Transmigrated As The Villainous Scumbag Wife Of A Disabled Tycoon - Chapter 61
61
Thanks to Gu Qingfeng’s fame, related hashtags dominated the top spots on the trending list, each marked with a bold red “explosive” label.
More hashtags gradually climbed the ranks, including those related to the Distant Moon production team.
The marketing account that dropped the bombshell before bedtime had since gone silent, but the videos and photos were circulating in every related hashtag’s discussion square.
Gu Qingfeng wasn’t just a Best Actress; she had a massive fanbase and a huge casual following. Among the new generation of Best Actresses, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say she had top-tier national recognition.
In comparison, Xu Zhaozhao was relatively unknown.
But overnight, Xu Zhaozhao’s Weibo followers skyrocketed from a few hundred thousand to over three million.
Too many people had come to watch the drama unfold, all waiting for a response.
Gu Qingfeng’s fans were famously fierce in the industry, but with no statement from their idol and such damning videos and photos, they didn’t dare say much, fearing they might invite a “Thor’s hammer” that would crush their beloved star.
However, many big fan accounts started controlling the narrative, using the attention to promote the drama, while plenty of paid trolls mixed in, claiming that for an actress like Gu Qingfeng, who rose to fame through her work, dating at thirty was perfectly normal.
And with a face like Gu Qingfeng’s, she looked like she’d be great to sleep with.
Years ago, Gu Qingfeng had shot a cover for a well-known domestic magazine that sold out the same day, breaking the record as the first in China to surpass 100 million in sales.
The reason? That magazine cover was seductive yet refined, enchanting yet not gaudy, flawless from every angle, sparking endless fantasies.
But in the industry, Gu Qingfeng was known as an “iceberg beauty.” Her co-stars praised her work ethic and professionalism, but no one ever said she was easy to get along with.
In character, she could be anyone; out of character, she was the silent, aloof Iceberg Gu.
Her fans once joked that they couldn’t even imagine what it would be like for their queen to fall in love.
Yet, before Distant Moon even wrapped filming, rumors of a romance between the female lead and a supporting actress had surfaced.
What did that make the other female lead?
Gu Qingfeng had plenty of die-hard fans, but she also had her share of haters. It didn’t take long for smear articles to appear.
The other female lead, able to share the stage with someone of Gu Qingfeng’s caliber, was naturally a major star in her own right.
Her debut drama as the female lead was a massive hit, propelling her to stardom in less than three years, making her an undisputed queen of popularity.
Wherever she went, attention followed.
Her red carpet looks always went viral, a casual TV appearance could pull in millions in sponsorships, and a single song could revive an obscure old track. Every drama she starred in was a hit.
Her fans didn’t just see her as a lucky charm; they treated her like a religion.
This star was perfect in every way—except her fans, who were practically a cult.
When it was announced that Distant Moon would feature Gu Qingfeng and her as dual female leads, even a marketing account that put Gu Qingfeng’s name before hers got its comment section obliterated by her fans.
They even forced that thick-skinned, traffic-chasing account to delete its profile and vanish.
Gu Qingfeng’s fans weren’t spared either. When the drama’s official announcement dropped with character posters, the two fandoms tore into each other online, creating a spectacle that had everyone grabbing popcorn.
It only stopped when both stars personally stepped in to calm things down.
Just when the dust had settled, the drama was halfway through filming, and now Gu Qingfeng was supposedly in love?
With the supporting actress, no less?
The other female lead’s fans couldn’t take it. Black PR campaigns, hashtag spamming—it was a full-on assault.
As Jiang Ciyi and Cheng Xing sat side by side on the bed, barely making sense of half the gossip, Weibo crashed.
None of the hashtags would load.
They switched to another app—crashed.
After trying two or three more apps, each one buckled under the flood of gossip, crashing before they could dig deeper.
Finally, Cheng Xing sighed in defeat. “They’re not letting us eat this melon.”
Jiang Ciyi shrugged, putting down her phone. “Guess we’ll just sleep then.”
They’d watched the videos and photos twice. From a fan’s perspective, the evidence was pretty damning: both entering the same hotel, going into the same room one after the other, and leaving the next day in the same pattern.
But the photos were all candid shots from that day at Tinglan Mansion during filming, looking intimate but likely just a result of clever photo editing.
In reality, Gu Qingfeng and Xu Zhaozhao had a big fight that day.
Jiang Ciyi didn’t believe Gu Qingfeng would date Xu Zhaozhao.
With the lights off, Cheng Xing asked, “You don’t believe it, or you don’t want to believe it?”
“What’s there to not want to believe?” Jiang Ciyi replied. “I just don’t believe it.”
“What if it’s true?” Cheng Xing pressed.
“It’s got nothing to do with me.” Jiang Ciyi said.
Her eyes were closed, her tone flat.
“But just now…” Cheng Xing paused before continuing, “you seemed pretty invested.”
“Because I don’t think Gu Qingfeng would fall for someone like Xu Zhaozhao,” Jiang Ciyi said, not hiding her disdain. “Or maybe I misjudged her.”
“With those sharp eyes of yours, you’d misjudge someone?” Cheng Xing teased.
Jiang Ciyi let out a soft laugh but didn’t respond.
After a pause, Cheng Xing asked, “What’s so funny?”
Jiang Ciyi didn’t answer directly, instead asking, “You sure you want to know?”
“Yeah.”
Being kept in the dark felt awful.
Plus, Cheng Xing loved these moments—lying in bed, chatting idly after a long day.
It kept her from sinking into lonely thoughts in the quiet of the night.
Even gossiping about trivial things was better than being trapped in her own head.
“Because I’ve always misjudged people,” Jiang Ciyi said. “You got it wrong.”
“Huh?”
“My father, my friends, my wife,” Jiang Ciyi continued. “If life were a true-or-false test, I’d score a zero.”
Cheng Xing fell silent.
But Jiang Ciyi didn’t seem to dwell on it. The fact that she could say it so casually meant she didn’t care that much.
“Luckily,” Jiang Ciyi’s lashes fluttered slightly, “life’s a multiple-choice question. Sometimes you get more than one pick.”
Cheng Xing burst out laughing. “I used to hear that all the time.”
She’d even written it in letters to comfort Wa Pian.
Back then, she didn’t fully grasp what it meant.
Now she did, but she realized she didn’t have the luxury of choosing.
“What a coincidence.” Jiang Ciyi said softly.
The conversation ended abruptly, and the room fell quiet.
Trying to make sense of Gu Qingfeng’s gossip, they’d scrolled through every hashtag, read netizens’ summaries, and looked at countless photos. Time had slipped away quickly.
When Cheng Xing heard Jiang Ciyi’s steady breathing, she glanced at her phone—it was already 1:30 a.m.
She opened Weibo again. The engineers must’ve worked overtime to fix the servers, as all platforms were buzzing with discussions about Gu Qingfeng and Xu Zhaozhao’s rumored romance.
In the entertainment industry, the golden PR window was two hours.
No denial within two hours was as good as an admission, especially for a dating scandal.
Could it be… Gu Qingfeng and Xu Zhaozhao were actually together?
Cheng Xing’s curiosity wasn’t driven by her dislike for Xu Zhaozhao.
It was just that she remembered Xu Zhaozhao as the villain obsessively in love with the original female lead, causing chaos and being too brainless to ever get involved with Jiang Ciyi’s family.
Unless… Gu Qingfeng wasn’t Jiang Ciyi’s sister?
But the system had punished her over this.
Or maybe, because of her arrival, the gears of fate had shifted, and Xu Zhaozhao ended up with Gu Qingfeng. If so… who did the original novel’s Xu Congshi marry?
Could her presence have caused a butterfly effect, collapsing all the character arcs and storylines?
Cheng Xing’s mind grew messier the more she read.
She even considered messaging Xu Zhaozhao to ask if it was true.
Then, the next second, she saw Gu Qingfeng’s WeChat Moments post: just two words—Not true.
Followed by a smiley face.
Posted one minute ago.
Cheng Xing let out a sigh of relief.
Thank goodness. Shen Qingxue’s early appearance had already left her uneasy. If Gu Qingfeng became another variable, she wouldn’t know what to do.
With too many variables, even completing the system’s four tasks might not get her back to her original world.
Cheng Xing immediately commented: [That’s awesome!]
Gu Qingfeng sent a question mark, confused.
Cheng Xing asked: [Why no PR statement? The internet’s losing it.]
Her tone was casual, but to Gu Qingfeng, it felt overly familiar.
Like she was pretending.
They weren’t that close, so Gu Qingfeng didn’t reply to her comment.
Cheng Xing didn’t mind. It was just a casual remark, but with Gu Qingfeng’s post, her worries eased, and she could finally sleep soundly.
At the same moment, some slept well, while others couldn’t.
Gu Qingfeng’s manager sat on the sofa, her work phone buzzing nonstop. From 100% battery two hours ago, it was now at 5%, with calls pouring in relentlessly.
All were media contacts she knew, trying to get the scoop.
Meanwhile, she was on another phone, talking to the producer of Distant Moon.
The producer, her close friend, was why they’d secured such a strong team for the drama.
But this sudden scandal had put their years-long friendship on shaky ground.
The producer wanted to coordinate with the other female lead, Luo Xi, and Xu Zhaozhao’s team to align their statements before denying anything.
Problem was, they couldn’t reach Xu Zhaozhao or her manager.
Plus, the paparazzi’s video was so convincing, it was hard not to suspect something was going on.
The producer didn’t dare issue a statement blindly. If it backfired, the drama’s massive investment would be at risk.
The manager could tell the producer didn’t trust Gu Qingfeng, assuming there was something shady between her and Xu Zhaozhao.
The producer told her to calm down, saying that in their years in the industry, they’d seen all sorts of people. Stars who issued denials only to be proven wrong and ruined weren’t rare. Adults had needs, and consensual flings happened. They just got caught. They needed the full picture before acting.
At a time like this, even a punctuation mark in a statement could be blown out of proportion.
So the producer was cautious, and Luo Xi’s team agreed.
The manager snapped, “So you’re just going to silence us?”
There were clauses in the contract about this.
The manager and Gu Qingfeng had a mentor-protégé bond. Back in college, the manager spotted Gu Qingfeng’s potential and had guided her through the industry. Though she managed other artists, Gu Qingfeng was her cash cow—and their relationship went beyond money.
Having watched Gu Qingfeng grow, the manager trusted her character completely.
There was no way she’d be involved in some “drama set romance”!
A one-night stand? Even less likely.
With someone as brainless as Xu Zhaozhao? Impossible!
Even if the planet exploded and aliens crashed into Earth, it wouldn’t happen!
The manager had never felt so frustrated. Hours of arguing in circles yielded no solutions.
All roads led back to Xu Zhaozhao.
The manager had every reason to suspect Xu Zhaozhao leaked the story, but the producer insisted she had no motive. With the entire Cheng Corporation behind her, Xu Zhaozhao didn’t need to ride Gu Qingfeng’s coattails—especially not with a dating scandal that would only hurt her.
Her team’s unavailability had a reason.
Xu Zhaozhao and her team never paid attention to industry matters after 10 p.m. unless shooting night scenes.
Even the production team often couldn’t reach her—it wasn’t deliberate today.
The manager was furious, her tone sharp, like a walking powder keg. Her assistant brought a fruit platter, cautiously offering it to her.
The manager waved it off. “I’m too mad to eat.”
The assistant pouted, tossing the fruit into the trash.
The argument continued in the living room, rehashing the same points.
But in the next moment, an impatient Gu Qingfeng put away her phone, stood up, and snatched the manager’s phone. In a cold tone, she said, “We’re done. My lawyer will contact you tomorrow. The penalty fee will be wired on time.”
She hung up, logged into her Weibo, and posted: Stay away from me.
Paired with a “FUCK” middle-finger image.
Late at night, when most should be asleep, countless people stayed up to eat the melon.
Netizens were torn between devouring the gossip and complaining: [Can’t you drop this on a weekend? I have work tomorrow!]
[Holy crap! First time seeing a real celebrity lose it!]
[TBH, that was kinda rude.]
[Rude? I’m obsessed!]
[Some nobody really needs to stop leeching. How many times have those set photos been posted? Completely forgetting the original female lead? Luo fans, you okay with this?]
[Hell yeah, I knew staying up was worth it!]
[…]
After Gu Qingfeng’s post, people expected it to be deleted quickly. Most stars avoided leaving such negative traces online.
At the very least, their team would intervene.
But five minutes later, Gu Qingfeng’s studio dropped a statement announcing the termination of her contract with the Distant Moon team. The reason? The script had been changed multiple times during filming, deviating significantly from the original, and midway through, it clashed with Gu Qingfeng’s principles.
For any other artist, this would be unthinkable—making such a public fuss risked an industry-wide ban.
But for Gu Qingfeng, it made sense.
With awards, acting chops, fans, and her own company, she’d have no shortage of backers.
Ban her? She’d fight back.
This move put Gu Qingfeng on a pedestal. Her fans reveled in it, wiping out every hashtag square overnight.
The manager, still shaken, asked, “Is this really okay?”
They hadn’t gone this far earlier because of the hefty penalty, the quality of the script, and the fact that mid-shoot contract terminations were unheard of.
If mishandled, Gu Qingfeng’s reputation could take a hit, and rebuilding it would be tough.
Unless absolutely necessary, no one would do this.
Gu Qingfeng handed back the phone. “Whatever happens, I’ll handle it.”
She glanced at the manager, then at the assistant, who was distractedly scrolling on her phone. “You’re both getting two months off. Go travel abroad or rest at home. I’ll cover flights and hotels.”
Her relationship with her manager wasn’t typical. Gu Qingfeng carried an air of authority, and decisions were usually discussed, but if they disagreed, the manager deferred to her.
The manager wasn’t sure when this dynamic formed, but… it worked.
Gu Qingfeng was organized, strategic, and good to her team, making their jobs easy.
Hearing this, the manager knew Gu Qingfeng was taking a break during this storm. She wanted to protest, but Gu Qingfeng grabbed her black trench coat from the sofa. “Alright, take the break.”
With that, she left.
The assistant stood stunned for two seconds. “Sis, is Qingfeng…”
“Forget it,” the manager said. “She knows what she’s doing. Didn’t you always want to go to France? Go.”
The assistant, still scrolling, hadn’t heard Gu Qingfeng’s offer. She pouted, “I don’t have the money.”
“Your boss is covering flights and hotels,” the manager said, patting her head. “Get receipts. I’ll approve a package under 20,000.”
The assistant was floored. “…What?”
After leaving, Gu Qingfeng drove straight to a bar.
She frequented a cozy lounge with great drinks—not too pricey, but a bit upscale.
Wearing her black trench coat, she sat at the bar and ordered a “Snowy Night Traveler,” perfect for the night’s vibe.
The milky liquid swirled with a hint of Klein blue, looking eerie under the dim bar lights.
But Gu Qingfeng wasn’t in the mood to savor it. She downed it in one go.
The liquor burned her throat, searing her stomach, but it felt oddly satisfying.
Her phone buzzed. Gu Qingqiu messaged, asking if she needed help.
Gu Qingfeng replied: [It’s handled.]
Gu Qingqiu: [Saw it a bit late.]
Gu Qingfeng, in a bad mood, didn’t hold back: [Oh, please. With all your people, you’re telling me no one saw it?]
Gu Qingqiu: [Oh.]
Gu Qingfeng called her out: [If you want me to come back and run the company with you, just say it.]
Gu Qingqiu sent a voice message: “As expected of my twin sister. You get me.”
Gu Qingfeng sent a disdainful emoji, but Gu Qingqiu’s next voice message was serious: “Who’s this Xu Zhaozhao? Need me to deal with her?”
Gu Qingfeng: [You’ve already looked into her.]
A PPT appeared in the chat. Opening it revealed the full timeline of events.
Xu Zhaozhao had someone dig into Gu Qingfeng’s hotel, staged an “accidental” encounter, used an apology as an excuse to get close, created a visual illusion for paparazzi to capture, then passed the material through several hands to a marketing account with no direct ties to her.
The PPT detailed every step and every person involved.
Gu Qingqiu’s efficiency never disappointed.
Her decisive style was straight from their mother.
But…
[If you deal with her, will she still be breathing?]
Gu Qingqiu: [We don’t do murder and mayhem.]
“Fine.” Gu Qingfeng snapped her fingers at the bartender, ordering three more of the same drink.
She told Gu Qingqiu: “I’ll handle my own mess.”
[But she schemed against you. That pisses me off.]
It was rare for Gu Qingqiu to be so open with her feelings.
Gu Qingfeng smirked faintly. “She’s not worth your time.”
“What if someone’s backing her? Oh, and while checking her out, I found someone else.”
“Who?”
“Cheng Xing. She’s been acting like a different person this past month, which caused Xu Zhaozhao’s drastic change.”
Hearing Cheng Xing’s name, Gu Qingfeng asked if she’d also looked into Cheng Xing’s wife.
Knowing Gu Qingqiu, she wouldn’t have missed Jiang Ciyi’s photo and would’ve dug up everything about her.
As expected, Gu Qingqiu replied: [I did.]
“You like her?” Gu Qingqiu asked.
Gu Qingfeng paused, frowning at the word “like.” “Interested, not in love.”
“If you really liked her, stealing her wouldn’t be out of the question,” Gu Qingqiu said. “But if it’s just interest, it’s not worth it.”
Gu Qingfeng stared at the screen, shaking her head helplessly.
Her sister was like a human AI, a lawless maverick who never saw ethics or morals as barriers.
Gu Qingfeng, on the other hand, had stayed disciplined all these years, never crossing that line.
But Gu Qingqiu could talk about it so casually.
Gu Qingfeng said, “What I mean is, don’t you think she might be Jiang Die?”
Gu Qingqiu took two minutes to reply: [Impossible.]
She said firmly: [Jiang Die is dead.]
With Gu Qingqiu so certain, Gu Qingfeng didn’t press further. Her own life was messy enough; she wasn’t in the mood to dwell on it.
But as Gu Qingqiu said, they’d watched Jiang Die burn to ashes in a fire years ago, nearly taking Jiang Shan and the sisters with her.
That’s why Gu Qingqiu never let it go.
She often said that a child raised in another family, even with their genes, would still turn out wrong.
They shouldn’t have brought her back.
It was too tangled to unravel, so Gu Qingfeng flipped her phone face-down and kept drinking.
After three rounds, she wanted a cigarette, but smoking was banned at the bar counter. She headed to the smoking area.
As she stood up, she noticed the woman who’d been typing on her laptop earlier was gone—probably some worker rushing a deadline.
It was rare to see someone working in a bar.
Curious, Gu Qingfeng glanced a few times.
She hadn’t noticed when the woman left.
But she didn’t think much of it. In the smoking area, she put a cigarette between her lips, reached into her pocket, and frowned when she couldn’t find a lighter. Turning around, she saw someone in white leaning lazily against the wall, smoking.
The cigarette’s ember flickered, oddly captivating.
“Need a light?” The woman’s voice came from the corner, husky with the rasp of smoke and alcohol.
Gu Qingfeng nodded, almost instinctively.
“Come here,” the woman said.
Gu Qingfeng walked over and realized it was the woman who’d been typing earlier. Her red lips were like bl00d, her brows fine, her pupils golden—maybe contacts, maybe natural. She was clearly tipsy, her eyes hazy with intoxication.
Gu Qingfeng, not much soberer, studied her discreetly.
She reached for the lighter, but the woman suddenly leaned in. Gu Qingfeng dodged instinctively.
Even so, their cigarettes touched.
The woman’s smoke-and-liquor-laced voice said, “My lighter fell in the toilet. This is my last cigarette.”
Gu Qingfeng took a drag, her tone cool. “So where you going after this?”
“To sleep,” the woman said, glancing at her casually, her tone as normal as asking if she’d eaten. “Wanna join?”