his eyelids were too heavy, as if fighting to stay closed.

He could only vaguely feel someone was wiping his face.

Fang Baijing mumbled: “Don’t be noisy,” and fell asleep with eyes tightly shut.

Before sinking into deep sleep, in a state of confusion and illusion, Fang Baijing felt fingers brush against his cheek. The touch was very light, just simply stroking his face.

“Don’t drink so much anymore.”

Fang Baijing could not hear this instruction anymore. He rested half his cheek in Fu Feng’s palm, sleeping soundly and quietly.

Fang Baijing woke up a few hours later, alerted by his own smell. Clinging to a nearly exploding headache, he calmly scratched his head before beginning to survey his surroundings.

He found himself in a strange suite. His gaze stopped on the glass table in the corner, and only then did Fang Baijing fully come to.

Fu Feng was sitting by the glass table, still wearing the same clothes from last night, though now they were inevitably a bit wrinkled. In front of Fu Feng was a bound notebook and a cup of coffee.

Noticing the movement on the bed, he slowly and deliberately looked up and asked: “Awake?”

“Awake.” Fang Baijing subconsciously nodded, and out of confusion asked: “Why is it you? Where’s Sister Cai?”

Fu Feng took a sip of the bitter coffee and explained: “Your manager left.”

Seeing Fang Baijing’s surprised expression, Fu Feng added: “She handed you over to me.”

The phrasing always sounded strange.

Fang Baijing sniffed himself. His face was even paler than when he was drunk earlier.

“Do you need me to order a sobering-up tea for you?”

“No need,” Fang Baijing refused. “I’m fine.”

Fu Feng said “Mm-hm,” but then took the liberty of calling his assistant: “Sobering-up tea.”

“…” Since that was the case, Fang Baijing hesitated and called out to Fu Feng: “Can you help me get a set of clothes too?”

Fu Feng carefully looked him over.

Fang Baijing was dressed casually in his most comfortable sweatpants and sweatshirt combination, which was now crumpled from sleep.

He nodded and continued to instruct: “Send another set of clothes over. For a boy who is 180 cm and 62.5 kg.”

Fang Baijing opened his mouth in confusion and could not help blurting: “Is your eye a measuring device? You can tell just by looking?”

His question was not very polite, but Fu Feng calmly replied: “I know.”

Fu Feng suddenly turned his head. His light-colored eyes stared at Fang Baijing without blinking. Just as Fang Baijing felt his scalp tingling from the stare, Fu Feng finally said: “Come here.”

Although Fang Baijing was annoyed, he was currently at the mercy of others, so he reluctantly walked over.

He was a bit confused about the situation. Fu Feng’s current attitude made him wonder—did he hit his head? Was he actually supposed to know Fu Feng?

Fu Feng handed him the thick notebook in his hand. Fang Baijing casually glanced down and suddenly could not look away.

In front of him was a contract, and a newly bound script. The script cover had only a single decisive character: “Wang (王).”

Everyone knew that Wang was a film Director Li Anyue planned to shoot this year or next. He had achieved fame young, winning countless awards, but he was still missing one foreign award.

And this movie—was meant to compete for that award, and the award’s prestige was very high.

Fang Baijing momentarily could not figure out Fu Feng’s intention. He hesitantly took the script from Fu Feng’s hand. His fingers felt like ants were crawling on them; the desire to open the script was intense.

“Fang Baijing.”

“Yes?” Fang Baijing instinctively answered. Fu Feng’s voice was pleasant, and his words were clear.

But the next moment Fang Baijing could not help throwing Fu Feng’s unfinished coffee cup onto his face, because Fu Feng had said something utterly absurd—“Be with me.”

“Are you sick?” Fang Baijing was stunned for a moment, then immediately burst into curses after reacting.

He felt Fu Feng was insulting him. What did this mean? Was it not just asking him to use sex to exchange for resources?

Still angry, he threw the script and contract onto the floor before Fu Feng with a “smack” and yelled: “Do I care about your script? Disgusting!”

Fu Feng’s expression was oddly free of anger. Coffee stains marked his white shirt. Fu Feng pulled a few tissues and calmly wiped the wet parts of his face.

He lowered his eyebrows, unbuttoned his shirt, and with perfect composure repeated: “Be with me.” This time he added a few more sentences: “Anything you want, I will give you.”

Because this was Fu Feng’s way of showing affection; the script was just his long-planned meeting gift.