The dinner ended.
The night in the Ancient Village was shrouded in thick fog, with large woods attracting many mosquitoes. When everyone left the restaurant, it was already very late.
The director and producer could drink a lot, having downed quite a bit of alcohol, yet walking steadily. Melody Sutton was accompanied by Blake Shaw, while Jane and Rosie Scott followed, since they were staying at the same guesthouse.
"Do you know Mr. Carey?" Jane suddenly asked.
Rosie Scott shook her head almost off: "I swear it's the first time I've met him."
"Then he must be interested in you," Jane asserted directly, frightening Rosie Scott to the point she nearly collapsed. She clung tightly to the woman's arm: "Ms. Lindsey, I am a maiden. I can't be defiled by anyone."
"Alright, alright, nobody said he wants you to do anything. Otherwise, do you think you'd still be fine here?" Jane was well-acquainted with matters in this circle.
The night's hazy light illuminated the silhouettes of Blake Shaw and Melody Sutton ahead.
Rosie Scott was weighed down by thoughts, utterly at a loss. Jane chuckled softly, raising her chin to point at the pair in front, whispering, "In life, you must be ruthless; otherwise, you'll always be dragged down from the pedestal."
Rosie Scott's eyes flickered, did Jane know something?
"Ms. Lindsey, you've worked with Blake Shaw before. Do you know any secrets? What's the nature of his relationship with Melody Sutton?"
Jane glanced sideways at her: "Melody Sutton's parents have given Blake Shaw much nurturing, and he always feels indebted to the Sutton Family."
The young girl watched Jane's figure recede into the distance, her heart sinking, not expecting so many entanglements within.
The moon hung overhead, its brilliance obscured by heavy darkness, making the night in the Ancient Village deeply profound.
The guesthouse hallway was lit by oil lamps, with the thrifty owner usually letting the oil run out and extinguishing by late night.
Rosie Scott, having drunk too much water earlier, got up to use the restroom when she heard voices upstairs, faintly recognizing Blake Shaw's voice and another that seemed to be Melody Sutton's.
"Why are you at odds with a newcomer? You're already branded, as long as you maintain it well, you can shine."
"Am I at odds with her? She clearly provoked me."
The young girl was worried—it was Blake Shaw and Melody Sutton.
Judging by the familiarity in their speech, it's crucial to prevent excessive interaction to avoid Blake Shaw reliving history.
That despicable woman Melody Sutton must not taint Blake Shaw's greatness.
Rosie Scott exited the restroom but didn't return to her room. She quietly opened the door and slipped out.
The hallway was pitch dark, with barely a sense of touch guiding her upstairs from memory.
Despite the wooden floorboards, she moved lightly, silently arriving at Blake Shaw's door.
She was about to eavesdrop when suddenly a hand pulled her into the room, her figure vanishing like a phantom in the corridor.
Once inside, someone quickly covered Rosie Scott's mouth and tightly gripped her waist, preventing her from moving at the entrance.
There was no light in the room.
He whispered gently, his tone unmistakably that of Mr. Carey who had helped her earlier.
"Don't make a sound, there are paparazzi outside."
Rosie Scott immediately quieted down, aware of the dilemma—unable to let paparazzi discover Blake Shaw and Melody Sutton in a room together, nor let them find herself with the sponsor.
A slight miss, and catastrophe could ensue. She had painstakingly returned to this life, she mustn't misstep.
The man leaned in, ear pressed against the door listening for outside noises, covering her entirely; his scent was of a cool, woody fragrance, the silent room amplifying their heartbeats even through bathrobes.
Rosie Scott gently pushed him, signaling not to be so close, but he held her wrist tightly, indicating not to move.
Footsteps approached outside, followed by knocking on the door, causing Rosie Scott to hold her breath and her heart nearly leap.
No sound from inside, yet the knocking persisted.
At this point, Rosie Scott's forehead was moist with cold sweat, paralyzed by indecision she was suddenly lifted by someone, then gently placed on the bed. Instinctively her hands guarded her chest, but he easily moved them aside, whispering domineeringly: "Stay on the bed and make no sound, I'll go make the paparazzi leave."
He got up and left, opening the door to head out.
Rosie Scott hid under the blanket, daring not to make any noise in the overly quiet room, plainly hearing noises outside, including the sound of a man being beaten and screaming.
She almost stopped breathing, her sponsor personally stepping out to thrash the paparazzi—a truly fresh affair.
A moment later, the door opened, and the light in the room came on.
Rosie Scott sat on the bed bewildered, watching Mr. Carey return from outside. His features were exquisite, black hair damp, a broad bathrobe accentuating his waist, broad shoulders tapering to a slender waist, a supremely beautiful man.
The man chuckled: "Miss Scott, are you planning to sleep with me, remaining seated on my bed?"
The girl suddenly shot up as if pricked by needles, stammering: "Um... always... very grateful to Mr. Carey for stepping in, I won't disturb you further."
"Miss Scott cannot leave now."
"Ah?" Rosie Scott stiffens, turning her head.
The man gestured, pouring a glass of champagne: "As far as I know, paparazzi gather from all around, there's bound to be a second if there's one."
"So if you go out now, you'd be walking right into their trap."
Rosie Scott slumped: "Then according to Mr. Carey, what should I do?"
"Sleep here tonight."
"!!!!"
"Sleep here, tomorrow morning, someone will clear the area, and the paparazzi will be dealt with," the man saw the suspicion in the girl's eyes and continued: "It's too late now, does Miss Scott enjoy disturbing others' sleep?"
(/"≡_≡)
Having drunk too much wine earlier, Rosie Scott's stomach constantly felt as if it were on fire, her throat was parched.
Glancing at the untouched cup of water on the coffee table, she drank it, only to hear the man's alarm: "Don't drink!"
The girl held the empty cup, hiccupping, staring at him—as if one glass of water could be forbidden?
"That water has issues."
"What's wrong with ordinary water?" Upon noticing white powder at the cup's bottom, she rushed to the bathroom.
Sounds of gagging arose from the bathroom, forcibly inducing vomiting, yet fluids moved so quickly that several attempts proved futile.
Outside the bathroom, Mr. Carey's concerned voice sounded: "That water was brought in by paparazzi, intending to stir something shocking, hence a bit of drugging. How are you feeling? If it's unbearable, I'll dial 120."
"When it comes to life, reputation means little."
"Just a scandalous news, I can spend a bit to suppress it."
"Rosie, say something."
The girl reflected on his words, both upright and sinister, seeming concerned for her safety, while implying that if exposed, the news of a newcomer climbing into bed with the sponsor would be irreversible.