Once Volume Two was underway, Shen Miaomiao pushed her workaholic spirit to its absolute limit.
Ever since the pitch meeting approved the new book as the company's number-one flagship project, the pressure on her had only grown.
A flagship project meant more resources, higher expectations — and stricter demands. She couldn't let Lu Chen down, couldn't let the company down, and above all couldn't let herself down.
To give Volume Two a strong opening, she stayed up writing until three in the morning, three nights running.
Night one, she wrote until two. Still fine — just a little drowsy.
Night two, until two-thirty. Her head began to swim; her throat felt dry.
Night three, she gritted her teeth and held out until three, finally finishing the outline for Volume Two's first three chapters.
When she closed her laptop, her skull felt as if someone had been at it with a hammer, buzzing and ringing.
Thursday morning, Shen Miaomiao woke heavy-headed and weak in the knees, her throat so swollen it was like swallowing ground glass, every breath scalding hot.
“That's it... I've actually caught a cold...” Flat on her bed, she fumbled for a thermometer and tucked it under her arm.
Five minutes later, she checked it: 38.8 degrees Celsius.
“38.8...” She tossed the thermometer aside, weak as a rag, feeling as if she were burning from the inside out. “Well, wonderful. I'm officially down for the count.”
Barely conscious, she picked up her phone, called in sick to the office, then, on a whim, posted a message in the anonymous WeChat group looking for sympathy:
[Anonymous User 9527]: 'Everyone... I've fallen. Fever of 38.8. I feel like a lobster that's been boiled alive. I can't even hit the keys anymore...'
Message sent, she flung the phone aside, cocooned herself in her thick duvet, and sank into a heavy sleep.
She dreamed all sorts of nonsense — of writing while Lu Chen stood over her slashing her manuscript with a red pen; of chatting with L, whose face melted into Lu Chen's mid-conversation; of standing on a vast stage before a sea of readers, everyone demanding “Who's the prototype for the male lead?” — her mouth opening, no sound coming out.
After who knows how long, an urgent doorbell yanked her out of the fog.
Ding-dong — ding-dong —
The ringing went on and on, as if refusing to give up until she answered.
Shen Miaomiao shuffled to the door wrapped in a thick blanket like a ghost, head swimming, steps unsteady, nearly tripping at the threshold.
The door opened — and standing outside, in a charcoal-gray trench coat radiating chilly authority, was Lu Chen!
Shen Miaomiao's eyes went wide. She had to be hallucinating from the fever.
Lu... Editor-in-chief Lu?! Why was he here?!
Lu Chen carried a carefully packed bag — fever medicine just bought, electrolyte water, and a steaming container of plain congee. Seeing Shen Miaomiao flushed and glassy-eyed, his brow knitted.
“Admin said you called in sick with no one to hand your flagship project to.” His tone was strictly business as he lifted the bag. “I happened to be passing through your neighborhood, so I brought the medicine and the company's emergency contact file.”
He reached out and laid a cool palm against her forehead.
The cool, soothing touch wrung a small, comfortable hum out of Shen Miaomiao.
“Burning up like this — why didn't you say something sooner?” Still cool in tone, but his movements were exceedingly gentle as he eased her back onto the sofa.
He unwrapped the fever medicine with practiced hands, poured warm water and pressed it into her hand, even ladled out the congee and let it cool to just the right temperature before setting it before her: “Take the medicine, finish the congee. No writing today. I'm approving your sick leave.”
Muzzy with fever, Shen Miaomiao watched him bustle around her living room and murmured, “Editor-in-chief Lu... are you this good to every employee?”
Lu Chen paused mid-step and looked back, a flicker of something deep behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Only to key authors who don't take care of themselves and run a fever of 38.8.”
Medicine down, drowsiness swamped her, and she dropped off again.
After she fell asleep, Lu Chen didn't leave right away. He sat in the chair beside the sofa, watching her quietly, for a long time.
He sighed softly and reached over to pull her slipped blanket back up.
“Truly a handful,” he murmured.
He sat a while longer, confirmed her temperature wasn't still climbing, then left on quiet feet.
By eight that evening, the fever had broken, and Shen Miaomiao woke up refreshed.
She opened her eyes to find herself on the sofa under a thick blanket, a half-finished container of congee and an empty medicine box on the coffee table beside her.
“How... how did I end up asleep on the sofa?” She scratched her head, groping for the afternoon's events.
Then she remembered Lu Chen. The man in the charcoal-gray trench coat who had appeared at her door with medicine and congee.
“Editor-in-chief Lu... he really came?” She touched her forehead — the fever was gone. “It wasn't a dream?”
She looked down at the medicine box on the coffee table. The fever medicine was the exact brand she always took. The congee was from the shop she liked best.
How did he know which brand of fever medicine she used? How did he know which shop's congee she loved?
She picked up her phone and found that L had sent her several messages that afternoon:
[L]: 'Has the fever broken? Take your medicine, have some plain congee, and don't push yourself to write.'
[L]: 'I'd guess you're fever-free by now. Rest well tonight.'
Shen Miaomiao stared at “have some plain congee” and “has the fever broken.” The overlap between the two threads was outrageous!
L told her to eat congee — Lu Chen brought congee.
L guessed the fever had broken — and it broke.
This... this could no longer be written off as coincidence, could it?!
But fresh off a fever, her brain was still mush, and she filed the whole thing away under: “My devoted fan L truly is my soul mate — he even calculated exactly when I'd need congee!”
It never occurred to her to ask how L knew she was sick, how L knew she needed congee, why L's advice matched Lu Chen's actions word for word.
Brains never work well right after a fever breaks.
Saturday night, the big group's owner organized an offline writers' meetup at a private-kitchen restaurant downtown.
As one of the group's most active members, Shen Miaomiao naturally went along for the fun.
Before the dinner, she asked L in the group:
[Anonymous User 9527]: 'L, my devoted fan — coming tonight?'
[L]: 'Can't. Official meeting this evening.'
By coincidence, that same afternoon at the office, Shen Miaomiao had heard the secretary say that Editor-in-chief Lu had a senior executive meeting that evening and no personal engagements of any kind.
She'd thought nothing of it at the time. Looking back now — another “coincidence.”
The dinner was lively; everyone talked happily. Writers all, the conversation inevitably turned to the craft — some griped about impossible editors, some shared techniques, some complained about impossible readers.
Shen Miaomiao sat in a corner, eating and listening, chiming in now and then. She had told no one that she was Miaobi Shenghua. In this anonymous group, no one knew anyone's real identity — which was exactly what made it so relaxing.
Around nine, she headed for the restroom. Passing the corridor by the restaurant entrance, she glanced out through the floor-to-ceiling window — and saw a familiar black car parked at the curb.
The model, the plate number, even the window tint — identical to Lu Chen's car!
In the rain-mist stood a tall, straight-backed man in a charcoal-gray trench coat, on the phone beside the car. That silhouette... it was Lu Chen to the letter!
“Editor-in-chief Lu?!” Shen Miaomiao rubbed her eyes, her heart slamming.
Wasn't he supposed to be in a senior executive meeting tonight? What was he doing outside this restaurant?
She yanked out her phone and fired off a message to L: 'My devoted fan! Where are you right now?!'
Three seconds later, L replied: 'In a meeting. Just stepped out to take a call. Why?'
In a meeting. Just stepped out to take a call...
Shen Miaomiao's head snapped up — the trench-coated man at the curb was just hanging up, sliding his phone away and getting into the car! The timing matched perfectly!
She stood at the restaurant entrance staring at where the car had vanished, heart pounding: “A meeting... a phone call... that silhouette... Can the universe really be this coincidental?!”
If that man really was Lu Chen... if L really was Lu Chen...
Then “official meeting tonight” was a lie told to her. And his appearing outside this restaurant was no “just passing through” either.
Why lie to her? Why be here? Could he... be attending this writers' meetup?
“Miaomiao! Did you fall into the toilet? Everyone's waiting for you to cut the cake!” a friend called from inside.
She snapped back to herself, answered quickly, took one last look in the direction the black car had gone, and turned back into the restaurant.
For the rest of the evening, Shen Miaomiao was somewhere else entirely — chatting mechanically, eating cake, drinking, her head full of the trench-coat silhouette and L's reply.
She wanted to ask L point-blank, but didn't know how.
She wanted to come right out with “Are you Lu Chen?” — but feared that once asked, even friendship would be off the table.
And so, carrying a head full of questions, she passed a sleepless night.