I Heard I Was the Scumbag Alpha of a Top-Tier Celebrity (GL) - Chapter 4

The next morning, Gu Xin woke up before five o’clock with a splitting headache.

She was still plagued by nightmares.

She could understand having poor sleep—after all, people always have worries—but having a nightmare every time she closed her eyes was too absurd.

Rubbing her throbbing temples, Gu Xin took a deep breath.

She still couldn’t remember the content of the nightmares, so Gu Xin had no way to vent.

The current her was like a game that automatically refreshed upon waking; everything was brand new, including her mind.

After spacing out in bed for a while, Gu Xin got up and made herself a cup of coffee. It was the only remaining non-expired food she found in the cabinet last night.

She chugged the bitter coffee in one gulp, and Gu Xin felt very comfortable, as if she had done it thousands of times before.

With her mind slightly clearer, Gu Xin casually opened Weibo and found that a comment she had made under a marketing account in the early hours of the morning had received many replies.

At the top was her comment: [I reviewed Yan Shuangshuang’s schedule—her time entering sets, event appearances, and various director interviews and behind-the-scenes footage—and found that even calculated at the minimum standard, she had to work at least nine hours a day. Among these, Deep Green and four other famously difficult TV dramas were filmed deep in the mountains and old forests, where she had no conditions to leave. That is to say, the only time she truly had to mess around was during the filming of the three TV dramas: Under the Clear Sky, Fantasy Sonata, and Lost to You. Calculating all her other commercial work during this period at the absolute minimum time, she would need at least 30 hours in a day to support the additional “entertainment activities” you are exposing.]

The replies below were varied. The most liked one was: [Stop defending her! If she wasn’t guilty, why did she retire? Can you Snowflakes keep your tails hidden? Stop pretending to be a burner account with no followers!]

Gu Xin frowned. She had researched it carefully; even Yan Shuangshuang’s manager might not remember as reliably as she did.

She had registered the Weibo account last night. Her previous account was too irritating; the moment she logged in, it was full of flirtatious messages and an unsightly chaos.

She registered the new account and immediately rushed to comment, but it was met with “mass ridicule.” When they determined she was “defending” Yan Shuangshuang, hardly anyone took the time to read her analysis seriously.

Gu Xin put down her coffee and began typing seriously.

[I am listing facts. Director XX’s interview on May 31, 2019, time 56 minutes and 7 seconds, has a critique of Yan Shuangshuang’s working hours. Splendid Weekly, September 10, 2020, Edition A, Page 33…]

She quickly listed three sources, realizing she was close to the character limit. She sent it out immediately, but it failed to send several times.

What was going on?

She clicked one more time. Whoosh, the interface went blank, with a line in the middle that read: “Sorry, this comment has been deleted~.”

…

Gu Xin hadn’t expected such a maneuver.

She clicked into the marketing account again and found that she had been blocked.

Clutching her phone, Gu Xin calmed her mood.

It’s nothing, right? It’s just that she was blocked and couldn’t talk back? It’s just that she was attacked by a group of people who don’t understand manners or factual logic?

She wasn’t angry at all. Really, she was com-plete-ly not an-gry.

Half an hour later.

“But I still can’t let go~ I rely on you too much~” The phone rang with a buzz on the desk. Gu Xin glanced at the caller ID, immediately stopped typing, and answered.

“Hello?”

Yan Shuangshuang said: “Did you read the divorce agreement?”

Gu Xin subconsciously rubbed the keyboard, her fingertips sliding over the keycaps, making a slight clicking sound.

“Yes, I read it.”

The terms were clear, and the division of marital assets was very reasonable. In fact, she would receive the lion’s share.

“When should we sign?”

“Right now?” Gu Xin involuntarily stood up. She walked away from the computer toward the window and started pulling at the curtain with her other hand.

Yan Shuangshuang was silent for a moment and then said, “I’m tired, Gu Xin.”

“…”

“Let me know when you’ve signed it. And we need to process the divorce certificate.”

“… Okay.”

Gu Xin didn’t know how she put the phone down. When she came to her senses, the curtain had been pulled into a mess by her.

She gave a self-mocking smile at the dark phone screen, returned to the computer, and the screen displayed the small program she had just finished writing, which could instantly block and shield people who automatically spewed abuse.

Next to it were clear, objective, visual diagrams she had prepared to clarify Yan Shuangshuang’s ridiculous scandals.

She just hadn’t had time to send them out yet.

Gu Xin walked out of the room, sat in front of the divorce agreement, and held the pen for a long time, unable to bring herself to sign.

“If I take so much of her assets while her career is under attack, I’d be too inhumane,” Gu Xin muttered.

In the end, she chose a different path.

Gu Xin dialed the “Teacher’s” phone number. The number was on the Teacher’s WeChat contact card, and Gu Xin had memorized it with a glance yesterday.

“Hello, who is this?” A young female voice answered.

Gu Xin said, “Hello, I should be the Teacher’s student. My name is Gu Xin.”

“Gu Xin?” The female voice raised its pitch, sounding very surprised, but she quickly snapped, “What Gu what Xin? Don’t know you! Stop calling!”

The phone was quickly hung up. When Gu Xin called again, it was a busy signal—she had been blocked.

Gu Xin thought to herself, vaguely, that she had blocked so many people yesterday, and today she got to experience being blocked to her face. In a way, it was karma.

But Gu Xin was not one to admit defeat. She composed a WeChat message describing her situation and sent it in a group to “Teacher,” “Senior Brother,” and “Junior Sister.”

Unsurprisingly, except for the Teacher, both the Senior Brother and Junior Sister had blocked her.

Her message lay quietly on the Teacher’s page, without a reply for a long time.

Returning to the computer, Gu Xin typed in her name + Capital Communications Research Institute.

No data.

She searched her name alone.

All that came up were blog posts from the past few years where she was exposed by attractive Betas, accusing her of being stingy and skipping out on dates.

Searching for Capital Research Institute + the mobile number she had just dialed, a webpage finally popped up.

It was an introduction to a professor at the Capital Communications Research Institute. The professor associated with this phone number was named “An Pingyu,” gender Beta. The woman in the photo, despite her graying hair, exuded a competent and cheerful demeanor. Her broad, tolerant eyes indicated her peaceful nature. Gu Xin felt as though she could see herself sitting in front of her, diligently researching.

However, below the photo, she was marked as an Honorary Professor, with no new projects listed. In short, she was likely retired.

Gu Xin performed one last search. She entered An Pingyu + Gu Xin. The page jumped and refreshed. Two seconds later, the result was blank.

The system prompted that her search terms could not be associated with any messages, asking her to check for correctness.

Gu Xin clearly realized that her relationship with the Capital Communications Research Institute seemed to have been erased by something unusual. The only data she could find about herself was from the last two years.

*

Yan Shuangshuang looked at the huge dark circles under her eyes in the mirror. She ultimately decided to put on some light makeup, so she wouldn’t look so haggard at the cemetery.

After applying makeup, Yan Shuangshuang specifically chose a style she normally disliked wearing, but she thought about it—since she was going to visit people, she should be a bit more solemn, so she changed into an all-black outfit.

At 1.7 meters tall, she managed to project an aura of 1.9 meters.

Yan Shuangshuang deliberately carried a bag she rarely used and drove around a few times. After confirming no paparazzi were following her, she drove toward Qinglu Mountain Cemetery.

It was the day before Qingming, and many people were already visiting, but Yan Shuangshuang made a point of waking up early. Thus, when she arrived, the cemetery had just opened, and there were few people.

Yan Shuangshuang carried the flowers and paper money and found the place she knew by heart.

Kneeling in front of the tombstone, Yan Shuangshuang placed the flowers, lit the incense and candles. In the light of the burning paper money, Yan Shuangshuang looked at the three people smiling brightly on the tombstone.

“Mom.” Yan Shuangshuang paused. “Mom, I’m sorry, I didn’t take good care of Gu Xin. I originally wanted to bring her to see you, but she doesn’t remember. Over the past two years, she also did some ridiculous things. I think I might have to wait for her to come to her senses.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, I’m not here to complain, I just want to say… Gu Xin has been doing well these past years, and she’s been happy. She’s healthy and safe, and the money I left her should be enough for her to spend for the rest of her life.”

“And Brother, even though your own sister isn’t here, I, your sister-in-law, have come. This is the new album from your favorite European and American singer. I even got a signed copy. You listen to it here first.”

She placed the album in front of the tombstone. Yan Shuangshuang opened her phone and played the digital version.

It was a song about hope. As the soothing music began, ethereal and sacred, Yan Shuangshuang stood up and looked up at the misty sky, sighing softly to the woman’s husky singing.

She was silent for a long, long time, so long that the music had played on a loop for the third time.

Yan Shuangshuang said, “Mom, I’m a little tired.”

The names on the tombstone from left to right were Zuo Yan, Zuo Lan Jian, and Gu Shibai. Their birth years were different, but their death date was the same.

The two on the left and right were Gu Xin’s two mothers; the one in the middle was Gu Xin’s older brother.

The three were gathered together, their smiles unchanged, looking intently at the utterly exhausted soul before them, as if saying—It’s alright. It’s alright.

Good child, you’ve worked hard.