Chapter 29: Despicable Part 2

Temp assistant Little Qian brought the first-aid kit and some ice. Jiang Zhizhou slipped on a pair of medical gloves and personally tended to Jiang Qingmeng’s wound.

Jiang Qingmeng looked into her eyes, seeing the heartache and concern there, and her smile deepened.

How despicable.

But she had to do it. She just couldn’t help herself.

“For the third scene later, angle your face a little to the side toward the camera.” It was their two-hander, and after cleaning the wound, Jiang Zhizhou reminded her softly.

Jiang Qingmeng nodded with a hum. Seeing the fine sheen of fragrant sweat beading on her smooth skin, she couldn’t help but reach out and gently wipe the droplets from Jiang Zhizhou’s forehead with her fingertip.

Slender, cool fingertips reached up, and Jiang Zhizhou’s ears suddenly burned. She quickly grabbed her hand. “Don’t… it’s dirty…”

Jiang Qingmeng smiled faintly and withdrew her hand. She then handed over a wet wipe, her voice soft. “It’s not dirty, but you should wipe it off anyway. The cold wind could give you a chill.”

Little Ai kept her eyes fixed downward, saying nothing, though inwardly she was tsk-tsking away: Couldn’t bear to watch. Absolutely couldn’t bear to watch.

The third scene.

Jiang Qingmeng, playing Yuan Zhi, strummed the ancient qin beneath a tree in the courtyard. Jiang Zhizhou, as Yin Yue, returned from battle covered in wounds.

The props team had splashed some red wine–based fake blood across Jiang Zhizhou’s clothes.

Different productions whipped up their own blood effects—some mixed red wine with honey, others food coloring with brown sugar. The strangest ones even used goji berries. Any actor who could keep a straight face through that deserved an award for professionalism.

Makeup finished Jiang Zhizhou’s wounds, and the director started by filming Jiang Qingmeng playing the qin.

Once she was made up, they moved to the two-shot.

At this point in the story, Yuan Zhi and Yin Yue were in a cold war. Yin Yue staggered back to the Immortal Mansion. Yuan Zhi spotted her injuries and ached to rush forward and support her, but she remembered Yin Yue telling her to stay away. She hesitated, torn—until Yin Yue spat up blood and collapsed to her knees. Only then did Yuan Zhi give in and pull her into her arms.

Yin Yue, too gravely injured to think straight, murmured in her delirium, asking why Yuan Zhi had been ignoring her all these days. Yuan Zhi held her tighter and whispered an apology. She would never do it again.

During last rehearsal, Jiang Zhizhou had delivered that line—”Why are you ignoring me?”—and it had seemed nothing more than cheesy, flirtatious melodrama. Now, though, something felt off.

There was no question that Yin Yue was smitten with Yuan Zhi, who disguised herself as a man. But Yuan Zhi’s feelings? Utterly ambiguous.

When Jiang Zhizhou had first read the script, she’d naturally assumed Yuan Zhi wasn’t into women. Now, looking at these two characters… they seemed awfully intimate.

Her change in orientation really had opened her eyes to all sorts of new things. It was just like the netizens said: a fujoshi lens turned everything into BL, unlocking a whole new world.

Jiang Zhizhou kept these thoughts to herself. When the director called, “All departments, get ready,” she banished them in an instant and slipped into character.

The qin’s melody drifted through the courtyard. Yin Yue approached with unsteady steps, her clothes in tatters, brows furrowed but her eyes still blazing with defiance.

The music cut off sharply as Yuan Zhi caught sight of the blood staining her. She rose to her feet.

The camera pushed in for a close-up of Jiang Qingmeng’s eyes.

“Cut!” the director called.

“Qingmeng, focus on your eyes and body language. There needs to be real emotion in your gaze. Don’t just look at her indifferently—show the conflict, the heartache mixed with hesitation. Take a moment to get into it, then when you stand, step forward before pulling back.”

Jiang Zhizhou walked over and offered some gentle advice. “Try picturing me as someone you really care about. Imagine how you’d look if they were the one hurt.”

Swapping in a stand-in for emotional recall was a classic method-acting trick. It was quick to pick up but could turn formulaic. Jiang Zhizhou had trained at the Central Academy of Drama, where experiential acting dominated. That approach dove deep into the character’s psyche, analyzing their traits to fully inhabit the role and let actions flow naturally from it. The results felt authentic and alive, but it took time to master—and raw talent helped.

Some performers were simply born for it, their sensitivity letting them slip into roles effortlessly. Others needed years of life experience to build the depth. In practice, though, most actors blended methods—experiential, method, even presentational—for the best results.

Jiang Zhizhou was gifted and seasoned enough to wield them all with ease. Jiang Qingmeng was young, without formal training, so method acting suited her best for now.

Jiang Qingmeng stared into the eyes before her, her thoughts drifting to the bloody bite mark left on her hand the night before.

Did she feel heartache for this woman?

No. Not really.

But those eyes… they reminded her of someone else.

In this lifetime, she’d only ever truly pitied one person.

That woman had lost her parents and plummeted from the heights of success into despair. She’d endured endless scorn and abuse. At that banquet, she’d been ignored and snubbed, yet she said nothing—just sat alone in the corner, drowning her sorrows in drink, her expression desolate.

Jiang Qingmeng had ached to go to her, to hold her and offer comfort. But she’d been terrified of revealing her feelings, of disgusting her. All she could do was restrain herself with every ounce of willpower.

“That’s it—that look. Perfect,” Feng Shangxian said, signaling the cinematographer to capture Jiang Qingmeng’s gaze.

The rest of the shoot went smoothly. Jiang Zhizhou offered subtle pointers here and there, sharing acting tips both overt and covert. Before long, they reached the sixth scene.

The so-called kiss scene.

Jiang Zhizhou took one look at Jiang Qingmeng’s kiss double and was utterly floored.

The stand-in’s features bore about a thirty percent resemblance to Jiang Qingmeng’s, especially her lips—the most similar part. They had a pronounced Cupid’s bow, and when she smiled, it carried an innocent yet seductive charm.

Jiang Zhizhou stared at Jiang Qingmeng’s Cupid’s bow for another two seconds. Suddenly, she recalled those warm, soft touches from the changing room.

If only she could kiss that little bow…

In the next instant, she snapped back to reality. Her ear tips flushed red as she hurriedly looked away. She nearly wanted to slap herself and curse her own vulgarity.

Liking her was one thing. Forcing a kiss on her? Well, that had already happened. But now, to want to take it even further?

Overreaching. Despicable. Utterly despicable.

Letting personal emotions interfere with work was the height of immaturity.

When actors became another character, they had to strip away their own selves. While inwardly condemning herself, Jiang Zhizhou forced herself to immerse in the role, shoving those bitter, aching feelings deep down inside.

Half-reclining on the bed, the makeup team wiped off Jiang Zhizhou’s bright red lipstick and dusted her face with pale powder, transforming her into the picture of a fragile beauty.

Jiang Qingmeng watched from the side, her expression calm. But inside, her heart boiled like water coming to a furious simmer, irritation building by the second. She flipped through her script, at a loss for how to corral her jumbled emotions.

The stand-in only had to step in for the actual kiss. Jiang Qingmeng herself had to handle the scene with the medicine bowl.

When filming began, Jiang Zhizhou lay flat on the bed, her eyes tightly shut, lips deathly pale.

Jiang Qingmeng sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her.

Feng Shangxian watched Jiang Qingmeng on the monitor and conferred with those around him. “She’s making progress. This time, she nailed that conflicted vibe.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jiang Qingmeng lifted the bowl to her lips, took a sip, then leaned down toward the face of the woman on the bed.

“Cut! Stand-in, you’re up!” Feng Shangxian called.

Jiang Qingmeng straightened, swallowed the bitter isatis root tea in her mouth, and stepped aside. She kept her eyes off Jiang Zhizhou.

“Stand-in! Where’s the stand-in?”

They waited a dozen seconds, but no one appeared. Feng Shangxian called out again.

Little Ai responded, “Director, Boss—the stand-in’s got a sudden stomachache. She’s in the bathroom.”

At that, Jiang Zhizhou slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze settled on Jiang Qingmeng.

Jiang Qingmeng turned back around and looked down at her.

They held each other’s eyes for several seconds before both glancing away.

Feng Shangxian announced, “We’ll wait five minutes for her. Everyone, take a break.”

Some people grabbed water, others rubbed their hands for warmth.

Jiang Zhizhou sat up on the bed and fiddled with her phone for a bit.

Jiang Qingmeng stood by the window, gazing at the view outside.

Jiang Zhizhou pulled up her camera app and snapped a sneaky photo of her back.

Truth be told, this whole added scene was entirely superfluous.

In the age of idol-driven traffic, domestic TV dramas were notorious for padding out their runtime. Back in the day, shows rarely topped thirty or forty episodes. Now, a single romance drama ballooned to seventy or eighty, with plots dragged out long and tedious as a pair of ancient foot-binding cloths—stale and interminable.

Everyone knew it was filler, but no one complained.

Producers stayed quiet for the sake of profit. Dramas sold by the episode—the more episodes, the more money.

As for Jiang Zhizhou, she held her tongue out of pure self-interest. Beneath the glamour, she was just another flawed human, yearning for more intimate moments with the one she loved.

Yet she could tell Jiang Qingmeng resisted anything too close.

Hand-holding? Fine. Hugs? Tolerable. Even a confession? She could handle it. But a kiss? Absolutely not.

She cared about Jiang Zhizhou, sure—but not enough to let her breach those defenses and slip into her heart.

Put simply, she didn’t like her that much.

And whatever affection she did feel wasn’t even pure. It was tangled up with self-interest.

This was a lopsided romance. Jiang Zhizhou knew she was doomed to hold the losing hand, yet she couldn’t stop herself from falling. She placed her at the center of her heart without meaning to, unable to resist… rolling the dice.

Her heart on the line. Her feelings as the wager. Betting whether Jiang Qingmeng would ever truly fall for her.

Win, and she’d surrender her entire life without a second thought.

Lose, and she’d walk away clean, no regrets.