Chapter 3

On the phone screen was the homepage of that account.

That high-angle photo…

Zhou Zhenyao’s gaze lingered on those few photos for about a second or two. It was brief—too brief for the excited Jin Zhaolu to notice anything unusual.

Immediately after, he looked away.

“Is that enough? Take the phone away.”

Jin Zhaolu gave a “tch” and pulled her phone back, her mouth still rattling on. “I knew you weren’t that shallow. I mean, what kind of man would actually be interested in that type anyway…”

Zhou Zhenyao didn’t really hear the rest. He shifted his attention back to the documents in front of him.

Jin Zhaolu truly did not understand men.

However, an anonymous internet user wasn’t enough to distract him much further; a momentary pause was already his limit. Jin Zhaolu remained immersed in her own world, completely unaware of what the man beside her was actually thinking.

Over the next few days, Yu Xuan followed “Zhao Zhao” on Little Green Book, disguising herself as a “CP fan” who was deeply moved by their “fairytale romance.” (t/n: “CP fan” refers to someone who “ships” a pair—real or fictional—and enjoys consuming content of them as a couple.)

Under almost every update regarding Zhou Zhenyao, the user “Xuan” could be found.

In one post, there was a distant silhouette of Zhou Zhenyao’s profile as he read in the library. Yu Xuan commented:

“He looks so good when he’s being serious! Zhao Zhao must be so happy to have that focus all to herself… (Whispering, just looking at the photo makes my heart race, what should I do?)”

…She was being “tea” beyond measure.

When Jin Zhaolu complained that her boyfriend was too busy every day and rarely spent time with her, Yu Xuan commented:

“God-tier top students are all like that, right? Don’t be mad, he’s definitely fighting for your future. Just imagine him putting down his work to come and coax you—ahhh! I literally want to soul-swap.”

With every single comment, she @-tagged Zhao Zhao. Her tone was incredibly enthusiastic, and the yearning for Zhou Zhenyao hidden between the lines was practically bursting through the screen.

Back in Shanghai, Jin Zhaolu did indeed notice this “Xuan” who seemed to haunt her posts.

At first, she remained dismissive. She even treated Yu Xuan’s new comments as a source of entertainment, intentionally reading them aloud to Zhou Zhenyao.

“Tsk, look, your little fangirl is at it again,” she said, corners of her mouth curling as she held the phone up to Zhou Zhenyao’s face. “‘My heart races just looking at the photo’? Haha, why is she so dramatic?”

Zhou Zhenyao would occasionally glance up at her, saying nothing. Jin Zhaolu didn’t mind; she would laugh to herself for a moment and then swipe the notification away.

But at some point, a subtle shift occurred.

For reasons she couldn’t name, Jin Zhaolu began to care. She started clicking into the woman’s profile to see if she had posted any updates. Without even realizing it, she was sharing these comments with Zhou Zhenyao more frequently, and her tone shifted from initial mockery to a hint of testing.

“Hey, she commented again. She says your ‘cold and self-disciplined look makes people want to conquer you even more.’”

As Jin Zhaolu read this, she secretly watched Zhou Zhenyao’s reaction out of the corner of her eye.

Unbeknownst to her, Zhou Zhenyao’s attitude had also changed. Sometimes he would continue looking at his book or documents, but he would quietly listen until she finished reading.

Sometimes, after she finished, he would give a flat response:

“It’s just the internet; no need to take it seriously.”

Or, “Since when did you start caring about these things?”

…It felt very off.

The fact that he offered such evaluations proved, at the very least, that he was listening—and that the words were sinking in.

Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure. By bringing that woman’s “desire” before him time and time after, was she testing him, or was she carving that woman into his mind—once, twice, three times—even deeper than before?

Yu Xuan felt that the timing was just right.

On this day, Jin Zhaolu posted a candid shot of Zhou Zhenyao drinking water by the side of a sports court.

Predictably, “Xuan” appeared in the comments.

“This one is too handsome! Zhao Zhao, you took such a good photo! @Z.Y. Would he be embarrassed if he saw this himself?”

She had directly @-tagged Zhou Zhenyao’s blank account.

This move was like a depth charge. At first, a few “CP fans” who didn’t know the full story saw the comment.

“Holy crap?! Is this the actual guy’s account?”

“Is it fake? Is it really the Great God Yao?? I don’t believe it.”

“Sister, you’re a legend! You actually dug this up! They really do follow each other and the names match; it’s probably real.”

In an instant, a massive “skyscraper” of replies built up under Yu Xuan’s comment, with many fans flocking to the thread to “check in” out of excitement. The popularity of this single comment soared, nearly rivaling the original post itself.

When Jin Zhaolu noticed the commotion, she was shocked. She hadn’t expected this woman to actually find Zhou Zhenyao’s account. A surge of offended displeasure rose in her heart, but it was quickly followed by a sense of superiority.

So what if she found it? So what if she @-tagged him?

Was Jin Zhaolu’s boyfriend someone who could be hooked just because a stranger wanted to? This girl probably spent all day glued to her phone, studying Zhaolu’s Little Green Book like a reading comprehension exam just to find it by luck. It was pathetic and laughable.

Jin Zhaolu snorted coldly and decided to ignore it. She believed Zhou Zhenyao would be even less likely to pay attention to such a boring tag. He frequently ignored even her messages; why would he look at a stranger’s comment on his girlfriend’s post?

Some voices of reason even began to appear in the comments, criticizing Yu Xuan:

“Uh, it’s not great to just @-tag someone like that, right? It lacks boundaries.”

“The person involved hasn’t even made their account public; @-tagging him like this feels a bit rude…”

“Sister, reel it in a bit. It’s better to enjoy this in your own space.”

These comments made Jin Zhaolu feel slightly better. See? Anyone with eyes could see this woman had gone off the deep end with her clumsy methods.

She leisurely took a screenshot and shared it in her group chat with her friends as a joke.

However, a few minutes later, a brand-new reply appeared right beneath Yu Xuan’s comment.

The person who replied was “Z.Y.”, and he said:

“Won’t.”

…

Time seemed to freeze.

Jin Zhaolu stared at those two characters, her mind going blank.

After a brief, deathly silence, the comment section went wild.

“???? What am I seeing?”

“The man himself has entered the chat?”

“Hahahaha, God Yao is so cold, I love it!”

“Where’s the OP? Come out and respond, is this really God Yao? I still don’t believe it.”

Never mind the audience—she didn’t quite believe it either. But the facts left no room for doubt.

Ignoring everything else, Jin Zhaolu rushed to send a WeChat message.

[Zhao Zhao]: Yao-ge, is that you on Little Green Book?

[ZY]: Yeah. Just happened to not be busy.

Her boyfriend, who was often so busy he forgot to reply to her messages, had—for the first time—given her the experience of an instant reply.