It didn't take long for the video to go viral.
By noon, every major gossip account had reposted it. By afternoon, news anchors were calling it a "shocking glimpse" into the character of the woman beside Jinlin's CEO.
The clip wasn't long.
Thirty-seven seconds.
Blurry. Grainy. But loud.
A younger Yaoyue, standing outside the hospital where her mother died, yelling at a doctor. Her voice cracking with grief. Her words sharp, uncontrolled.
"You let her die for *numbers*. You just wanted her out of the bed. You knew she wasn't stable, but you wanted space for someone richer."
There was more. Her hands shaking. A tearful accusation. Then security pulling her away.
It wasn't a scandal. It was a raw, broken moment. A daughter mourning the only family she had left.
But the internet didn't see it that way.
They saw anger. Accusation. "Unstable behavior."
Hashtags started trending.
#JiangsMistake
#WhoIsLinYaoyue
#NotWifeMaterial
Yaoyue sat in the penthouse living room, phone in hand, watching her name spiral into something she couldn't recognize.
She barely noticed when Zeyan walked in.
Until he spoke.
"I've already filed a takedown request. My team is drafting a public statement."
She looked up slowly. "It won't matter."
"They'll move on."
"No. They won't." She stood, fists clenched. "They've decided who I am. And now they'll build a story around it."
"You don't owe anyone anything."
"I know," she snapped. "But I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of pretending like I don't care that they're tearing apart the most painful day of my life like it's clickbait."
He didn't interrupt. Just watched.
"I want to speak," she said. "On record. Publicly. I'll tell the truth."
His expression didn't change. "It's not a good idea."
"I can't sit in here like I'm guilty."
"You'll be giving them more to twist."
"Then let them twist it. I'm not ashamed of what happened."
Zeyan hesitated, then said carefully, "If you speak now, the damage may not stop with you."
Yaoyue froze.
"You mean you."
"I mean *us*."
She blinked. That single word hit harder than anything else.
Still, she nodded. "Then I'll be careful."
---
The interview was scheduled within hours.
An online platform, one with a reputation for "raw honesty." A reporter who promised neutrality.
Zeyan didn't attend. He offered protection. Strategy. But not presence.
This was her choice.
The lights were bright. The camera closer than she liked. The host's voice too warm to feel real.
"So, Lin Yaoyue," the interviewer began, "the world has a lot of questions. Let's start with the video. What do you want people to know?"
She took a breath.
"I want them to know that it was real. I didn't stage it. I wasn't performing. I was grieving. My mother had just passed. I was young, alone, and angry, not at the hospital, not at the doctors, but at a system that made her death feel like paperwork."
She paused.
"My mother died waiting for someone to care. And in that moment, I said things I can't take back. But I won't pretend I didn't feel them."
The room was silent.
She continued. "People say I'm not worthy of someone like Jiang Zeyan. And maybe that's true, depending on how you define worth. I'm not rich. I'm not powerful. But I'm honest. And I'd rather be real and hated than perfect and fake."
It wasn't scripted.
It wasn't clean.
But it was hers.
---
The internet didn't care.
The comments flooded in.
"She's playing victim."
"This is damage control."
"Crying for sympathy."
"Doesn't belong next to someone like him."
The interview was clipped, spliced, re-shared with mocking voiceovers and conspiracy captions. New headlines followed:
"Is This Emotional Honesty or Calculated Manipulation?"
"Zeyan's Girlfriend Tries to Salvage Reputation. Too Late?"
The next morning, an email was leaked.
An anonymous board member.
Questioning her "suitability" as a long-term partner for the CEO.
Citing image risk. Public volatility. "Lack of refinement."
And just like that, the tide turned.
---
In the penthouse, Yaoyue sat on the edge of the bed, phone silent now. No reporters. No calls. No messages.
Just silence.
Zeyan entered the room quietly.
"They're escalating," he said.
She didn't look up.
"I know."
"They're requesting a formal review of my public decisions."
"I know."
"You may be asked to step back."
"I already am."
He moved closer. "You're not alone in this."
She finally looked up. Her eyes weren't wet. Just tired.
"Yes, I am."
He sat beside her.
"I didn't want this for you," he said.
"I didn't want it either."
Neither of them moved for a while.
Then she stood.
"I think I need to disappear for a while. Not forever. Just… until they find someone else to hate."
Zeyan stood too, his posture stiff.
"Where will you go?"
"Somewhere no one cares about who I'm with. Or who I used to be."
He didn't stop her. He didn't pull her back.
Because part of him knew, even if she didn't say it, that staying would've destroyed her.
---
The door closed behind her.
And for the first time since she walked into his life,
she was gone.