My Ex Wrote Thirty Thousand Words About Me, and the Whole Internet Is Waiting for My Downfall

At ten in the morning, Xing Jun published a 31,000-character post titled "The Qin Zhao I Knew." At the end was a line in small print: This article is purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

That same day, at three in the afternoon, a case was filed in court. Xing Jun was the plaintiff. Qin Zhao and her sixty-year-old mother were the defendants.

He must have forgotten one thing: Qin Zhao remembered every single day described in those 31,000 characters.

In thirty-six hours, Qin Zhao lost four endorsement deals, a drama that had already begun filming, and all the dignity she'd spent twelve years building.

Everyone was waiting for her to cry, or to publish an even longer post.

She did neither.

She printed out the 31,000 characters. There were forty-seven sections in all. She spread them across a long table in front of forty-six people.

"Today, I'll start with Section Seven. I'll go through all forty-seven sections, one by one, until people can see for themselves."

"He wrote that he sat across from me. But he wasn't in Fengcheng that day."

No one had an answer.

Only someone at the private room's entrance began to applaud: the man who, three years ago, paid 23 million yuan for a single brick and had it laid at the entrance of his company. The joke the whole internet had mocked for three years.

He said, "I'll get the freeze on your parents' house lifted."

Someone in the private room asked what his terms were.

"Three years. For those three years, she'll be my wife in public."