The internet was a beast that never slept—and by dawn, it had grown new fangs.
#BreakingNews
"Golden Manager Miss Ling Committed Suicide 3 Months Ago—Tied to Actor Chen Wei's Mental Decline?"
The headline blazed across every major entertainment forum, fan club, and gossip column. Screenshots of police reports, a blurred photo of a blood-stained pavement, and an obituary post surfaced all at once. No one knew where it came from—but it spread like wildfire.
Netizens swarmed in.
"Wait, Miss Ling committed suicide too? Why wasn't this reported earlier?!"
"What's happening with Chen Wei's circle? Two suicides?? This is seriously suspicious."
"This feels deeper than a breakup. Could there have been something going on behind the scenes?"
"If Miss Ling was his manager and also died, maybe Zhiqing's being used as a scapegoat..."
Suddenly, the tide shifted.
Those who had just yesterday cursed Jiang Zhiqing's name now hesitated. Doubt snuck into their accusations. Fans who had blindly followed the narrative began to question what was being kept from them.
On one hand, die-hard Chen Wei fans doubled down.
"Don't get distracted! Zhiqing still left him! You don't just move on like that if you really loved someone!"
"Miss Ling's death makes it worse! He lost his girlfriend AND manager!"
But others began to speculate more darkly.
"Two suicides within months of each other? What was going on behind the scenes? Did the agency cover this up?"
"Was someone pressuring them? This doesn't feel like just heartbreak anymore."
The hashtags were changing.
#JusticeForChenWei was now rivaled by
#TruthBehindTheTragedies and
#MissLingWasSilenced.
In private PR chatrooms, phones buzzed relentlessly.
"Who the hell leaked that?!"
"Is this a stunt from Zhiqing's camp?"
"No way. This reeks of someone from Chen Wei's agency trying to shift the narrative!"
Back in her caravan, Jiang Zhiqing watched the headlines roll across the screen in stunned silence.
Miss Ling…?
She hadn't known. No one had told her. Three months ago, she was filming abroad. She hadn't even noticed Miss Ling's absence—she had assumed the manager had quietly left the industry like so many do after a scandal.
Her chest tightened.
Was this all connected? Or was this just another coincidence the world would weaponize against her?
Her assistant brought her tea with shaking hands.
"It's turning," her manager said quietly, eyes locked on the trending feed. "People are starting to question the whole story."
But Jiang Zhiqing didn't feel relief. Only a heavier, more suffocating kind of dread. Because if the truth really started to unravel...
Then maybe no one would be safe.
The words "Miss Ling... committed suicide…" echoed in Jiang Zhiqing's ears like a cruel joke from fate.
She sat frozen in her caravan, the tablet screen in front of her forgotten. Outside, the world was roaring, twisting narratives to fit their curiosity, their judgments, and their thirst for blame. But inside her head, only one night kept replaying—sharp, humiliating, unforgettable.
The night everything fell apart.
It had been raining. Not the gentle kind that whispered against windows, but the violent kind that made you grip the steering wheel tighter and question if you should've turned back. She'd been filming late, exhausted and drained, but she'd wanted to surprise Chen Wei. They hadn't seen each other for days. She missed him. She brought his favorite food, a bottle of wine tucked in her coat.
His apartment passcode still worked.
She remembered smiling as she opened the door, dripping wet but excited, already rehearsing what she'd say. "Surprise, baby." But what met her wasn't surprise—it was silence. Dim lights. A trail of discarded clothes.
The scent hit her next—sweet perfume she never wore.
Her fingers trembled as she followed the signs, her heart pounding in denial.
Bedroom door, half-open.
Voices.
And then—laughter. Giggling.
She pushed it open.
There they were.
Chen Wei. Shirtless. On top of Miss Ling. The golden manager everyone called a "career savior," the woman Zhiqing had once admired, trusted even.
Time stopped. Her breath caught in her throat, not from shock—but from the brutal, blinding clarity of betrayal.
Miss Ling gasped and tried to cover herself. Chen Wei froze, horror dawning too slowly on his smug face.
"Zhiqing—"
She dropped the food. It hit the floor with a dull thud. The wine bottle shattered, red staining the carpet like blood.
She didn't scream. Didn't cry. She turned and walked out, every step louder than their pathetic apologies echoing behind her.
She never returned.
They tried to explain. Of course they did. "It was a mistake." "It only happened once." "We were drunk." "We didn't mean to hurt you."
But it didn't matter. The betrayal was real, raw, and unforgettable. She changed her number. Cut ties. Walked away and never looked back.
She had carried her pain in silence. She has never spoken a word about the cheating or the betrayal, not even to her fans or the press. She hadn't wanted to destroy them publicly—she just wanted peace.
But now the skeletons were tumbling out, and they weren't just haunting her—they were trying to drag her down with them.
Jiang Zhiqing clenched her fists as the rain began to fall again outside her caravan.
She didn't deserve this.
And she was done being quiet.
Meanwhile…
In a high-rise penthouse bathed in shadows, only one wall bore light—a soft white glow illuminating a massive poster of Jiang Zhiqing. Her image was fierce and luminous, captured mid-performance in a moment of raw emotion. It wasn't just a poster—it was a shrine to someone unforgettable.
A man sat in silence before it, half-shrouded in darkness. The subtle hum of rain against the window was the only sound until a soft knock interrupted the quiet.
His assistant entered, respectfully bowing.
"Boss," the assistant spoke in a low tone, "the story's gaining traction. As per your instructions, I leaked Miss Ling's suicide case. The attention has shifted… The netizens are backing off Miss Jiang now."
A flicker of relief crossed the man's sharp features.
He nodded once, slowly.
"Well done."
His gaze lingered on Zhiqing's face on the poster, eyes shadowed with longing.
"She doesn't deserve to carry their hate," he murmured. "Not after what she endured."
The assistant hesitated. "Should we continue monitoring the media?"
"Yes," he said. "And anyone who tries to drag her down again… I want to know."
His voice was calm but cold with quiet authority.
Then, softer—barely a whisper meant for himself more than anyone else:
"She may not remember me... But I'll protect her. Even if it's from afar."
Outside, the rain kept falling.
And in that quiet room, Jiang Zhiqing had no idea that someone, somewhere, still stood between her and the storm.