Not everything in this world is a fairy tale.

Some say that the good and bad things one encounters in life are evenly balanced—if you’ve endured too much misfortune, happiness must surely await you in the future.

The die-hard fan had a beautiful name—Han Dan. It sounded similar to “Han Dan,” referring to an unopened lotus bud.

Having been pampered for over two decades, Han Dan’s misfortunes began later in life.

Trembling Lynx didn’t have much money. Much of the royalties from his books had gone toward their wedding expenses. Han Dan’s parents bought them a house and a car, and with Trembling Lynx not needing to work outside the home, the couple spent their days together sweetly and blissfully.

Soon after, the new book Han Dan helped him write came to an end.

Trembling Lynx began brainstorming ideas for his next novel. He spent entire days holed up in his study, only emerging late at night to sleep.

At first, she assumed he was working on his new book.

One day, however, she accidentally discovered that his gaming interface was still open.

He wasn’t writing at all—just playing games all day and night.

When she confronted him, Trembling Lynx lost his temper for the first time, accusing her of barging into his study uninvited. They argued, but later he apologized, claiming he lacked inspiration, couldn’t write anything, and felt immense pressure every day.

Han Dan understood. Writing wasn’t easy, especially for someone as ambitious and prideful as him. If he couldn’t produce work that satisfied himself, it was natural for him to feel frustrated.

She tried to help by brainstorming new mystery plots, offering as much assistance as possible. After all, they were now a family—a single unit.

She wrote her second mystery novel and, the day before Trembling Lynx’s birthday, quietly placed a USB drive containing the manuscript on his desk.

Trembling Lynx was delighted and treated her even better than before. His fanbase on Weibo grew steadily, and Han Dan enjoyed scrolling through his posts. His tweets were filled with snippets of their daily lives, documenting their love and affection. His fans knew he was married and admired how devoted they were to each other.

These illusions blinded her to many truths.

For instance, he grew increasingly lazy. At first, Han Dan would provide outlines for him to work from, but eventually, he stopped writing altogether, leaving everything to her.

His temper also became erratic. One moment, he’d explode over trivial matters; the next, he’d apologize profusely, saying he loved her and couldn’t live without her.

In the end, all of his work fell entirely into Han Dan’s hands.

She wrote under his pen name, producing one mystery novel after another. Her writing improved, her plots grew more intricate, and her foreshadowing became masterful. Sometimes, she even forgot who she was—she began to see herself as Trembling Lynx, the rightful owner of the pseudonym.

As Trembling Lynx’s fame skyrocketed, Han Dan started feeling uneasy.

The more she interacted with readers, the stronger her sense of guilt grew. This was deception, plain and simple. Something about it felt wrong.

Han Dan told him she no longer wanted to write novels for him. She hoped Trembling Lynx would take back the reins and write his own stories.

She couldn’t bear wearing his mask any longer, deceiving readers who adored him while pretending nothing was amiss.

He was silent for a long time before finally agreeing.

It was their third year of marriage.

For three years, she had written his books.

Around this time, disaster struck Han Dan’s family. Her father’s company went bankrupt.

Her parents had been older when they had her—born in their forties—and now, nearing seventy, they lost everything overnight. Her father fell ill, and selling their property barely covered their debts. Eventually, they couldn’t even afford his medical treatment.

She asked Trembling Lynx for money to pay for her father’s treatment.

He said he had none.

Han Dan was skeptical. Though she had never lacked money and wasn’t particularly attuned to finances, Trembling Lynx had been famous for three years, during which she had worked nonstop, churning out books. Surely there should be some savings?

But months dragged on, and her father passed away.

Their properties were sold off entirely, and Han Dan brought her mother to live with them.

Trembling Lynx wasn’t happy about this. Several times, he suggested sending her mother to a nursing home.

Han Dan was furious. Her grief, anger, and months of pent-up negative emotions erupted. For the first time, they fought, and for the first time, she considered divorce.

Reluctantly, Trembling Lynx backed down, cajoling her into continuing to write for him. They needed money now, he argued—they had no parental support to fall back on.

But she couldn’t write anymore.

Her mental state deteriorated. Her mind was blank, unable to conjure a single idea. Day after day, she sat in front of the computer, unable to produce a word.

For an entire year, as Trembling Lynx realized she could no longer write, he began to change.

His gentleness and patience vanished. He became irritable, lashing out at her over the smallest inconveniences. He pulled her hair, throwing whatever he could grab at her.

Since his work didn’t require him to leave the house, he kept her under constant surveillance, forbidding her from going out and monitoring her phone and communication devices.

Meanwhile, his Weibo remained active, filled with posts about their seemingly loving relationship. Readers believed they were still deeply in love.

Over six months, Han Dan came to realize just how foolish she had been. She saw clearly the kind of monster she had fallen in love with.

He had never loved her.

From the beginning, it was all about what he could gain from her. Now that she had no value left to exploit, he revealed his true nature without hesitation.

Han Dan had read countless murder mysteries and written even more. There were moments when she considered using some of those methods on Trembling Lynx.

But she still had her mother to think about.

She calmed herself and voluntarily suggested sending her mother to a nursing home. Then, over the next six months, she wrote a new book titled Ebb Tide , secretly collecting audio evidence and other materials.

Her compliance and talent lulled Trembling Lynx into complacency, making him treat her better again.

For an entire year, the pen name “Trembling Lynx” disappeared from public view. Han Dan knew he wouldn’t settle for obscurity.

Sure enough, he found a relatively unknown but moderately popular comic artist to collaborate with, leveraging her to generate buzz for his new book.

His tactics remained as despicable as ever.

Han Dan didn’t intervene. She watched coldly as he orchestrated the whole scheme. Even when he demanded she rewrite key plot points and outlines overnight, she complied obediently.

She waited patiently until he felt invincible, smugly climbing to the rooftop of success.

Then, she would personally push him off.

Han Dan’s Weibo post was long—very long. By the time Shi Yin finished reading, her eyes were swollen from crying.

She had thought Trembling Lynx’s actions toward her were disgusting enough.

But now she realized he transcended mere “disgust.” He was an absolute scumbag.

So when the doorbell rang, Shi Yin—phone in one hand, a pack of tissues in the other—wiped her nose and shuffled over, sniffling as she opened the door. Gu Congli stood there, staring at her for several seconds.

Shi Yin’s eyes were so swollen they resembled goldfish, ready to blow bubbles if submerged in water.

“You’re practicing blowing bubbles?” Gu Congli closed the door behind him.

Shi Yin’s voice was hoarse from crying, muffled and listless. She wasn’t in the mood to banter with him. “Did you see that on Weibo? Han Dan’s story?”

“Mm,” Gu Congli replied. He carried a bag of groceries into the kitchen, placing them on the counter and unpacking them one by one.

The dining table was already filled with snacks—new treats and the latest batch of milk.

Gu Congli paused for a moment.

Shi Yin was still crying, sobbing as she ranted about Trembling Lynx: “He’s so disgusting! How can there be such scum in this world? That poor woman… he even hit her! All his novels—all of them—were written by her! Back in college, I was actually a fan of his books. I thought he was so talented, that his writing was amazing…”

Midway through her rant, something occurred to her. She suddenly looked up at him, her teary eyes wide. “Did you know about this already?”

Gu Congli pulled silken tofu out of the bag. “Mm.”

Shi Yin’s eyes widened. “How did you know? Did you stop me from posting on Weibo because you knew something like this would happen?”

“I looked into it when he first approached you for the collaboration. You weren’t well-known back then. If he really wanted to make a comic, he wouldn’t have chosen someone at your level.” Gu Congli continued arranging the food neatly, then started washing fruit. It was late autumn, and he wore a thin sweater. The contours of his shoulders and neck were sharp, and when he lowered his head, a pale stretch of skin at the nape of his neck became visible.

But none of this could ease Shi Yin’s irritation.

She hopped over to the small table next to the kitchen, plopping down and glaring at his back. “What do you mean, ‘my level’?”

“One work under your belt, low recognition, and still considered a newcomer.”

Gu Congli turned off the faucet, the sound of running water ceasing. He turned around with a plate of plump, crimson cherries.

She pouted, picked one up, and popped it into her mouth. The sweet-and-sour burst of flavor flooded her senses; the juicy flesh practically exploded in her mouth.

The comfort of good food softened her sorrow. Shi Yin unlocked her phone and opened Weibo, scrolling through the comments.

Trembling Lynx’s account had blown up. Han Dan didn’t just post a long thread—she also released audio evidence. While some die-hard fans of Trembling Lynx refused to believe it and hurled insults at her, the majority of netizens were rational enough to drown him in criticism.

Han Dan’s Weibo even featured an appearance from Teacher Shi Yi. She posted a separate apology to her, along with an audio recording:

“Regarding the plot change issue, Trembling Lynx forced me to rewrite it overnight. The entire comic collaboration was part of his plan, causing significant trouble and inconvenience to Teacher Shi Yi. I’m truly sorry.”

The comments below were overwhelmingly apologetic, formatted uniformly as “Sorry, Shi Yi.” Only a few dissenting voices remained, spewing lines like—”Trembling Lynx’s books are so logically complex, how could they possibly be written by a woman? You and this Shi Yi must’ve conspired to slander our teacher. Self-directed drama is everywhere these days, huh? Hmph.”

Shi Yin was astounded, clicking through the comments in disbelief.

Even after being hit with such damning evidence, there were still fans who refused to believe it—and their denial came laced with sexism.

Why must women make life harder for other women?

Shi Yin’s spirits lifted slightly. Her tears stopped, and she nibbled on cherries while scrolling through her phone. Gu Congli sat across from her, glancing at her. “Feeling better?”

Shi Yin nodded, chewing on the thin stem of a cherry. Suddenly remembering something, she rubbed her red, tear-streaked nose and asked hesitantly, “Editor-in-Chief, now that this has been exposed, what will happen to Trembling Lynx?”

She felt a pang of concern for Han Dan.

Gu Congli spoke indifferently. “She moved out. That cat won’t find her.”

“What about her next steps? Shouldn’t she be preparing to sue?”

“Mm, seems like she’s already working on it.”

Shi Yin fell silent, staring at him with an odd expression.

Gu Congli raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “It’s just… you seem to know everything. Things I don’t tell you, you already know. Things I don’t know, you know too.”

“Because it’s related to you.” His tone was calm as he kicked the trash bin near his feet closer to her for convenience. After a pause, he suddenly asked, “Do you want to meet her?”

Shi Yin froze.

Leaning on one hand, Gu Congli tilted his chin slightly upward. His brown eyes watched her quietly, his voice carrying a lazy drawl. “If you want to meet her, I can take you.”

Her eyes brightened, and she blinked at him. “I want to help her,” she murmured, biting her lip. “Though I can’t do much, my aunt’s a lawyer. Maybe she can help in some way.”

“Fine,” Gu Congli tapped his fingertips lightly against the edge of the table, speaking slowly. “But I’ll need to collect a little payment.”