Chapter 49: What to Do When Your Image Has Already Collapsed

Li Wanbai herself had no idea that Su Chengzi had reached out to the young woman who had just spoken to her, and was now plotting to remove the idle, ineffective fan support group that couldn't control comments, battle negative publicity, or manage data, and replace them. As she was about to wrap up for the day, she ran over to Yu Baichuan, smiling as she held out her hand.

In her palm lay a golden coin.

Fifty cents, enough to buy five pieces of candy.

Tilting her head, Li Wanbai addressed the superstar actor and rising financial mogul, “This fifty cents is for you! I just remembered, I never paid you when I listened to your performance before.

Let’s call this fifty cents your fee for that first time I heard you play this song.”

Yu Baichuan stared, lowering his gaze to the coin, his eyes shadowed and unreadable—countless emotions surged within them, though it was impossible to tell which settled in the end.

He shook his head and said, “I don’t remember—it doesn’t matter anymore.”

To claim he didn’t remember was an exaggeration; anyone else might forget, but he never truly could. Yet, it was true that it no longer mattered.

After reaching this point, all beautiful memories had begun to fade; what could possibly still be important?

Li Wanbai paused, unable to resist saying, “Forgotten? How could you forget? Your eyes tell me you clearly remember.”

Yu Baichuan glanced at her, but said nothing.

“Alright, I’ll take it as you not wanting my payment.” Li Wanbai said awkwardly, offhandedly adding, “Your playing is wonderful—better now than before. Have you considered releasing an album, making this your lead track?”

Her eyes sparkled, recalling the sunset after school that afternoon when Yu Baichuan said he wanted to be a singer, vowing that one day he would release an album of his own.

“Teacher Li,” Yu Baichuan’s lips curled with a mocking smile, “are you confused? I’m already a famous singer, with many albums. Whether I include this song or not makes no difference to me.”

Li Wanbai stood frozen. She always knew she was missing ten years of memories—her life a tangled mess, her circumstances utterly unclear.

But she was always easygoing, accepting whatever came her way, never dwelling on the matter.

It wasn’t until today that she truly felt what those ten lost years had taken from her.

It was the absence of memories, the fracture of beautiful moments, the distance from her closest friends, and the resistance from her idol.

---

In time she knew nothing about, Yu Baichuan was no longer the boy she remembered, the one whose eyes shone with excitement simply for playing a song. Standing before her now was the epitome of contemporary entertainment—an artist acclaimed for both singing and songwriting.

The Yu Baichuan she knew dreamed only of releasing his own album; the one before her now had countless awards and more albums than he could count.

Li Wanbai gave a soft “oh” and quickly asked, “What about those children? They were six then and sixteen now. Have you kept in touch with them?”

Did the eagerly prepared list of instruments ever find their way to any of them?

There was no sarcasm, no trace of mockery.

She asked sincerely, her curiosity genuine.

Suddenly Yu Baichuan let out a cold laugh, his expression darkening. “Didn’t you say you didn’t care about those people? Why ask now?”

He abruptly looked off into the distance.

The director’s team, fearing that Quan Hao might truly ruin Ye Xiruo’s reputation, quickly ended the group livestream once they had enough footage, promising that everyone could return to their rooms. If the guests wanted to open their own livestreams, they could; if not, they could wait until the third day for more tasks.

Rewards would be distributed alongside the tasks on the third day.

It was clear the director was nervous, but unwilling to give up the show’s popularity. After much hesitation, they closed the group stream and opened individual ones, offering Ye Xiruo a chance to restore her public image.

By then, the cameramen had shut off their cameras under staff instruction, and security began to disperse the fans.

Li Wanbai followed Yu Baichuan’s gaze, puzzled.

“You see it too, don’t you?” Yu Baichuan said coolly.

Li Wanbai’s confusion deepened. “See what?”

“The cameras are off. You don’t need to stand so close to me,” Yu Baichuan turned, staring intently at her. “Without cameras, being close to me doesn’t bring any traffic.”

Li Wanbai was speechless, stunned and unable to process. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just as it sounds. Don’t worry, the videos fans post won’t cause much trouble. Official footage takes precedence. Keep your distance from me now—it might even boost your reputation later.” With that, Yu Baichuan silently regarded Li Wanbai.

He hadn’t said much, but his gaze seemed to urge her: stay away from him.

---

Li Wanbai’s lips moved as if to protest—did he really see her as someone who would do anything for attention?

She stopped herself, realizing it was true.

Thanks to the Li Wanbai of ten years ago, her image in Yu Baichuan’s eyes was exactly that—a person who would stop at nothing for popularity.

Understanding this, Li Wanbai swallowed her words, knowing she was at fault, and watched in silence as Yu Baichuan turned and walked away.

“So, did the two of you have a fight?” Quan Hao sneered, appearing behind her at some point.

Li Wanbai instinctively stepped aside, her gaze wary as she looked at Quan Hao.

Yesterday had gone smoothly enough, but she hadn’t forgotten what Su Chengzi said: this man had confessed to her once. Whether successful or not, it was awkward, especially after she’d just talked to Yu Baichuan.

Though their conversation hadn’t been pleasant, she couldn’t shake an odd feeling of unease.

Lost in her wandering thoughts, Quan Hao snapped, “Your expression—what nonsense are you imagining now?”

Li Wanbai jolted back to reality, clearing her throat.

She shouldn’t think like that—it was disrespectful to Yu Baichuan, to Quan Hao, and most of all, to herself.

Touching her nose, she replied, “Is there something you need, Teacher Quan?”

Quan Hao crossed his arms, refusing acknowledgment, and sneered coldly, “The cameras are off—why pretend to be the humble junior? Without cameras, you don’t need to be so polite. No fans are watching, no one will buy it!”

“Can’t I simply respect your powerful presence and impressive skill, and call you ‘Teacher’ for that?” Li Wanbai was speechless—how could his logic be so similar to Yu Baichuan’s? Were they rivals?

Of course, maybe the old Li Wanbai’s reputation was so deeply rooted that even Yu Baichuan and Quan Hao had no good impression of her.

Thinking this, Li Wanbai felt odd. If that were the case, why had Quan Hao confessed to her? Surely it wasn’t because he was rejected and turned his affection into resentment?