Just like that, Sylvia was ushered into the luxurious black sedan by the suited butler.
I moved to follow, but a cold voice floated from inside: "No room."
?
I forced a smile, lips twitching: "Dude, you really skimped on this ride. Even a shared bike fits more people."
Arthur Murong shot me an impassive glare. Sylvia mirrored his expression, radiating discomfort.
"Fine. I'll head home then. Break a leg at the audition, Sylvia."
I stepped back eagerly—only for Sylvia's trembling voice to chase me: "Xiao Yi…"
I turned. She bit her lip, eyes wide as a startled fawn:
"Xiao Yi… I'll be scared without you…"
My eyelid spasmed. Is she hinting I should chase their car like the original Ivy?
"You'll be great!" I flashed jazz hands and a plastic grin. "Sylvia Shui: Future Superstar!"
Sylvia: "..."
Watching her struggle to respond, I suddenly pitied the limitations of being the female lead.
With Arthur present, her "kind-hearted angel" persona couldn't exactly demand: "Ivy, hail a cab and tail us!"
After an awkward silence, Arthur finally deigned to speak:
"Get in. Now."
Oh? Suddenly not "overcrowded" anymore?
I slid into the backseat beside Sylvia and Arthur. The space was obscenely spacious—his earlier excuse was clearly about alone time with her.
Two minutes into scrolling my phone, Sylvia yanked my sleeve, whispering:
"Xiao Yi! That's Arthur Murong—the six-time Golden Award winner!"
I: "..."
In this coffin-sized cabin, your "whisper" might as well be a bullhorn.
In the original plot, Ivy gushed this before getting thrown out. I couldn't care less.
But as the male lead, Arthur needed his grand reveal—so Sylvia inherited this sacred duty.
I shrugged: "Him? Didn't recognize. Guess even award-winning actors look plain off-screen."
Sylvia's eyes bulged. She yanked my sleeve harder.
Arthur's icy gaze sliced toward me:
"Pathetic. You think insults will make me notice you?"
"Mr. Murong, she didn't mean—" Sylvia cut in, voice honeyed.
His stare melted when it landed on her—like ice tossed into a volcano. Fascinating.
"What's this audition for?" Arthur asked, suddenly attentive.
Sylvia launched into a polished spiel about the script, producers, and her "give 200% effort" philosophy—conveniently omitting Jay Zhao's role.
Arthur listened, visibly impressed.
Honestly? I felt nauseous.
But not because of them—motion sickness was kicking in. Even luxury cars can't defeat biology.
My face must've looked agonizing. Arthur mistook it for rage. He eyed me coldly:
"Problem?"
Clutching my stomach, I rasped:
"Got a barf bag? Now?"