Upon closer reflection, it seemed that Gu Congli’s change in attitude toward her had started after she met his grandmother at the gym.

But Shi Yin had indeed been tempted.

Gu Congli would help her with her artwork—he truly understood her so well.

Just imagining a future where she lounged on the couch snacking and watching TV dramas while Gu Congli toiled away behind his computer, hunched over his digital tablet, diligently drawing连载 updates for her...

It felt almost blasphemous.

And yet, she loved the idea.

Shi Yin thought this was the epitome of life’s pleasures—nothing could top it.

She picked up a piece of steamed pork rib from her plate, popped it into her mouth, and chewed as her cheeks puffed out. She spat out the bone and said, “Then let’s start working on Chapter Four of Hong Ming Long Que today.”

Her heart pounded wildly, and her fingers trembled slightly with nervousness.

Gu Congli: “….”

Shi Yin, ever kind-hearted, suggested, “I can’t just sit around doing nothing. How about we split the work fifty-fifty?”

Gu Congli placed a crystal shrimp dumpling onto her plate and said, “Go home and start drawing. Fire your assistant.”

Shi Yin’s eyes widened. “Who?”

“Your assistant,” Gu Congli paused, then added, “The one with a key to your house.”

Shi Yin missed the point entirely. “Editor-in-Chief, be reasonable. Qiuqiu is an excellent assistant.”

“I’ll draw for you. That’s enough.”

“…That’s not the same thing.”

Gu Congli pushed the peanut shaved ice toward her. “It absolutely is the same thing. I don’t want to visit your house one day, only to see some man walking in with his own key.”

Shi Yin felt uneasy about his words, sensing something off but unable to pinpoint what exactly. She decided to skip the topic altogether and earnestly remarked, “Editor-in-Chief, you’re surprisingly talkative today.”

He was speaking twice as much as usual.

Gu Congli looked at her, suddenly furrowing his brows. “Isn’t this what all young girls like?”

Shi Yin: “What do you mean?”

“Flattery,” Gu Congli said seriously.

“…”

Shi Yin suddenly realized that Gu Congli’s grasp of idioms was… questionable, to say the least.

She should’ve noticed this back when he used “morning three, evening four” incorrectly.

After finishing their dim sum, it was still a workday, and Gu Congli had to return to the office. Shi Yin went home alone.

Once she was by herself, the silence allowed all the messy thoughts she’d temporarily forgotten to flood back into her mind.

Shi Yin wanted to check Weibo to see what people were saying but hesitated, afraid to look.

She lay down on her bed, grabbed a pillow, and covered her head, moaning and rolling around as she muttered, “So am I officially together with Gu Congli now? Did I silently agree to it just now? Wasn’t my response pretty obvious? Does that count as tacit consent? But it doesn’t feel any different from before… The way we interact, the way he talks to me—it all feels the same as always…”

Yet when she imagined the scene—a tearoom, her shyly blushing, awkwardly saying “I do” like accepting a marriage proposal—

“…”

It was too embarrassing.

Unspeakable.

And utterly mortifying.

Moreover, she couldn’t help but dwell on why Gu Congli pursued her in the first place.

With a sudden jerk, she yanked the pillow off her face and stared at the pristine white ceiling. Raising her hand, she slapped her cheeks three times, pointed at the ceiling, and declared solemnly, “Shi Yin, we’re adults here. It’s just dating—not marriage negotiations. It’s no big deal, and the reasons don’t matter either. Can you act a little more mature?”

“You’re not some naive girl anymore. Stop obsessing over questions like ‘Does he love me?’ Whether his grandmother likes you or he does personally—it’s all the same, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking things.”

Silence reigned for a few seconds before her expression crumpled in defeat. “But how can you date someone without liking them…? Dating requires feelings…”

The next day, after Trembling Lynx’s tweet had gone viral, Shi Yin spent the entire afternoon meticulously compiling screenshots of all relevant chat records, documents, and timestamps related to their collaboration.

She poured her heart into writing a lengthy post on Weibo, utilizing every ounce of literary skill she possessed to clearly explain the events leading up to Trembling Lynx’s accusations—from their initial partnership to the present situation.

If Gu Congli hadn’t advised her to wait, she might have impulsively posted the clarification immediately.

By late afternoon the following day, Shi Yin received a barrage of messages from Lin Youhe via WeChat.

Sweet Apple Candy-sensei must’ve been overwhelmed with work lately. His new series was serialized weekly in a magazine, and given his inhuman productivity, he also managed another monthly serialization in a shoujo manga publication.

Despite his packed schedule, Lin Youhe bombarded her with over ten consecutive messages:

[School Tyrant Sweetie: I saw that tweet on Weibo.]

[School Tyrant Sweetie: What’s going on with you?]

[School Tyrant Sweetie: Who’s Trembling Lynx?]

[School Tyrant Sweetie: Your webcomic looks pretty good. Is he the scriptwriter?]

[School Tyrant Sweetie: I read his claim that you altered his storyline.]

And so on, a deluge of questions.

Several hours later, he sent a few more:

[School Tyrant Sweetie: Oh, I like this twist.]

[School Tyrant Sweetie: Guess I worried about you for nothing. Alright, I’m off to work.]

Shi Yin: “….”

Completely baffled, she sent him an emoji: [What twist?]

A few minutes later, after returning from pouring herself a glass of water, Lin Youhe replied: [?]

[School Tyrant Sweetie: On Weibo. Didn’t you handle it?]

Holding her glass, Shi Yin tilted her head and opened Weibo, clicking into Trembling Lynx’s profile.

The pinned tweet was still the same accusatory post titled, [Please give me an explanation, Teacher Shi Yi ], with an overwhelming number of comments underneath.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first glance.

Confused, Shi Yin scrolled through the comments with a mix of masochistic curiosity and apprehension. The top-voted comment caught her eye—

[Stop playing dead and ignoring this. Little miss, care to explain? I actually fell for your act, thinking you two were such a loving couple. Hah.]

“…”

Shi Yin: “Huh?”

She blinked, still not quite grasping what was going on. Fearful of being manipulated again, her actions outpaced her thoughts, and she quickly took a screenshot before continuing to scroll.

The comments were more or less the same—though one earlier post stood out as it defended Trembling Lynx and criticized Shi Yin instead.

After scrolling for a long time, Shi Yin finally pieced together the plotline.

All of Trembling Lynx’s works since his debut—except for those from his first year, which had been poorly written and failed to make any impact—had not been entirely his own creation. In his early years, some outlines had been ghostwritten, but everything after his breakout hit mystery novel had been penned by… his wife.

Shi Yin’s jaw nearly dropped.

This twist? She hadn’t seen it coming at all.

The whistleblower turned out to be one of his die-hard fans—a loyal follower who had supported him since he first started writing, sticking with him for six whole years.

When a die-hard fan turns black, it’s terrifying because you never know how much dirt they’ve dug up on the author.

Following a link in the comment section, Shi Yin clicked into the die-hard fan’s Weibo profile. The top-pinned post was a lengthy thread filled with images.

It was clear that this person had once genuinely loved Trembling Lynx.

She had started following him over six years ago when his writing was clumsy, his plots immature, and his content downright terrible. She liked his pen name and felt sorry for him because he seemed so lonely and neglected, so she kept reading.

Gradually, Trembling Lynx’s books improved and became enjoyable.

The die-hard fan believed he had honed his skills over time. Watching him gain recognition, grow in popularity, and accumulate followers—from 100 to 1,000 to 10,000—left her feeling bittersweet. She was proud to have recognized his potential early on, thrilled to see him succeed, yet also overwhelmed by an inexplicable sense of melancholy, like watching a child grow up too fast.

But Trembling Lynx himself didn’t seem to change—he remained cheerful and full of positive energy. The die-hard fan thought he was wonderful, the best author in the world, and vowed to love him forever.

By then, she’d been a fan for two years.

Because of him, she developed a passion for mysteries. She read countless books on the subject, devoured classic works by renowned mystery writers, and watched every relevant movie and TV show she could find.

Inspired, she began writing her own first novel—an ambitious novella-length piece. She poured her heart into it, spending every waking moment thinking about the plot and outline.

Once it was finished, she was overjoyed and immediately sent it to Trembling Lynx via private message, sharing it with him.

She hadn’t expected him to reply—he had tens of thousands of fans, after all—but she did it purely out of admiration.

To her surprise, Trembling Lynx responded.

He praised her work, calling it impressive and describing her as a genius.

It felt like fireworks exploding in her mind.

But after complimenting her, Trembling Lynx expressed envy.

Noticing his unhappiness, the die-hard fan asked why.

Without pretense, Trembling Lynx opened up to her. They talked late into the night, until three or four in the morning, only putting down their phones as dawn broke.

Trembling Lynx confessed that after two years of writing, he had hit a wall. What had once been a boundless pursuit of mystery and dreams now felt like a dead end. He couldn’t come up with new cases or ideas anymore. He feared that Trembling Lynx—the name he’d built—would soon fade away. He envied her talent and wished he could write something as captivating as her story.

He repeatedly emphasized how much he loved her work and thanked her profusely.

Moved, the die-hard fan immediately offered him the story.

Her family owned a sizable business, and she was incredibly wealthy. Having just graduated from university, she wasn’t in a rush to find a job and had no aspirations as a writer. She had only started writing because of him, and giving him her story meant nothing to her.

All she wanted was for him to keep writing—to continue posting updates, sharing snippets of his daily life, and chatting with readers online.

She didn’t want him to fade into obscurity.

And so, Trembling Lynx made minor edits to her story and published it.

That book became the breakthrough hit that catapulted him to fame.

As Trembling Lynx had said, the die-hard fan truly had talent.

Though her prose was still somewhat raw, her storytelling had an irresistible pull that made readers want to keep turning the pages.

Through this incident, the die-hard fan grew closer to Trembling Lynx.

They exchanged contact information and chatted every single day, often staying up until the early hours of the morning.

The more they interacted, the more she realized how wonderful he was—funny, talkative, considerate, and mature.

Having been raised in luxury and never having dated, she experienced unfamiliar feelings for the first time.

She wanted to talk to him constantly, wondering what he was doing at every moment. Every happy event in her life made her eager to share it with him immediately.

But the gap between them felt insurmountable. She was just a reader; he was the esteemed author.

So when Trembling Lynx confessed his feelings to her, the die-hard fan trembled with excitement.

What could be more joyous than realizing someone you admire feels the same way about you?

Nothing came to mind.

She longed to meet him, to see him in person. Her desire transcended their daily chats.

Naturally, they met.

Living in different cities, Trembling Lynx even expressed willingness to relocate to her city for her.

“My parents are divorced, and both have remarried,” he told her. “I don’t belong anywhere. As long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter where I am.”

Overwhelmed, the die-hard fan cried in his arms. This man was perfect, she thought. She would cherish him forever and give him anything he desired.

On their wedding day, she believed herself to be the happiest person in the world.

Her father walked her down the aisle and handed her over to the man waiting at the altar.

Spoiled as the princess of her household, this was her first love. They stood in the church, vowing to support and cherish each other through good times and bad, wealth and poverty, sickness and health.

The die-hard fan resolved to learn how to be a good wife. She swore to dedicate her life to loving and supporting him.

Watching A Chinese Odyssey , she remembered how Zixia said, “My destined lover is a legendary hero. One day, he’ll come riding on clouds of seven colors to marry me.”

How envious she had been! She dreamed of becoming Zixia, meeting her own Supreme Treasure.

Now, dressed in white, she married the man of her dreams.

She forgot—one thing. In the end, Zixia and Supreme Treasure never stayed together.