My Queen, My Rules - 60

Don't Cry

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Ji Mingshu didn't need her friend to tell her; she already knew—she'd been publicly crucified on Weibo's trending list.

#Designer'sAbode#

#Designer'sAbodeJiMingshu#

#JiMingshuYanYuexing#

Three tags sat in the top ten trends. Outside the top fifteen, Pei Xiyan and Feng Yan's names had also been dragged into the mess by the desperate producers, clinging to their coattails for the gossip-hungry public to chew over. For a home renovation show going to such lengths for hype, it was practically sparing no expense.

Ji Mingshu pressed her lips together, her face expressionless. But a closer look would reveal that the hand holding her phone was trembling slightly.

The other socialites who'd attended the musical hadn't been sitting in their row. Now, swarming over after the show, they all buzzed with the news, their voices a cacophony of faux concern and genuine surprise:

"What in the world is happening?"

"Who is this Yan Yuexing? She looks like a D-list nobody. Is she trying to use our Shu for clout?"

"Obviously."

"Wait, isn't the show sponsored by Junyi? How could they let this happen? Has the production team lost their minds?"

...

Let's be clear: these girls were plastic through and through. But when they stood on your side, unleashing their full arsenal to viciously insult a common enemy, it was oddly comforting.

Right now, without their chorus of fawning praise and scathing comparisons, Ji Mingshu would likely have been too furious to walk straight, let alone calmly exit the theater and get into her car.

During the ride home, Ji Mingshu sat silently in the back seat, staring at her phone. The driver kept glancing in the rearview mirror, sensing her mood was off. He was on edge, dreading the young madam might be upset and order him to change destinations halfway.

Last time, she'd said she needed to pick something up at Xinggang International, and then just… vanished without a trace. He'd received a stern warning from Assistant Zhou afterwards, with a clear threat to dock his year-end bonus if it happened again.

And Chinese New Year was right around the corner! He couldn't afford to lose his bonus now.

The driver steeled himself; if the young madam threw a tantrum, he'd call Assistant Zhou first to cover himself.

Fortunately, his fears were unfounded. Though the young madam's face grew stormier by the mile, they arrived smoothly at Mingshui Manor without incident. His job was to deliver her safe and sound. Her mood was none of his concern now.

[You stupid bitch, may your entire lineage for nineteen generations rot in hell!]

[What kind of trash dares to put on airs in front of our Xingxing? You fucking whore!]

[Your mother's dead, your father's dead, your whole family's dead!]

Comments and private messages on Weibo flooded in, a relentless stream of filth. Some of Yan Yuexing's fans had even taken screenshots of Ji Mingshu from the show, photoshopped them into funeral portraits, and sent them to her.

Ji Mingshu sat on the living room sofa. The crystal chandelier blazed brightly, hurting her eyes. She rubbed them, and suddenly, large, hot tears began to fall.

Pampered and sheltered for over twenty years, this was the first time she had been subjected to such widespread, vile hatred. She was furious, so angry she felt like she might explode. But beneath the rage was a panicky, helpless fear.

After sitting numbly for half an hour, she picked up her phone and called Cen Sen. Only a mechanical female voice answered: “The number you have dialed is powered off.”

Her stalled thoughts, like rusty gears, were slowly nudged into motion by the sound.

Oh. He's probably on the plane. From the capital to Paris... that's about eleven hours. Might be delayed. That useless pig.

Trembling, she put down her phone, curled her legs up, and buried her head in her knees. She forced herself to calm down, forced herself not to think about the attacks.

In just that short half hour, many people had called or messaged, concerned: Gu Kaiyang, Jiang Chun, Cen Yang, Li Che, Feng Yan... even Pei Xiyan, who had just finished evening self-study and been alerted by his manager.

But she didn't want to answer, read, or reply to any of them. She only wanted to hear Cen Sen's voice. Only wanted to see Cen Sen. That was all.

---

Meanwhile, Cen Sen had just landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport. In Paris, it was afternoon, the daylight hazy.

Approaching the New Year, he hadn't wanted to travel. Zhou Jiaheng genuinely hadn't scheduled any business trips.

But this time, Cen Yuanchao had called directly, ordering him to fly to Paris to meet with investors regarding the Nanwan Project, a collaboration between Jingjian and the Ji family.

Nanwan was a 25-square-kilometer free trade zone on a near-shore island east of Nancheng, a prime geographic location.

During the Ji family's peak, they had joined forces with the Su family to secure the development rights for Nanwan and established the Nanwan Development and Construction Company. The Ji and Su families held 51% of the shares, with the remaining 49% controlled by the Nanwan district government.

Following the dissolution of the Ji-Su marriage alliance and an internal power shift within the Su family, the new leadership deemed the Nanwan project's investment cycle too long and its risk too high. They preferred to cut their losses, transferring their shares and resolving to withdraw.

Unwilling to let outsiders interfere and lose control, the Ji family had no choice but to turn to their new in-laws, the Cens.

Cen Yuanchao was somewhat interested. Unlike the Su family, with their smaller, closed-loop capital, the Cens had the resources to handle such a large, long-term investment. After assembling a team to evaluate it, Cen Yuanchao made the decision to take over the Su family's share and develop it jointly with the Ji family, investing billions upfront just for the initial infrastructure.

A project of this scale and duration couldn't rely solely on their two families' sustained input. They had been seeking suitable investors without relinquishing control.

This time, a French-Chinese billionaire had expressed interest. Cen Yuanchao specifically sent Cen Sen to lead the discussions, as the future development of Nanwan, and indeed all of Jingjian, would eventually rest in his hands.

Zhou Jiaheng, as usual, accompanied him on the trip. After disembarking, while briefing their Paris schedule, he simultaneously powered on his work phone.

Less than ten seconds after it booted up, a call came in.

"Hello?" He fell back a step to answer. The more he listened, the grimmer his expression became.

Cen Sen's phone was still starting up. He glanced at Zhou Jiaheng, and for some reason, a sense of foreboding rose within him.

Sure enough, after hanging up, Zhou Jiaheng bowed his head, his face ashen. "My apologies, President Cen. There's a problem with the Designer's Abode program that Madam is participating in. This is my oversight."

"Explain."

His training as a chief assistant kicked in, and Zhou Jiaheng instinctively organized the information into concise points. He briefly summarized how Ji Mingshu had been targeted and trended on the hot search after the second episode aired, then added quietly, "I will contact the production team and relevant media immediately to pull the stories."

Zhou Jiaheng knew he bore undeniable responsibility for this. Not long ago, after Cen Sen and Ji Mingshu reconciled, Cen Sen had specifically asked him how he'd communicated with the production team—had he told them to cut Ji Mingshu's screen time entirely?

He had truthfully answered "No." He'd only instructed them to remove the planned CP between Ji Mingshu and Li Che and not to make Ji Mingshu the filming focus.

To prevent the production team from misunderstanding and cutting her out completely, Cen Sen had even instructed him to clarify, to ensure Ji Mingshu had normal screen time.

It should have been a simple matter. But Zhou Jiaheng had thought ahead a little too far. To avoid the team overcompensating by making her the star, he hadn't explicitly revealed Ji Mingshu's identity. Instead, he'd asked them to send the edited footage for review first.

At that time, only the first half of Ji Mingshu's team's episode was ready, the part that aired in the premiere.

Zhou Jiaheng skimmed through it and saw the team hadn't misunderstood. They hadn't given Ji Mingshu the complete cut-out treatment. Her screen time was comparable to the other non-celebrity designers. Her performance was… normal. Fine.

Reassured, he hadn't said anything more.

But he had little experience with entertainment shows. It never occurred to him that there was such a thing as “evil editing.”

And with his daily workload, it was impossible for him to review vast amounts of raw footage and compare it piece by piece with the final edit.

So when he received the news, his mind went blank.

Zhou Jiaheng had followed Cen Sen for years, always cautious, never putting a foot wrong. Yet this tiny production team had tripped him up twice, and this time was far worse than the last.

His heart sank. He didn't dare think about his year-end bonus anymore. Right now, he just wanted to annihilate the production team, handle the online public opinion, and then find a quiet corner in this foreign country to die for a while.

However, Cen Sen clearly wasn't in the mood to deal with him at that moment.

Once his phone was on, Cen Sen called Ji Mingshu directly. It rang about three times before she picked up.

Silence greeted him from the other end. He couldn't even hear her breathing, just the faint hum of the connection.

He stopped walking in the airport terminal, lost in thought.

The meeting with the investors was scheduled for tonight. The other party had gone to great lengths to free up an evening specifically to host him, had mentioned early on the authentic French feast they'd arranged, how they would help him experience true French flair, and their expectations and sincerity for the potential partnership.

If he turned around and flew back to the capital now, he could forget about this deal.

A very, very long time passed. Suddenly, he said, "Mingshu, I'm sorry. I'm coming back right now."

Ji Mingshu had been holding herself together, tightly wound, telling herself it was no big deal, that Cen Sen would surely set things right once he found out. But finally hearing his voice, hearing his apology, she suddenly couldn't hold back anymore. Wronged tears spilled out with a sob.

She cried and sniffled, cursing him between gasps. "You… what kind of husband are you… Investing in a show and letting your wife get attacked like this… Do you secretly hate me? Wuwuwu... Cen Sen, you bastard! I didn't do anything... It wasn't like how they showed it on TV! I-I didn't bully anyone! Hic..." She cried so hard she started hiccupping.

"Mn. I'm a bastard," he closed his eyes, his voice growing even lower and hoarser. "Don't cry. Be good."

Ji Mingshu pulled tissues to wipe her tears while berating him, carrying on for a solid five minutes.

But when she heard Cen Sen lower his voice and instruct Zhou Jiaheng to book immediate return tickets, she suddenly remembered how important he'd said this deal was before he left. She choked out another sob and cried, "No!"

"What?"

"Don't you dare come back! You stay in Paris and think about what you've done!"

Cen Sen understood after a moment's pause.

After a long while, he asked, "Will you be fine?"

"Of course I'll be fine! Even my cousin knew to get the trending topics taken down. By the time news reached you in the boondocks, the grass would be growing over my scorned grave! You are not allowed to come back!"

Ji Mingshu's voice was still thick with tears, but there was also a sense of relief after the outburst, even a hint of... satisfaction known only to herself, the comfort of having someone firmly in her corner.

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