Director Ji caught them in the tea room again. Aside from the social anxiety-stricken male second lead who finished his scenes and vanished back to his room, everyone else in the entire drama crew was gathered there.
A loudspeaker blared from the doorway, laced with Director Ji’s fury. “You five, get out here! The tea room is practically your headquarters now.”
Gu Yue and Lu Nan huddled together, sharing snacks, when the sudden voice startled them both.
The five exchanged glances.
“Shh, we won’t talk. Let’s pretend we’re not here,” Gu Yue whispered. She chewed with food still in her mouth. Director Ji made them eat healthy every day, but she felt uneasy without some junk food.
Lu Nan crouched down. “Huh? The director already knows. He said ‘you five’…”
“Come out, Lu Nan! Gu Yue! Especially you, Gu Yue, sneaking snacks again!” the director bellowed from outside.
Gu Yue ignored it all and leaned closer to Lu Nan. “Didn’t you say you’re a fan of Song Wenwei? There’s a red carpet in a couple days, and we’re walking it. We might run into her.”
“When?” Lu Nan asked. In the midst of two months of monotonous camp life, those words ignited a spark of hope.
“The day after tomorrow. The crew lead will brief us, but our spots are pretty far forward. Not sure if you’ll get to see her.”
Lu Nan said, “I’ll walk with you.”
“Sure.”
Lu Nan nodded. It didn’t matter if she saw her now or not—they would meet eventually. She couldn’t rush it; haste makes waste.
She had entered the entertainment industry for Song Wenwei. When Li Erning gave her the choice, she truly understood the difference between a single meeting and standing side by side forever.
Since she had chosen this path, she had to stay steady. Only with real ability could she stand beside her and be seen.
Only then would she no longer need to rely on others to gather news about her.
The doorknob rattled from outside.
Gu Yue inwardly cursed. She grabbed two tissues and quickly wiped their mouths, then picked up a teacup with her other hand and hopped onto a chair, sitting primly.
Sure enough, when the director entered, he saw Lu Nan still holding a plastic box in a daze. They locked eyes, and Lu Nan hurriedly set the box down.
The director approached. Inside were fried skewers and spicy strips.
“Gu Yue, did you make Lu Nan take the fall again?” The director clutched his head in pain. Not a single one of them gave him peace.
Gu Yue sipped her tea calmly. “Wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”
Lu Nan: “…?”
“You two, go train extra hours with the fitness coach. Gu Yue, start rehearsing lines. Lu Nan, practice your action scenes. These were scheduled for next week, but since you’re both so idle, get ahead.”
Gu Yue threw her head back with a wail. “Director, no!”
Lu Nan wisely pulled her away, restraining her struggling arm. “Come on, let’s go. If the director gets really mad, he’ll pile on next week’s tasks too…”
“What about the other three?” The director sighed helplessly. “Come out, all of you. Hurry up.”
The remaining three couldn’t hide either. With a pained expression, the director sealed off the tea room.
—
Life was a monotonous three-points line every day. The only solace was stealing glimpses of a long-lost familiar face through a screen in the tea room.
Fame suited her. Song Wenwei had been green when she debuted, just like before. Now, she closed the red carpet at this evening gala, attending as a jewelry brand ambassador.
Spotlights flashed across the long carpet lined with cameras.
Gu Yue linked arms with her. “She’s right in front of us. Want to go see her? I brought a notebook—you could even get an autograph.”
Lu Nan’s steps faltered. The woman ahead wore a deep blue evening gown that shimmered under the lights. Every smile and frown sparkled like a moving star. Paired with her long legs in black high heels, she drew every eye.
At that moment, the Milky Way draped over her—subtle yet regal.
Of course Lu Nan saw the woman ahead, even just her back. Complex emotions surged across her face.
Gu Yue watched her fall silent, assuming it was shyness. Lu Nan seemed quiet and aloof, keeping strangers at arm’s length—probably just a bit socially anxious. Getting bashful around an idol was normal.
She glanced sideways and caught a fleeting expression.
Lu Nan’s eyes were stunning, even more so than her other striking features—a pair of narrow, ruthless eyes beneath thick clusters of lashes. As the director put it, they were a serene sea surface hiding murderous depths.
Now, they held unwillingness, mingled with what seemed like love. The two emotions intertwined.
As an actress, Gu Yue could discern what every gaze meant. She had played lovesick roles before, but Lu Nan’s didn’t feel acted—it seemed genuine.
That brief expression told her something was off. This wasn’t how a fan looked at an idol.
Some things were better not known too deeply. Now that she did, she wouldn’t pry. Everyone in the industry had secrets. Whatever Lu Nan was really here for…
The crowd behind them pressed closer. The red carpet took time, laid out long to give each artist space. Since Lu Nan and Gu Yue walked together, Lu Nan’s slot freed up.
Gu Yue whispered, “Lu Nan, snap out of it. Time to walk.”
Lu Nan came to her senses. She was still on the red carpet—no slip-ups allowed. She nodded, and they walked arm in arm. “Can I see her after the carpet?”
“Yes.” Gu Yue eagerly tugged her forward. “There’s a lounge ahead. Song Wenwei hasn’t walked yet. You could go find her.”
“No need.”
Lu Nan kept her head down, gathering the hem for the woman beside her. Black gauze slipped through her fingertips as she followed Gu Yue, finishing the carpet.
“Why?” Gu Yue was puzzled. Lu Nan had wanted this, yet now she backed off.
“Aren’t you the one who wanted to see her?” Gu Yue asked.
Back in training camp, she’d told Lu Nan about making alt accounts, and the next day one was flooding Song Wenwei’s super topic like a bot.
“I’m tired,” Lu Nan said.
Gu Yue saw no trace of fatigue in her eyes. It was a blatant excuse. What could make someone back down like that?
She didn’t press, just nodded.
“We’re heading to the main hall next. If you’re tired, go back to the van first. I’ll return with the others.”
“Mm, okay.”
That response sharpened Gu Yue’s senses—something was wrong. Lu Nan was terse, but not like this. They were close now, practically friends.
“You okay?” Gu Yue asked worriedly.
Lu Nan shook her head. “I’m heading out.”
As she left, she paused at the hall entrance, glancing back through the glass doors at the crowd—especially that blue silhouette.
With so many people at the gala, Lu Nan feared losing control face-to-face: tears streaming, accusations spilling out.
But she couldn’t. Cameras were everywhere. If she did, they’d headline tomorrow: two female stars confronting at a gala.
Society tolerated TXL these days, but a public girlfriend showdown? That was tabloid gold, especially with Song Wenwei at her peak.
Her rivals would love the scandal.
She couldn’t drag Song Wenwei into the storm.
Lu Nan schooled her expression and walked to the van without looking back.
Deep down, she didn’t believe Song Wenwei wouldn’t recognize her or come looking.
Something must have happened—enough to keep Song Wenwei away for five years, never contacting her, never coming home.
—
In the night, the woman shut the car door.
“Isn’t that from Gu Yue’s crew? Why’d she leave so soon?” Blue sequins gleamed in the night lights as she propped her head, gazing downstairs.
The gala had networking after. Most seized the chance to schmooze.
“She looks familiar…” she muttered.
Her assistant glanced over and shook her head. “Don’t know her. Saw her on the carpet—probably a small actress.”
“Don’t underestimate small actresses.”
Ran Li emerged from behind them in a trench coat, exuding an elite vibe. “Didn’t Wenwei rise from small roles on pure talent?”
The assistant nodded vigorously.
“Right, got a heads-up from the company. They want you for this drama—pairing you with the male lead for CP hype. Boosts fan loyalty, heat, and CP stans. Just needs signing.”
Ran Li slapped the script on the table. Song Wenwei flipped through it casually, eyes lowered in scrutiny.
Three slim volumes, key plots highlighted. Last month, execs hinted it was a big female lead ancient drama—but really the old routine, paving for the male lead.
Classic capital play: hype “female lead era” via marketing, hook viewers. Then reality hits—female lead strong one minute, dumb the next. Her rep rebounds; male lead’s arc stays solid.
Insiders joked: whoever took it was a sucker.
The company pushing it looked good—only on surface. A lead spot to placate her, promote newbies. Her scenes? Fewer than the scheming third female glued to the male lead. Obvious shaft.
Song Wenwei met her gaze, firm and unyielding. “Impossible, Dye Sis. I said I won’t CP with him. Not him—nobody.”
“What are you thinking?” Ran Li stared in disbelief, like she’d heard a joke. “Contract’s nearly up. You won’t renew—this is the last shot. Miss it, good luck finding another.”
“Won’t you fight for it?”
“You think a little fame now means security? The industry’s flooded with fresh blood daily. How many stars got trampled by rookies? One misstep, and climbing back’s hell.”
“Wenwei, opportunities don’t wait. You know that.”
Song Wenwei pursed her lips, brows furrowing, her usual mild face darkening.
“I get it, but CP’s just lying—faking love for them to ship?”
She countered, “It’s all fake, acted. What’s to lie about? Actors need skill, but not for this.”
Ran Li sighed, rubbing her temple. “I don’t get what you’re hung up on.”
“Some obsession with romance?”
“Yes.” Song Wenwei didn’t hide it. “I can’t stand faking emotions to deceive people. I don’t want that kind of buzz.”
“It works short-term. Then what? Every drama like this? They’re not dumb.”
“Overplay it, and backlash hits. You know better than me—plenty got burned. Polish your craft instead.”
Song Wenwei knew the logic. Seize this last chance, resist the company’s squeeze, carry heat into going solo.
Ran Li pressed, “Just once. Post-contract, we keep the buzz.”
“The company’s no fool—they won’t let us poach their traffic. Dye Sis, the price for this drama is renewing. Someone tell you?”
Song Wenwei eyed her squarely. If she didn’t know Ran Li wanted to start a studio with her, she’d suspect sabotage.
Ran Li froze, then snapped back. “What? When?”
“Passed in yesterday’s meeting. Added to the contract.”
Realization dawned. She slammed the table in fury. No wonder the company made it easy—they’d planned this. She schemed against them; they schemed back.
Ran Li had read the plot—brainless fluff, female lead’s highlights gutted. It’d snag some fans. Normally mismatched for Song Wenwei’s image, but last drama—she figured take the hit for exposure.
She thought that if she could gain something from it, she would; if not, she could just take it step by step when she established her own studio later.
Ran Li relented, her attitude no longer as tough as before. “Sorry, I didn’t get the full picture. I’ll make things clear with the company. Everyone has their bottom line, and I understand that. Please think about your future as well. I’ll take my leave first.”
She walked farther and farther away, and they could still hear her muttering curses under her breath—”That damn person, daring to toy with me.”
The assistant fidgeted with her fingers, watching the confrontation between the two women whose opinions clashed so fiercely. She was so anxious that she jumped in place, yet there was nothing she could do but watch as the usually amicable pair argued until their faces were flushed.
“Sister Song, Sister Ran, are you two okay? You argued so intensely…” the assistant said.
The car downstairs drove away.
Song Wenwei watched the taillights flash by and said indifferently, “We’re fine. We’re good.”
