Upon hearing Lu Zhiling’s refusal to play the game of bribes, a sharp, cold hint of disappointment flashed across Chen Xueran’s eyes. It was a momentary crack in her mask before she regained her composure, her head snapping left and right as she scanned the lounge with predatory wariness. She was looking for a Jiantingqi (Eavesdropping device—often used in Chinese corporate espionage stories) or perhaps a hidden camera that Lu Zhiling might be using to bait her into a confession.
“Miss Chen, your acting is truly formidable,” Lu Zhiling said, her voice dropping into a low, resonant register that vibrated with a mixture of pity and steel. “With talent like yours, you could have climbed to the very top of this industry on your own merits. You didn’t need a benefactor. But now? Now you are gambling with your lifelong reputation just to harm others. Do you truly believe that a single payday is worth the ruin of your soul?”
Lu Zhiling stepped closer, her scent—a faint, elegant trail of Haitang (Begonia)—filling the small space. “Think of the future. How many directors will look at you as a talented actress after today? How many will see you as anything more than a tool? And how many men, men like President Fang with his greasy palms and wandering eyes, will feel entitled to grope you because they know you have a price tag?”
“…”
A violent, scorching hint of embarrassment flashed across Chen Xueran’s eyes. This was her Nilin (Inverse Scale—a Chinese mythological term referring to a dragon’s throat scale which, if touched, provokes lethal rage; used here to mean her ultimate sore spot).
She knew how those bosses looked at her. They looked at her the way a hungry man looks at a piece of meat, or a collector looks at a prostitute with a clear, negotiable price tag. But she hardened her heart. Lu Zhiling, with her high-born grace and her secure position, had no idea how much money was on the table. It was a sum Chen Xueran could never hope to earn, even if she spent her entire life under the grueling lights of a film set.
“It’s not that I don’t know how to break you,” Lu Zhiling continued, her voice softening into an intimate, dangerous whisper. “It’s just that we are both women in a world designed to chew us up and spit us out. I don’t want to be the one to kill your career outright. This is your only chance, Chen Xueran. The only bridge left that isn’t already on fire. Turn back.”
Suddenly, a cacophony erupted from the hallway.
The sounds of the “Old Guard” executives rose in a hoarse, theatrical crescendo. They were shouting for the benefit of the employees, claiming that a “jealous” Lu Zhiling and the “innocent” Chen Xueran were locked in a physical struggle. They spun a tale of Ai ji sheng hen (Love turning into hatred), portraying Lu Zhiling as a woman driven mad by Bo Wang’s supposed infidelity, claiming she was currently trying to murder her rival.
They were making the scene as “big” as possible to ensure the scandal was inescapable. Through the door, Lu Zhiling could hear the rapid-fire, rhythmic clicking of cell phone shutters—the sound of a hundred digital guillotines.
Hearing the chaos outside, Chen Xueran’s shoulders relaxed. A smirk played at the corner of her mouth. She no longer believed Lu Zhiling held any cards; to her, this was all just a desperate, empty bluff.
She looked at Lu Zhiling, her voice rising in a feigned, trembling sob for the “audience” outside. “Secretary Lu, please… stop locking me in here. All I can feel is your malice. Please, let me go!”
Malice? Lu Zhiling thought, a cold sneer forming on her lips. No, you only feel the absence of a bribe. Lu Zhiling understood the subtext. Chen Xueran was waiting for a “sincerity payment”—money to buy her silence.
“Ms. Chen, let me be exceptionally clear,” Lu Zhiling said, her eyes dark and unreadable. “I will not use money to satisfy your ‘conscience,’ to soothe your peace of mind, or to fund your ambition. In this world, there is no such thing as a Baichi de wucan (Free lunch). You were the one who struck first. You were the one who chose to be a weapon. Now, you must choose the consequence.”
“Either take the money your handlers gave you and face a ruined reputation, or tell the truth,” Lu Zhiling whispered, leaning in so close their breaths mingled. “One can’t have the world and a clean conscience at the same time.”
Seeing that Lu Zhiling was immovable, Chen Xueran’s face shifted instantly from “victim” to “predator.” The mask of tears vanished, replaced by a sharp, ugly impatience. “The police will be here any minute. Do you really want to explain to them why you tried to imprison and assault me?”
The tension in the room was thick. There was nothing left to say.
Lu Zhiling felt she had exhausted every ounce of her mercy. She stood up, her movements graceful and fluid, walked to the door, and threw it open. She made a silent, sweeping gesture for Chen Xueran to leave.
Li Minghuai and his security team stood like stone pillars at the entrance. Beyond them was a sea of faces—executives, employees, and hangers-on, almost every one of them holding a phone aloft to record the “downfall” of the secretary.
Chen Xueran didn’t miss the opportunity. She burst through the door, covering her face and letting out a harrowing, broken sob as she ran into the crowd. She left behind a vacuum of silence that was quickly filled by the frantic whispers and speculations of the onlookers.
“…”
Lu Zhiling watched the retreating figure with an icy indifference. There was no anger left, only a profound sense of resolve. Chen Xueran had insisted on standing against Bo Wang for the sake of a payout, and now the wheels of fate would have to turn as they would.
“Lu Zhiling! What gives you the right to lock Teacher Chen in the lounge?”
“What did you do to her? Look at how she’s crying!”
“SG isn’t a place where a mere secretary can act like a Cixi Taihou (Empress Dowager Cixi—referring to a woman who exerts absolute, tyrannical control behind the scenes). You are out of control!”
Several of the “Old Guard” bosses criticized her loudly, deliberately positioning themselves so the filming employees could catch their “heroic” defense of the actress.
Lu Zhiling didn’t give them so much as a glance. She stepped back into the lounge, closed the door on their noise, and dialed Bo Wang’s number one more time.
Switched off.
A flicker of genuine anxiety touched her heart. What on earth was he doing? Was he really going to let his empire burn while he remained in the shadows?
She pressed the voice message button, her voice steady but laden with the weight of the day’s events. “Bo Wang, Chen Xueran has made her choice. She refuses to stand by you. I’m sorry… I couldn’t protect her for you.”
She paused, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She truly hoped he wouldn’t turn his legendary temper toward her after this.
She pressed the button again. “Where are you? Why won’t you answer? The premiere is starting. If you don’t show up, the media will write a story that we can never erase. Please… come back.”
Just as the message sent, a thunderous banging rattled the door.
Lu Zhiling opened it to find Li Minghuai. His brow was furrowed into a deep V, and he silently handed her his phone.
“Secretary Lu… it’s happened again.”
She took the phone. A new push notification was lighting up the screen like a warning flare.
【EXPOSED: THE FULL LEAK OF SG’S “THE RICH AND POWERFUL” – WATCH THE ENTIRE FIRST EPISODE HERE!】
She clicked the link. The network was crawling, burdened by the sheer volume of people rushing to witness the disaster. When the video finally buffered, she saw it: the opening credits, the trailer, and the full, unedited content of the first episode. It wasn’t a “rip-off” or a low-quality recording. It was the master file.
“Secretary Lu, the whole company is in a state of Taifang (Collapse/Chaos)!”
The PR manager shoved through the crowd, nearly hyperventilating. “The drama has leaked across the entire internet before we even hit the ‘Play’ button! Tonight’s broadcast is a dead loss. We have to cancel the premiere! We should air a pre-recorded Zongyi (Variety show) or a reality program—anything to distract from this!”
A massive crowd had gathered in the hallway, their eyes fixed on Lu Zhiling. They were waiting for her to break, waiting for the “Mistress Secretary” to admit defeat. This wave was overwhelming; if the premiere failed, her career, her reputation, and her position beside Bo Wang would be over.
But Lu Zhiling stood there, her fair face as calm as a mountain lake. She handed the phone back to Li Minghuai and looked the PR manager directly in the eye.
“Do not stop,” she said, her voice carrying a strange, magnetic sense of authority. “The premiere will proceed exactly as scheduled.”
“…”
The crowd erupted.
“Secretary Lu, that’s madness! The show is free online! No one will watch the broadcast! We’ll be the Xiao hua (Laughingstock) of the entire industry!” The manager’s face was red with frustration.
“There are still two hours left,” Lu Zhiling said, her tone not harsh, but possessing a weight that made the air feel heavy. “You should be spending that time preparing the venue and the media kits, not standing here questioning a decision that has already been made.”
The manager choked on his next protest. He looked at her, saw the immovable light in her eyes, and backed away. Fine, he thought bitterly. Go ahead. Let’s see how the Bo family deals with you when you make a fool of the entire conglomerate!
Fifteen minutes until the premiere.
The venue inside the SG Entertainment headquarters had been transformed. To match the themes of the drama, the space was decorated like a Haomen (Hyper Mansion—the residence of an ultra-wealthy, elite family).
A luxurious golden staircase swept down into the center of the hall. Huge, high-definition screens glowed with the show’s logo, and crystal chandeliers—each several meters long—hung from the ceiling like frozen rain. Rows of velvet chairs were arranged to welcome a media presence that was unprecedented in its size.
The media hadn’t just come for a TV show. They had come for the blood of a scandal.
“SG is either insane or incredibly brave,” one reporter whispered, adjusting a long-range lens. “Holding a premiere for a leaked show? It’s like holding a funeral for someone who’s already been buried.”
“The hype is high, though,” another replied. “But look at the stock price. It’s about to hit the Die Ting (Daily limit down—a 10% drop that triggers a trading halt in the Chinese stock market). If this premiere flops, the company loses billions.”
“Look, here they come.”
The side doors opened, and a group of SG executives and the production team filed in. Their faces were grim, their eyes downcast. It didn’t look like a celebration; it looked like a walk to the gallows.
“This isn’t a premiere,” a blogger snickered into his microphone. “It’s a Sangli (Funeral).”
Suddenly, the flashbulbs began to fire in a blinding, rhythmic pulse.
Chen Xueran had arrived.
She was wearing a striking, blood-red haute couture evening gown that hugged her curves with provocative precision. She walked arm-in-arm with the male lead, her eyes artfully rimmed with red, looking like a woman who had a tragic story to tell.
The media surged forward like a pack of wolves. They noticed the delicate butterfly drawn on her arm, positioned carefully to “hide” the faint, fingerprint-shaped bruises underneath.
“Chen Xueran! Are the bed photos of you and Bo Wang authentic?”
“Is the butterfly a cover-up for an assault? Did Bo Wang hit you?”
Chen Xueran’s eyes welled with tears. She gave a sad, flickering smile. “Please… today is about the drama. Let’s not talk about ‘private matters.'”
“Private matters? So you’re confirming the relationship?”
“How do you feel about the ‘Secretary’ Lu Zhiling? Is she the reason for your injuries?”
Chen Xueran quickly covered her arm, her voice trembling. “I… I wouldn’t dare to speak of such things. I’m just an actress.”
The reporters were about to dive deeper when a voice rang out from the entrance.
“Director Gu and Secretary Lu have arrived!”
The media turned as one.
Gu Na, the director, walked in first. She was dressed in a sharp-cut women’s suit, her face framed by Lianmian Jing (Chain glasses—a high-fashion accessory in China often associated with cold, intellectual beauty). She looked capable, elegant, and entirely unbothered.
But it was the woman beside her who stole the breath from the room.
Lu Zhiling had tied her long, black hair up with a single, exquisite hairpin shaped like a Haitang (Begonia) flower. She wore a smoky purple skirt that flowed to her ankles like a mist, draped with a light, semi-transparent gauze shirt that softened the lines of her figure, making her look both graceful and untouchable.
Her makeup was minimal, almost ethereal. Her lips were a natural, soft pink, but her features were so distinct—her eyes so bright and her skin so fair—that she looked like a painting of a Shuxiang Men-di (A daughter of a scholarly, literary family) brought to life.
The two women walked side by side, speaking in low, intimate tones, smiling as if the scandal outside didn’t exist. Even the most cynical reporters couldn’t help but marvel at the contrast.
Chen Xueran, in her bright red gown, suddenly felt like a Xiaochou (Clown)—loud, desperate, and cheap. She sat down in the front row, gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached. She had chosen red specifically to outshine Lu Zhiling’s “boring” ancient-style aesthetic, but the secretary’s gentle confidence made Chen Xueran look like a common interloper in a queen’s court.
“Sit down,” Gu Na said, pulling Lu Zhiling into the front row. She leaned in close, her voice a mere whisper. “Still no word from Bo Wang?”
“Nothing,” Lu Zhiling replied, a small frown finally marring her calm. “I had the Old Lady send people to look for him. He has to appear, Gu Na. If he doesn’t, the media will say he’s a coward hiding from his responsibilities.”
“He’ll come,” Lu Zhiling added, though she felt a sudden, sharp prickle of unease. Had something happened? Li Minghuai was still here, acting as though everything was under control, but the silence from Bo Wang was becoming a physical weight.
The lights in the hall began to dim, leaving only two sharp beams of light focused on the words “Wealthy Family” on the stage.
The music began—not the sweet, pop-infused opening of a romance, but a heavy, orchestral swell that felt like a heartbeat.
“Clap, clap, clap—”
Gu Na began to applaud, and the rest of the audience followed, though the tension in the room was so thick it was difficult to breathe.
“Welcome, distinguished guests,” the host began, walking up the golden stairs. He leaned against the railing with a calculated air of arrogance, mimicking the behavior of a Fu-er-dai (Second-generation rich). “Tonight, the veil of ‘The Rich and Powerful’ will finally be lifted.”
The media were poised, their scripts ready, their questions about the bed photos sharpened like daggers.
Chen Xueran straightened her skirt, preparing her “victory” walk to the stage as the lead actress. But as she began to rise, a heavy, iron-like hand pressed down on her shoulder, forcing her back into her velvet seat.
She spun around, startled. It was Li Minghuai. His face was a mask of cold stone.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Guests should not disrupt the proceedings,” Li Minghuai replied, his voice a low growl.
“Guest? I am the lead actress!”
“From this moment on,” Li Minghuai said, his grip tightening just enough to send a warning, “you are not.”
Chen Xueran looked around in a panic. She saw the other main actors from the “leaked” version being held back by security, their faces pale with confusion.
Then, the music shifted into a grand, haunting melody.
Two women began to descend the golden staircase. They weren’t the young starlets the media expected. They were middle-aged, draped in jewels that caught the light like stars, their movements carrying the weight of decades of theatrical power.
“Wait… is that He Li?” a reporter gasped. “The winner of the White Lion Award?”
“And Sha Mei! The International Golden Lantern winner! I thought they retired years ago!”
The crowd erupted into a frenzy of whispers. Why weren’t they the actors from the leaked video? These were legends, the kind of talent SG hadn’t seen in a decade.
The two veteran actresses reached the landing of the stairs. Without a word, He Li feigned a brutal, stinging slap. Sha Mei collapsed to the padded floor, clutching her face, her eyes wide with a terrifying, realistic pain.
“You lost,” He Li declared, her voice ringing through the hall like a bell. “The Gu family is mine!”
Sha Mei staggered to her feet, her laughter beginning low in her throat before rising into a hysterical, bone-chilling madness. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her perfect makeup. “Even if I lose, you can’t win! This world of the wealthy is a Chiren de diyu (Cannibalistic hell)! If I burn, we all burn together!”
The performance was so raw, so visceral, that the entire audience fell into a deathly, shocked silence.
This wasn’t a sweet Cinderella story of a girl marrying into a rich family. This was a dark, psychological thriller about the rot inside a dynasty.
Chen Xueran and the “Old Guard” executives were paralyzed. The media were dumbfounded. They realized in that instant that the “leaked” drama was a decoy—a hollow shell designed to distract them while the real masterpiece was prepared in secret.
Something world-changing was happening on that stage. The executives frantically reached for their phones to call their masters, but the music was a wall of sound, drowning out everything but the tragedy unfolding on the golden stairs.
They couldn’t leave. They couldn’t speak. They were trapped in Lu Zhiling’s web.