Showbiz

On a family reality show, superstar Lu Ling was the pampered heiress from Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Shanghai, and award-winning actress Shen Fan was the Northeast’s eldest daughter.

Unremarkable me?

I was there to make them look good.

My family wasn’t helping.

In the trailer, their elders showered them with money or love.

My grandma kept telling me to quit showbiz.

“Girls should stay home.

They shouldn’t work.”

The internet tore into her.

[Another old relic.]

Then the full episode aired.

What Grandma had actually said was: “Why not just spend my pension?”

“By the time I’m gone, your dad should be retired.

You can spend his next.”

“I’ve been paying your social insurance at the highest contribution level.”

“By the time your parents are both gone, you’ll be collecting your own pension.”

The internet changed its tune instantly.

[People like this terrify me.]

[Don’t they say whatever you fear comes your way?]

Wan Youling is a washed-up celebrity mocked across the internet for having no class.

Pressed for money, she joins a livestreamed wilderness survival show in the Ailao Mountains.

When a boastful rival claims to know the range better than anyone, Youling calmly says she is a native—and no one believes her.

Twenty minutes into the mountains, the cameras capture impossible creatures bowing to her, and the cast realizes she may have been telling the truth.

My younger sister was blessed with heaven-defying luck, while I was a walking disaster.

Only later did I learn that she had bonded with a system.

She could choose one person to suffer misfortune and turn that misfortune into luck for herself.

I was the unlucky person she chose.

Then I bonded with a system too.

Mine had only one function: rewrite.

My sister remained lucky, but the people paying the price became my father, my mother, my brother, her boyfriend…

And she successfully turned herself into a jinx despised by everyone equally.

When I was twenty-five, I had a child with one of the most powerful heirs in Beijing’s elite circle.

There was no future for two people as unequal as us, so I took the money and opportunities the He family offered and broke up with him.

Then, five years later, during a break on set.

A little boy who looked strikingly like He Jinnan came looking for me.

He pursed his lips, aggrieved yet stubbornly proud.

“My dad is He Jinnan,” he said.

“And you’re my mom.”

I looked at him and gave a faint hum of acknowledgment.

He hurriedly pulled a thick wad of cash from his backpack.

His eyes were full of pleading.

“Can I hire you for one day to come to my parent-teacher meeting?”

At our wedding, Duan Yingze’s first love showed up in a bridal gown to steal the groom.

“Duan Yingze, if you still love me, come with me.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he took her hand.

He left me alone to face the pity and ridicule of every guest in the room.

Everyone thought I would be devastated, that the pain would destroy me.

What they did not know was this: The one I had never stopped loving had come back too.

Duan Yingze was nothing but a poor substitute.

I no longer cared about him at all.

My younger sister and I were twins—the legendary Yin-Yang twins.

The uglier I became, the prettier she grew.

The worse my grades were, the better hers became.

The weaker my body was, the healthier she grew.

One waned as the other waxed, like two ends of a scale.

So our parents decided to sacrifice me and pour everything they had into raising one perfect daughter.

On the first day after my wealthy birth family found me, my biological parents gave me a warning.

“Now that you’re back, don’t go thinking you can compete with Nian for anything.”

I surveyed the family’s opening show of hostility, smiled, and pulled out an employment contract.

“I think you two have misunderstood something: a parent-child relationship is a legal fact.”

“But asking me to play the sweet, obedient daughter while serving as your adopted daughter’s stepping stone would qualify as premium emotional labor.”

“It’ll cost extra.”

I told Jin Ran I was breaking up with him because I liked old men—rich, independent, quick to die, and generous with their estates—and asked whether he could offer me that.

Years later, I went on a third-rate prank show and was told to call my first love in front of a live audience.

I called Jin Ran. “Let’s get back together.”

After a long silence, his deep voice came through the phone.

“I’m twenty-seven. I’m not dying anytime soon.”

With my mission to win over the male lead on the verge of failure, I broke down sobbing.

I cried so hard I practically gave my system a CPU ache: “Quit your damn crying. I’ll just kill him.”

Later, the male lead asked why I no longer loved him.

My system wailed in exasperation: “Doesn’t he have a wife of his own?”

“Tell him to get lost!”

On New Year’s Eve, I received a message from the boy who had shared my desk in high school.

I’m broke. Can you lend me some money?

A medical report followed.

Late-stage stomach cancer.

I sent him the last 19,873 yuan in my account.

Will that be enough for now?

After a long silence, he sent a voice message, his clear voice ringing with laughter in my ear.

How are you still this gullible?