Bai Chenxi and Zhou Chen both turned toward the sound.
At the far end of the corridor stood Li Sijue. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, a sharp contrast to the relaxed attire of the crew. His expression was austere, and with every long stride he took forward, the temperature of the hallway seemed to drop. His presence bent the air, a force both suffocating and undeniable.
Zhou Chen's grin collapsed, panic flashing across his boyish face.
"Li… Li President? What are you doing here…?"
Li Sijue didn't even spare him a glance. His eyes found Chenxi at once, cool and assessing.
"Was filming smooth today?"
Chenxi's heart rippled at his words, but she smothered it beneath a polite, distant tone.
"Smooth. Thank you for your concern, President Li."
Only then did his gaze shift, finally acknowledging Zhou Chen. But the look he gave him was like a shard of ice.
"A set has rules. Thoughts that shouldn't exist… are best buried before they see the light."
His voice wasn't loud, but the weight of it landed like a hammer.
"I—I understand, President Li! You've misunderstood, I was only… only trying to discuss the script with Chenxi-jie…" Zhou Chen stammered, sweat gathering at his temples, clutching the wine bottle as if it burned his hands.
"If it's the script you want to discuss, the director and screenwriter are more suitable partners," Li Sijue said flatly. "Go back."
Relief crashed over Zhou Chen's face. He bobbed his head, muttering incoherent excuses, then fled down the corridor as though escaping execution.
The hallway quieted, leaving only Chenxi and Li Sijue at her door.
The silence pressed heavy.
Chenxi, unwilling to owe him anything—especially when his identity and motives remained shrouded—spoke first. Her voice was cool, edged with distance.
"President Li, you're far too busy for trivial matters like this. There's no need for you to intervene."
Li Sijue studied her, his gaze unfathomable, dark as a bottomless sea.
"I wasn't helping you," he replied, tone crisp, businesslike. "Xingyao invests heavily in this project. I won't allow gossip or scandal to taint it."
On the surface, his words were flawless. Impersonal. Unassailable.
Yet something in the way his eyes lingered on her face—longer than necessary, softer than his tone—betrayed what he left unsaid.
After a pause, he spoke again, his voice low.
"Rest early."
And then he turned, leaving as coldly as he had arrived, his back straight, his presence unyielding.
Chenxi closed the door. For a long moment, she leaned against it, her pulse uneven.
Every time he appeared, he unsettled her calm, dropping stones into the fragile stillness of her heart, rippling it beyond control.
He denied being the child's father. Yet again and again, he appeared at her side, shielding her in ways that seemed anything but accidental.
What exactly was he hiding?
Seeking air, Chenxi walked to the window. Her breath hitched when she saw him still below.
He hadn't left. He stood by his car, speaking into his phone.
In the glow of the streetlamps, his profile was all sharp lines and steel. Whatever he was hearing tightened his expression into a cold, unforgiving mask.
Then, his voice carried faintly up through the night air—low, clipped, lethal.
"Find out. Three years ago. Bojue Hotel. Room 1028. I want to know exactly who it was that night."