The atmosphere within the SG Entertainment grand hall had shifted from a standard press junket to a high-stakes psychological theater. The “Old Guard” executives, who had pinned their treacherous hopes on a leaked decoy, sat frozen as the true narrative of The Rich and Powerful began to unfurl—a story far darker, more visceral, and infinitely more seductive than the “sweet romance” they had attempted to sabotage.
At that moment, the lights dimmed to a bruised purple hue. A young child actress descended from the top of the sweeping golden staircase. She wore a pristine, lace-heavy princess dress, her small hands clutching a vibrant bouquet of red roses. She sat on the cold marble steps with a hauntingly innocent smile, plucking the petals one by one.
“This one is for my eldest brother,” she chirped, her voice echoing in the silent hall. “This one is for my second sister… this one is for my third…”
As her voice trailed off into a ghostly echo, the girl slowly faded into the shadows, replaced by the adult lead, Jiang Fusheng. She appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing the exact same dress, looking every bit the Fu-er-dai (Second-generation rich) princess—pampered, delicate, and untouchable. But as she stepped into the harsh spotlight, the audience let out a collective gasp.
Her mouth and eyes were smeared with vivid, dark blood, and her expression was twisted into a mask of sickly sweet Shayi (Chilling killing intent). In her hands, the roses were gone, replaced by a bouquet of white chrysanthemums—the traditional flowers of Sangli (Funerals). She tossed them down the stairs one by one with a chilling, rhythmic nonchalance.
“This one is for my eldest brother,” she whispered, her voice a rasping blade. “This one is for my second sister…”
The hall fell into a tomb-like silence. Reporters felt Jipi geda (Goosebumps) erupt across their skin. This wasn’t a soap opera; it was a Xuan-yi (Suspense/Thriller) masterpiece that stripped the “High Society” trope of its glamour, exposing the rot beneath.
Before the crowd could catch their breath, two handsome male actors appeared on the landing. They leaned against the gilded railing, one lighting the other’s cigarette in a gesture of intimate, practiced brotherhood. The glow of the embers illuminated faces that held no warmth.
“First, you had someone fake those Chuang-zhao (Bed photos),” the first actor said, blowing a plume of grey smoke that swirled in the spotlight. “Then you filmed a series to satirize me. Your little ‘Scandal’ had decent ratings, didn’t it?” He smiled, a mixture of heartbreak and lethal mockery in his eyes.
The media surged forward. This was an overt, daring reference to the real-life scandal involving Bo Wang and Chen Xueran.
“Brother, do you truly think I did it?” the other replied, his gaze flickering with a desperate, sorrowful hesitation that felt painfully real.
“If not you, then who?”
“Don’t be naive,” the actor laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of joy. “You are the third master of the Gu family. In a Haomen (Hyper Mansion/Elite family), everyone wants a piece of the pie. The person who wants to ruin you could be me, your uncle, your stepmother… or even your beautiful fiancée.”
Bang! A deafening, sharp gunshot shattered the tension. One actor crumpled to the floor, his “blood” blossoming like a dark rose on the white marble. The survivor remained leaning against the rail, his face a mask of cold-blooded indifference born of Jianghu (The worldly, ruthless social environment). He looked down at the “corpse” with icy contempt.
“Naive? How can there be truly naive people in a family like ours? I was simply watching you perform.”
The realization hit the room like a physical blow. Bo Wang had never been filming a romance; he had been filming a mirror of the very conspiracy trying to take him down. He had used a “fake” crew and the “leaked” script as a decoy—a Mingxiu zhandao, anduqincang (Repairing the walkway openly while marching through the gallery in secret)—to distract his enemies while filming the real masterpiece in total secrecy with retired Lao-xi-gu (Veteran ‘old bone’ actors) and unknown geniuses.
The SG executives who had betrayed him tried to bolt for the exit, their faces pale with the realization of their own obsolescence. However, Li Minghuai and his security team moved with predator-like efficiency, blocking the paths.
“Secretary Lu insists you stay,” Li Minghuai rumbled, his presence looming. “We are all watching the premiere together. It would be rude to leave before the climax.”
The lights lifted, and Director Gu Na took the stage, radiating an aura of Nü-qiang-ren (Strong, successful career woman). When the media began hurling questions about the “leaked” photos of Chen Xueran on set, Gu Na simply adjusted her glasses and smiled.
“I don’t know what you saw,” she said smoothly. “The official production has never released photos. Perhaps you saw me visiting the set of a different project—one that was cancelled due to the lead actress’s… severe character issues.”
Chen Xueran, sensing her world collapsing and her “benefactors” withdrawing, grabbed a microphone. Her face was ashen, her eyes brimming with calculated, trembling tears. “Secretary Lu treats me as a rival! Is this your way of humiliating me? I am the lead! I have the contract!”
Lu Zhiling, seated in the front row, didn’t even turn her head. She simply nodded to the tech booth.
Suddenly, the speakers roared to life with a recording. It wasn’t the show’s soundtrack; it was Chen Xueran’s actual voice, raw and ugly, caught in a moment of private malice.
“Whether I seduce men or skip filming, it’s none of your business! Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll have you sold to a Yezonghui (Nightclub/Brothel) abroad. You know girls like you never come back.”
The audience recoiled in visceral disgust. The “innocent victim” was a monster. The recording further detailed her “rendezvous” with the obese President Fang, proving she hadn’t been coerced by Bo Wang, but was actively social-climbing through the beds of multiple executives.
“My old Pao-cai-tan (Kimchi jar—slang for someone who has seen it all and is ‘sour’ about it) can’t even hold this much drama,” one reporter muttered, typing furiously.
The chaos peaked as President Fang, desperate to save his own skin from his wealthy wife’s wrath, turned on Chen Xueran like a cornered rat. In a fit of cowardly rage, he slapped her across the face so hard the sound echoed like the previous gunshot.
“You bitch! How dare you slander me?” he screamed, kicking her as she lay on the floor in her ruined, blood-red dress. “You took off your clothes and crawled into my arms! I’ll sue you until you have nothing left!”
Chen Xueran lay disheveled, her carefully pinned hair falling like a shroud over her face. Through the gaps in the crowd, she saw Lu Zhiling. The secretary wasn’t gloating. She sat with her hands folded, her beautiful eyes reflecting a profound, quiet pity—the kind one shows a dying animal.
Lu Zhiling had offered her a bridge. Chen Xueran had chosen to burn it.
A sharp, hysterical scream ripped from Chen Xueran’s throat—a sound of true, unhinged madness. As security dragged her away, her voice faded into incoherent raving. A strange, heavy melancholy washed over the room.
The host cleared his throat, steering the energy back to the screen as the first official episode of the real drama began to play. The cinematography was breathtaking, capturing the cold, metallic beauty of the Haomen world.
On the side screen, the real-time ratings tracker began to climb. It didn’t just break records; it shattered the ceiling of what was thought impossible in the digital age.
10%… 25%… 40%!
The industry had never seen anything like it. Lu Zhiling watched the screen, her heart still heavy despite the victory. She knew this was only the first move in a much larger game.
By the ten-minute mark, the rating hadn’t dropped—it had surged to 50%.
The staff scrambled to set up a secondary screen to track the digital fallout. The Re-sou (Hot Search/Trending list) was a total massacre. The top ten slots were occupied by a single title: The Rich and Powerful.
The comment sections were moving so fast they were almost unreadable, a rolling tide of shock and obsession:
【My god, the pacing! Eight people dead in ten minutes! This is a bloodbath!】
【The schemes between the husband and wife… I’m never getting married. Stay away from men, cherish your life!】
【Is this what the Haomen (Hyper Mansion) life is really like? I wouldn’t last two minutes; I’d be the servant found face-down in the pool by the opening credits.】
【Can we talk about the male lead’s Ren-yu-xian (Mermaid line/V-line)? Those abs… I’m drooling.】
As the ratings soared, SG Entertainment’s stock price underwent a Di-ban to Zhang-ting (Limit down to limit up) reversal, skyrocketing in a vertical line. By the end of the hour, the peak viewership hit an astronomical 67%, obliterating domestic records and even topping the historical charts for Korean dramas.
The hall exploded. Thunderous applause shook the foundations of the building. Confetti rained down like colorful snowflakes, blanketing the stage where Lu Zhiling and Gu Na stood. They had not just made a hit; they had witnessed the birth of a phenomenon.
Despite the triumph, the media wolves were still hungry. They swarmed Lu Zhiling, their microphones thrust like spears. “Secretary Lu, did President Bo know Chen Xueran was seducing him all along?” “Was he playing along? Did he enjoy the ‘benefits’ while planning her downfall?” “Where is President Bo? Is he hiding from the Tao-se xin-wen (Peach-colored news/Sex scandal)?”
Lu Zhiling remained a statue of grace, her mind racing. She knew that only Bo Wang’s presence could truly extinguish the fire of the scandal. Just as the pressure reached a boiling point, her phone gave two sharp vibrations.
[Bo Wang: I’m here. In the office.]
The invisible weight on her shoulders lifted. She whispered a few quick instructions to Gu Na to keep the media occupied and slipped away, moving through the chaotic halls like a ghost.
When she pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the top-floor office, the scent of expensive cologne was gone, replaced by the metallic, copper tang of fresh blood. The room was silent, save for the low hum of the city below.
She found him in the inner lounge. Bo Wang was leaning back against a black leather sofa, his long legs sprawled out with a careless, predatory grace. His black leather shoes were stained with drying blood, and a crumpled trench coat lay discarded on the floor like a shed skin.
He was a mess of contradictions: brutal and beautiful. There was a deep gash on his chin, and his face was splattered with crimson droplets. He held a heavy crystal glass half-filled with amber liquor, his Hou-jie (Adam’s apple) bobbing rhythmically as he drained the burning liquid in one go.
His white shirt was unbuttoned, the fabric soaked through at the waist with a terrifying, spreading dark red stain.
Without a word, Lu Zhiling retrieved the medical kit. She knelt between his legs, her movements precise and clinical. “Take it off,” she commanded softly.
Bo Wang’s eyes, dark and predatory, locked onto hers. He didn’t move to help; he simply watched her with a gaze that felt like a physical touch. He tossed the glass aside and peeled the wet fabric away from his skin, exposing a jagged, deep knife wound carved into his muscular flank, just above the line of his belt.
“Lean back,” she whispered.
He obeyed, his breathing growing heavy and ragged. As Lu Zhiling leaned in to disinfect the wound, the heat radiating from his body was overwhelming. The intimacy of the small lounge, the smell of alcohol and iron, and the sight of his powerful chest rising and falling created a suffocating, sensual tension.
“It’s clearer if you get closer,” he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle in her bones.
Lu Zhiling’s hand hesitated for a fraction of a second. “My eyesight is fine, President Bo,” she replied, her voice steady despite the proximity. She began to clean the wound, her fingers occasionally brushing against the hot, firm skin of his abdomen.
“Aren’t you going to ask?” he muttered, his head tilting back against the sofa cushions, his eyes closing as if to endure either the pain or her touch.
“Now that the drama is a success,” she whispered, her focus on the stitching, “you don’t need to do this for the family anymore. Is it worth your life every time?”
Bo Wang’s throat moved convulsively. He didn’t look at her—perhaps because he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from pulling her into his lap, blood and all.
“My earliest memory,” he began, his voice devoid of emotion, sounding like it was coming from a great distance, “is of a chaotic mountain… and a car that was completely wrecked.”