Chapter 351: We owe her an apology
While secrets fermented behind closed doors, chaos had already begun to crawl through the hotel corridors.
It started with a whisper.
A reporter lingered near the lobby, phone angled just right, voice deliberately low but excited enough to draw attention. He said they had a scoop. Not just any scoop—one big enough to detonate before morning.
Someone nearby caught it. Another leaned closer. Then another.
Within minutes, the words spread like wildfire.
Something big was happening tonight.
The live stream had already started. The angle was messy, unsteady, but that only made it feel more real. The reporter never mentioned names. He didn’t need to. He only said an artist—once wildly famous, recently returned after an accident—was inside Room 69. That a secret was about to be exposed. That a married man was involved. That a wife had been brought along to catch them in the act.
The implications alone were enough to make people’s blood race.
Indigo Beauty had invited media coverage for the event, so hotel management didn’t stop them. Reporters were allowed to move freely. And though most dignitaries had retired for the night, gossip had a way of pulling people back from their suites.
Someone asked what was happening.
The head reporter answered plainly, voice carrying just enough drama. "A cheating scandal. Room 69. A married man and a shameless artist."
That was all it took.
The woman who heard it stiffened.
Her expression changed when she learned a wife was involved. She stepped forward, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Her own marriage had been ruined the same way. Sympathy flared instantly.
"If that’s true," she said coldly, "I’ll take you there myself."
The group followed.
As they moved deeper into the hallway, more people joined. Dignitaries. Assistants. Guests pretending not to be curious. Phones were already raised. Whispers echoed against the walls.
Then someone recognized her.
That woman walking at the front—the wife—was Businessman Zhou’s.
The realization hit like a match dropped into oil.
Businessman Zhou. A man long rumored to be unfaithful, yet never once caught. No evidence. No proof. Untouchable.
Until tonight.
No one knew that Hua Ling had contacted Zhou’s wife anonymously. No one knew this was her second plan, carefully prepared, viciously thorough. If one trap failed, another would close. Hua Jing was never meant to escape. Not alive. Not clean.
They stopped outside Room 69.
The hallway fell quiet.
The hotel’s soundproofing was excellent. Still, faint sounds slipped through the door. Soft. Indistinct. Intimate enough to make imaginations run wild.
That was enough.
The wife lost control.
"Don’t think you’ll survive today," she shouted, voice shaking with rage. "If I catch you, I’ll tear you apart!"
A hotel manager hurried over, face pale but eager. He had been bribed well.
"I have the master key," he said quickly.
The reporters leaned in.
Someone zoomed closer.
Someone else whispered, "We’re live."
The key turned.
The door opened.
Light flooded the room.
Cameras exploded.
Flashes went off like lightning strikes, one after another, blinding, relentless. The live stream shook violently as people surged forward.
On the bed, bodies were tangled together.
The man froze first.
Businessman Zhou’s drunken haze shattered when he saw the cameras, the faces, the crowd pouring into the room like a flood. His blood ran cold. He shoved himself backward, scrambling off the bed, panic tearing through him.
"What is this?! Who are you?!"
His shout echoed uselessly.
The woman on the bed didn’t understand.
The drug still held her tightly, wrapped around her mind like chains. She reached out blindly, searching for warmth, for comfort, unaware of the dozens of lenses capturing every movement.
From the doorway, Zhou’s wife screamed, voice sharp enough to cut.
"Hua Jing, you slut! I’ve caught you today!"
She stormed forward.
Then she stopped.
Her steps faltered.
Her eyes widened.
The name died on her tongue.
Because the woman on the bed wasn’t Hua Jing.
It was Hua Ling.
For a single second, the world seemed to stop.
Then everything detonated.
"Wait—"
"That’s not—"
"Isn’t that—?"
The reporters who had been paid to destroy Hua Jing turned instantly. Their cameras swiveled. Their lenses locked on. Photos were taken in rapid succession. Videos streamed live. Angles were adjusted, lights pushed closer.
Hua Ling.
The hottest rising star.
Caught in the most humiliating way possible.
Businessman Zhou staggered back, face drained of color, hands trembling as he tried to cover himself, as if it would undo what had already been seen.
Hua Ling, half-conscious, let out a broken sound, confused, distressed, reaching toward him again before collapsing back onto the bed.
The scene was chaos.
Raw. Ugly. Irreversible.
By the time security arrived, it was already too late.
The footage was everywhere.
The internet ignited.
[Live Comment Feed]
"She just came back from an accident and this is what she’s doing?"
"I knew it. I always knew something was off about her."
"Sleeping with married men for resources, classic."
"So this is how she climbed up the ladder?"
"Disgusting."
"No wonder she disappeared before. Probably hiding scandals."
"I feel sick. I defended her for years."
"She really thought she was untouchable."
"Poor wife. This is humiliating."
"Wait... wasn’t everyone saying it was Hua Jing?"
"So they framed the wrong person?"
"This is insane."
"I owe Hua Jing an apology."
"Same. We dragged her for nothing."
"Blue Entertainment better explain this."
"Explain what? The evidence is right there."
"This is career-ending."
"No amount of PR can fix this."
"She destroyed herself."
....
By morning, the outcome had already been sealed.
The industry didn’t wait for explanations. It never did.
Blue Entertainment worked through the night like a house on fire, executives pacing, phones ringing nonstop, assistants refreshing feeds that only grew worse with every second. Statements were drafted, rewritten, discarded. Apologies sounded hollow even before they were released.
Then came the deletions.
Hua Ling’s posts vanished one by one. Promotional photos disappeared. Carefully curated timelines were wiped clean, as if erasing pixels could erase memory. It didn’t work. Screenshots had already spread everywhere, frozen in permanence.
Brands moved faster.
Termination notices arrived before dawn.
Emails labeled urgent. Calls that were never answered. Cold, formal language severed years of cooperation in a single paragraph. Partnerships "paused." Endorsements "re-evaluated." Campaigns "cancelled due to reputational concerns."
