MW CH37

Chapter 37: I Don’t Hate Women, I Just Hate Stupidity

Huangfu Rou took most of the studio staff with her. Over the years, she’d been the better leader—everyone picking her didn’t surprise me one bit. What did surprise me was that Vivian, our sales head, stayed.

With a dozen roles to refill and all the stuff Huangfu Rou used to handle now on me, I returned to Haicheng and drowned in chaos, glued to the studio day in, day out.

Pushing open the stairwell’s fire door, I’d been cooped up all day and needed a smoke to unwind. Looking up, I spotted Vivian there too.

Her manicured fingers held a slim lady’s cigarette. Seeing my pack, she knew I was a fellow smoker and scooted over, making room by the trash can.

Smoking together in silence would’ve been awkward, so I tossed out a casual topic.

“Why didn’t you leave with them?” Honestly, I was curious.

Vivian blinked, cigarette midair, then thought it over and answered seriously. “You’re a mess, but you’re a good guy. Huangfu’s capable, but I’m scared one day she’d sell me out and I’d still be counting her cash.”

That was… a complicated good-guy card.

She finished her smoke quick, waved goodbye, and pushed the door to leave. I exhaled a plume of white and called after her with another question.

“What’s your Chinese name?”

Vivian rolled her eyes. “Boss, three years and you’re just now asking? Lin Vivian!” She shoved through the door.

I scratched my cheek with a fingertip, mildly embarrassed.

When we started the studio, I funded it, Huangfu Rou ran it—70-30 split, her with 30%. Now, splitting up, she’s cashing out her shares, and I’ve got to buy them back with my own money.

She didn’t gouge me—the price settled with the lawyer was fair. Problem is, it’s sudden. Most of my liquid cash went to gems recently; I’ve got less than a million left—not even enough for her fraction.

I didn’t want to touch the antiques, jewelry, or properties my grandma left me, so I’d sell my own stash. Over the years, I’d hoarded colored gems—some tripled, quadrupled in value. Liquidating them might just cover it.

While I scrambled to find buyers, Huangfu Rou sent a meet-up invite.

The spot was a well-reviewed steakhouse on the Bund, terrace seating—modern skyscrapers across the river, historic colonial buildings all around.

“You really not eating?” Huangfu Rou handed the menu back to the waiter after ordering.

“Nah, no appetite.” I sipped my lemon water.

April in Haicheng was prime tourist weather—not too hot, not too cold, spring in full swing. The terrace bloomed with pansies and petunias in every color, diners nestled among flowers. It should’ve lifted my mood, whetted my appetite. Instead, it just grated.

The prettier the scene, the uglier our rift looked.

“I asked you here to return something.” Huangfu Rou reached into her bag, sliding a palm-sized acrylic box across the table. “This spinel’s flawless, but too bad—it’s still not a ruby, no matter how much it looks like one. Miss Gu didn’t want it, swapped it out with a flawless pigeon-blood ruby from her old stash. So it’s yours again.”

Staring at the red spinel, my chest tightened. I’d set this stone in its mount myself, picturing Mochuan wearing that necklace. All that care, and someone else yanked it out, deeming it cheap.

Snatching the box, I bit back my anger. “Anything else?”

“I had a feeling we’d drift apart eventually.” Huangfu Rou gazed at the riverfront, her tone tinged with melancholy. “You were born rich, with the luxury to be reckless, caring only about your own happiness. I came from nothing, clawed my way up, chasing what you had from the start.”

“Different starting lines, different finish lines. We were bound to split.”

My fingers dug into the box. I watched tourists below. “See those people down there? Different starts, different ends—maybe they’ll never cross paths in this life. But they stick to their own roads, honest and steady, not wrecking someone else’s just to feed their greed and calling it ‘for your own good.’”

Huangfu Rou chuckled—maybe she knew that excuse was flimsy and absurd, so she dropped the act. “Miss Gu likes me, offered to fund my own company. I can finally build my business my way. Isn’t that great?”

So my Feather of God was her ticket in.

If it weren’t broad daylight, I’d have asked the waiter for a whiskey.

“You see my rich upbringing but miss that my dad ditched me, my mom checked out—grew up with no parental care. You say you fought for everything from a poor family; I envied you for having both parents, someone to fuss over you.” I stared at her, smirking. “If I only cared about my own happiness, why bother parting amicably?”

Her expression faded, speechless. After a beat, she lowered her lashes, dodging my gaze.

I didn’t expect a few words to flip her conscience. Pushing my chair back, I stood. “If I wanted to burn bridges, I could. If you’ve got any shred of friendship left, clear up the Pinewood Stream mess. After that, we go our separate ways—done.” Box in hand, I strode off.

The next day, Huangfu Rou posted a personal statement online.

She detailed how she, Hang Jiafei, and MIMA’s editor schemed to borrow Pinewood Stream. Hang Jiafei, desperate to wear it, learned the editor was Huangfu Rou’s old friend and pushed her to stage a Rashomon-style con.

[“If he asks, say the contract wasn’t ready. It’ll be worn, shot—what’s he gonna do?”]

[“Xiao Fei’s just using it for a shoot, won’t ruin it. What’s he so high-and-mighty about?”]

[“If it blows up, no worries—let him see how scary the fan circle gets.”]

She attached a screenshot of their chat—her, the editor, Hang Jiafei’s agent. To prove it wasn’t doctored, she dropped a high-res GIF in the comments. Ironclad.

She ended with a sincere apology to me, saying she’d resigned from my studio out of guilt.

Online winds shift faster than a westerly jet stream—cursing you today, praising you tomorrow.

The statement sparked an uproar. My rep had just started recovering, still taking flak—now it flipped me from “villain” to “victim,” voices rising to defend me.

[“Those who trashed BY and attacked his orientation—where’s your apology? Gone mute?”]

[“Who’s the real misogynist? Stirring trouble under ‘women’s rights’ is the real stumbling block for feminism.”]

[“Besides yelling and slapping labels, what’ve these people done for women? He’s funding charity—mountain girls benefit. Have they donated a hundred bucks?”]

Friends for profit today, betrayed for bigger profit tomorrow. I finally saw Huangfu Rou clear.

Bai Qifeng might like her—they’re cut from the same cloth.

“Boss, should our official Weibo repost?” With staff short, Lin Vivian juggled roles, now running the studio’s account too.

Arms crossed behind her, I nodded. “Yeah, repost.”

“Content? Straight repost?”

I sneered. “In my name. Say…”

[“Boss: I don’t hate women, I just hate stupidity.”]

Sun Manman had her credits wrapped up, free most of the week. To dodge the May Day travel crush, she suggested heading to Cuoyansong three days early.

Work was suffocating me—escaping sooner sounded like a godsend. I agreed without hesitation.

From boarding to landing, then the bumpy ride into Cuoyansong, Sun Manman—maybe hyped for her first big trip—chattered nonstop with her friend.

“Slow down, save your breath—altitude’s no joke,” I said from the SUV’s front seat, glancing back.

Sun Manman flopped onto the seatback, grinning. “I’m telling Liang Mu about your online fights. She saw it but didn’t know anyone involved, so it didn’t stick. Turns out it’s my brother!”

I half-laughed, half-sighed. “What’s there to explain about a fight?”

“They said you hate women! Bro, doesn’t that sound like a joke to you? I cracked up hearing it.”

I hadn’t taken it to heart, but was it that funny?

“What’s so funny?”

“Because…” She paused, choosing her words. “I don’t think you hate women. You like girls. You hate men—and maybe you’re a bit homophobic.”

I was floored, worldview shaken. “I’m gay and I hate men? I’m homophobic? I like girls??”

“‘Like’ can be how you like me! I’m a psych major, bro—trust me,” she said, sounding like a con artist. “If you can like the same sex, why can’t you hate it too? If men can dislike men, why can’t a gay guy dislike gays? I asked you years ago why you don’t date. I wanted to set you up with my classmate—he’s into you—but you said gay guys are scary, told me to steer clear of him. Remember?”

Yeah, two or three years back. She’d sprung a matchmaking scheme on me, sent a photo—another feminine pretty-boy like Ming Zhuo. I freaked, told her to avoid gays, they’d corrupt her.

“You wouldn’t get it—you’re too young. Men are…” I shook my head, sparing her ears.

“It’s a big Cenglu festival today—‘Deer King’s Birthday’ or something. Hope we make it,” Liang Mu chimed in, scrolling her phone.

“Driver, what’s this ‘Deer King’s Birthday’? Any fun stuff to catch?” Sun Manman, ever sociable, leaned over the driver’s seatback.

The driver—booked online by the girls—was a Shannan local Xia guy, chatty and warm, dishing out Cuoyansong tips all trip.

“‘Deer King’s Birthday’ is their Spring Festival! Not sure if you’ll catch the action—it started yesterday. You should’ve come then, but this road might get us lucky…”

He explained it’s a two-day celebration—no work, families reuniting to thank the Mountain Lord and each other.

“Sounds boring,” Liang Mu said. “Like our Spring Festival—everyone’s home eating, streets dead.”

“Not in the villages—watch the ritual procession…”

He said on the first day, before dawn, a group of young Cenglu men forms a procession in Pengge. Led by Pinjia, they carry flags, beat drums, haul offerings—heading from Pengge to Canglan Snow Mountain and back over two days.

“A hundred-man beefcake squad?” Liang Mu whistled, crowding forward like Sun Manman. “How long till we’re there?”

“Soon, soon. If they’re slow, we might spot them ahead.” He took a turn.

The rocky hills parted, revealing a wide green plain—golden rapeseed fields, wild cherry blossoms bursting in clusters, pink clouds from afar.

“Gorgeous!”

Liang Mu and Sun Manman rolled down the windows; the driver popped the sunroof with perfect timing.

“Get out for photos if you want—I’ll pull ahead and park.”

Then, a dark mass appeared at the road’s end—kilometers off, but moving loud, dust billowing behind.

“Here they come—the procession!” The driver pointed.

He parked roadside; we piled out.

The road was wide, a proper two-lane, but raw dirt—no wonder the dust.

The girls darted into the flower fields for pics. The driver and I stood by, swapping smokes, chatting about the distant crew.

“They left yesterday, back today—where do they eat and sleep?” I asked.

He pointed to tiny houses at the mountain’s base. “Folks along the way bring food and drink when they pass—no one goes hungry. At night, they crash in whatever village they hit. Pinjia gets a room; the rest squeeze into sheds or kitchens.”

The black dots grew. Four or five minutes later, the front was faintly visible. The driver waved the girls back.

They ran over, still catching their breath, as the procession rolled up.

The leaders were on horseback—not plodding, but charging fast.

A lone white horse led, jingling past us, decked in red ribbons and gold trinkets, its coat gleaming in the sunset.

The rider matched—red-and-white garb, gold chains dripping from waist to boots, upper body draped in ornate necklaces, armlets, bracelets. Up higher: a graceful jawline, and a gold feather mask hiding half their face.

I held my near-dead cigarette, a gust brushing by as the fairy-like horse shot past. In that split second, the rider seemed to notice me, twisting back mid-ride. The move was so sharp the mask’s gold tassels snagged on their shoulder, tangling with the ornaments.

“Whoa, Liang Mu, did you catch that? That white horse is unreal—the rider too! How’s someone so decked out still so ethereal?” Sun Manman squealed.

Liang Mu raised her DSLR, hyped. “Got it, got it—let me zoom. Wow… this glance-back is divine, so cinematic.” She hammed it up. “Shock mixed with panic, damp eyes spilling unintended affection, a trace of faint sorrow—like stumbling unprepared onto a long-lost lover.”

She lingered on “lover,” all syrupy and dramatic.

“Maybe they just glanced our way? Don’t overanalyze,” Sun Manman said, smacking her.

I kept staring at the fading white horse. Under yellow dust, the procession marched on—horse and rider nearly gone.

Still, I wouldn’t look away, fixated on their direction until the last flag-bearer jogged past.

“They’re moving slow this time—gotta beat sunset back. Can’t dawdle,” the driver said, herding us into the car.