Chapter 12: After Getting Drunk

Thunder boomed outside, dragging Jiang Zhizhou back from her memories to the present.

She glanced at the torrential downpour lashing the window, then turned her gaze to Jiang Qingmeng on the hospital bed.

Xie Xiaomeng, Jiang Qingmeng…

As she recalled, the principal wife of the Xie family had been surnamed Jiang.

She had changed her name to match her mother’s.

That scrawny little girl from back then had grown into a striking young woman—bright-eyed and radiant, graceful and elegant. Every flattering word ever coined for a beauty could apply to her.

“Will you still remember me when I grow up?”

“Yes, you’ll be so beautiful by then that I’ll spot you in an instant.”

“But you’ve already forgotten me. Clean forgotten, right?”

Those old words echoed in her ears, and a pang of bitterness twisted in Jiang Zhizhou’s chest—like a knife had nicked it open, leaving a dull, lingering ache.

How could she have forgotten her?

How on earth could she have forgotten…

Regret and guilt welled up uncontrollably, tangled with some vague, unnamed emotion.

Jiang Zhizhou frowned and buried her head in her arms. After a long moment, a gentle hand brushed through her hair.

“Xinghe, what’s wrong?”

Xinghe.

Right—she was Shen Xinghe now, no longer Jiang Zhizhou.

She hadn’t recognized her at the one moment they could have reconnected. Could they still do so now?

Jiang Zhizhou grasped Jiang Qingmeng’s hand and lifted her head, meeting her eyes. The words nearly tumbled out.

Jiang Qingmeng froze for a second, then smoothly withdrew her hand. She picked up the phone from the bedside table, glanced at the time, and asked, “Didn’t you say it was late? Why aren’t you asleep?”

Resurrected from the dead? A soul reborn in another body? Who would believe that?

It was far more likely she’d end up carted off to the psych ward.

Jiang Zhizhou let out a wry chuckle, tamping down her urge to confess. “The rain’s too loud—it woke me up,” she told Jiang Qingmeng. She rose and headed to the other bed the nurses had prepared. “You look much better now, so I won’t hover. Get some sleep. Good night.”

“Good night,” Jiang Qingmeng murmured.

At six in the morning, Uncle Liu pulled up outside the hospital right on schedule. The group piled into the car for the ride back.

Xia Yuhe twisted around from the front seat. “Qingmeng, do you want to post on Weibo yourself, or should I handle it?”

Jiang Qingmeng’s Weibo account was managed by the company. Whoever posted, it was just a matter of copy-pasting the PR team’s template.

“I’ll do it.” Jiang Qingmeng unlocked her phone and opened Weibo.

Sure enough, Chen Lin had gotten the PR team to push out press releases the night before: “Working Through Illness,” “Filming Till High Fever Lands Her in Hospital—True Dedication,” “Persistent Fever But Still Shooting, Director Praises Her Professionalism.” Headlines like those dominated the entertainment news.

Jiang Qingmeng plucked a random photo from her album, slapped on the PR template text, hit post, logged out, and closed her eyes to rest.

She didn’t glance at the fans’ comments or check the hot search trends the whole time—like a bystander with no interest in the spectacle.

Jiang Zhizhou pulled out her own phone. Topping the hot search was “Jiang Qingmeng High Fever Hospitalization,” riding a wave of hype about her work ethic while plugging her new drama.

The comments were a battlefield of fans clashing with haters. Luckily, Jiang Qingmeng’s fans were ferocious, and the company’s bots were on point. The feed scrolled with “I’m crying, Sister, take care of yourself!” “Stay healthy!” “Sister’s still gorgeous even sick.” A few stray shots slipped through: “Hype machine croaked today? Nope (grinning)” “Oh look, the nepo queen’s at it again (nose pick)” “Gonna die without daily drama?” But fans quickly buried them with family curses.

Jiang Zhizhou kept scrolling and spotted “Star Source Entertainment” at number twenty-five.

Unlike Jiang Qingmeng’s glow-up, Star Source had been flamed onto the list.

The company had reposted her Weibo, unleashing a barrage of furious fan comments:

“All you do is repost all damn day—do something real for once!”

“Useless! Fight the antis! Fight the antis! You hearing this? Can you even do it? (smiley)”

“NMSL (smiley)”

“Stop exploiting her already? Haven’t bled her dry yet? Gotta suck her blood too?”

“No more trash dramas—give her a decent production for once, yeah?”

“Grow a conscience!”

“Let her rest a few days? Get it?”

Fans ripping into their idols’ agencies was par for the course in the industry, but trending from the backlash? That was rare.

Jiang Zhizhou laughed. “Your fans pack a punch—they’ve got the company trending from sheer rage.”

Jiang Qingmeng opened her eyes and glanced at the hot search. “The comments aren’t too numerous. It’s probably bought by our rivals—not genuine backlash.”

Hot searches represented buzz, and this sort of buzz was harmful to an artist with no real upside. It was highly likely that someone was fanning the flames behind the scenes.

Jiang Zhizhou had been about to ask who the rivals were, but the words died on her lips. On second thought, that was a question the original host never would have needed to ask—after all, she would have known Jiang Qingmeng’s rivals inside out.

Jiang Zhizhou herself might not know, but Shen Xinghe certainly should.

She rephrased instead. “Qingmeng, why did you get into the entertainment industry?”

This girl was her fan. Surely it couldn’t be because of her.

Jiang Qingmeng rubbed her temples. “The money.”

Jiang Zhizhou: …

What a refreshingly honest answer.

Back in Hengdian, Jiang Qingmeng had the driver drop Jiang Zhizhou off first at the hotel housing the production crew.

After stepping out of the car, Jiang Zhizhou watched Jiang Qingmeng’s vehicle disappear into the distance. Then she headed back to her room, intending to shower and collapse into bed for a solid night’s sleep.

Freshly showered, she lay down but found herself tossing and turning, sleep stubbornly eluding her. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind filled with thoughts of Jiang Qingmeng.

Can’t sleep…

She reached for her phone on the nightstand.

She browsed Taobao, scrolled Weibo, listened to music…

No matter what she tried, her thoughts inevitably wandered back to Jiang Qingmeng.

With a sigh, Jiang Zhizhou opened WeChat and pulled up Jiang Qingmeng’s profile.

Jiang Qingmeng’s avatar was an orange cat—Jiang Zhizhou’s favorite animal.

She tapped into her Moments page. It was completely empty.

Staring at the blank feed, Jiang Zhizhou paused thoughtfully, then logged out and switched to her old WeChat account. She found Jiang Qingmeng again and checked her Moments once more.

This time, it wasn’t empty. There was content—just six posts.

The most recent was from February of this year, the very month Jiang Zhizhou had “died.” Nothing after that.

Jiang Zhizhou scrolled through them one by one.

In February, Jiang Qingmeng had posted a picture of a kitten with the caption “Cute.”

In January, just three words: “Happy New Year.”

Last December, a movie poster captioned “Looks good.”

Last November, a shared song with “Sounds great.”

Last October, a photo of a snowy landscape captioned with a single word: “Cold.”

Last September, one word: “Happy”—the month they had added each other on WeChat.

Jiang Zhizhou tapped the song link. “The Sound of Silence,” the end-credits track from the movie The Graduate.

She listened to it straight through, then pulled up the movie Jiang Qingmeng had shared: Fingersmith.

The poster featured two women. Jiang Zhizhou froze for a moment, her gaze shifting to the genre listing—“same-sex.” She frowned and closed the page on instinct.

Her fingers drummed restlessly on the bedsheet, hesitation clouding her eyes. A minute later, she reopened the page—then closed it again.

She repeated the cycle twice more before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Then she opened them, brought up the page once again, and watched the entire film in silence.

Two and a half months later, in late June, Injustice Cleared wrapped production.

The production crew’s vibe had been fantastic throughout. They were mostly newcomers on their first gig, so when the time came to part ways, no one wanted to say goodbye. The wrap party turned into a tearfest.

Having debuted a decade ago and cycled through countless crews, Jiang Zhizhou was long past getting sentimental over such partings. She couldn’t muster any tears, so she made up for it by knocking back a few extra drinks.

The thoroughly tipsy Producer He raised his glass to her. “Xinghe, you’re like an awl in a pocket—you can’t hide that kind of talent for long. Mark my words: you’re going to make it big.”

Producer He wasn’t calling her Little Shen anymore. He’d switched to her name.

Back in the day, he would have respectfully addressed her as Teacher Jiang.

“If riches come your way, don’t forget us. If riches come your way, don’t forget us!” The ever-poetic Director Zhe Teng lifted his glass to her as well.

Jiang Zhizhou returned the toast to both men.

Director Zhe Teng was genuinely talented—he could write, direct, and handle marketing. Even on a bottom-tier web drama, he took the time to perfect every single shot. His gift for filmmaking and his perfectionism reminded Jiang Zhizhou of the big-shot directors from her previous life.

He was clearly destined for greater things. The only potential pitfall was that he and Producer He knew all too well how to cater to audiences and chase trends. They were so clever that their cleverness might one day trip them up.

After a few more drinks, Jiang Zhizhou started to feel the buzz.

She patted her forehead. This body really couldn’t hold its liquor. In her previous life, she’d been impervious to drink—a thousand cups wouldn’t faze her, and hardly anyone could outlast her at the table.

She said her goodbyes to the group and slipped away from the party, hoping some fresh air would clear her head.

As she walked along the road, her phone rang.

Jiang Zhizhou picked up. “Hello?”

“Xinghe, it’s me, Qingmeng.” Jiang Qingmeng’s pleasant voice drifted over the phone, as intoxicating as the wine on the table.

“Qingmeng?” Jiang Zhizhou murmured her name softly, then let out a light chuckle. “After getting drunk, one doesn’t know the sky is in the water, a whole boat of clear dreams weighing down the Star River. Have you heard that poem? Isn’t it beautiful?”

There was silence on the other end. After a long moment, Jiang Qingmeng finally spoke. “Are you drunk?”

“It’s the wrap party—just a few glasses.” Jiang Zhizhou replied in a low voice, tinged with annoyance.

“The wrap party?” Jiang Qingmeng’s tone carried a hint of regret. “I was planning to treat you to dinner to thank you for taking care of me last time. But it looks like you won’t have the time now, so I’ll—”

“No, I have time. I can still eat.” Jiang Zhizhou cut her off, glancing down to pat her stomach. Truth be told, she wasn’t hungry at all. Quite the opposite—she was full.

She just suddenly wanted to see her. Twenty minutes later, Jiang Qingmeng pulled up outside the hotel.

Jiang Qingmeng had on light makeup that accentuated her refined features, her eyes holding a gentle smile. She handed Jiang Zhizhou a carton of yogurt. “Here, for sobering up.”

A warmth bloomed in Jiang Zhizhou’s chest. “Thank you,” she said, taking it.

The two of them headed to a restaurant on Wansheng South Street.

It was a well-known celebrity haunt, its walls lined with photos of the owner posing alongside various stars. The staff were utterly unfazed by the sight of Jiang Qingmeng, her face half-hidden behind sunglasses and a mask.

Though Jiang Zhizhou hadn’t yet achieved much fame, her decade in the industry had honed an unmistakable aura. She only had to stand there, and anyone could tell at a glance that she was a star.

Jiang Qingmeng studied her through her sunglasses, struck by how utterly unlike the old Shen Xinghe she seemed—this depressed, fragile version from the past.

So who did she resemble?

The answer was obvious.

She looked like Jiang Zhizhou at nineteen, but with an added layer of poise and restraint.

She had come to see her for one reason alone: to behold that face.

A face that bore five points of similarity to Jiang Zhizhou’s own.

They were shown into a private room.

The server took their order and asked if they wanted any drinks.

Jiang Qingmeng ordered a bottle of red wine.

She had said it was her treat for dinner, but what they ate hardly mattered. It was simply that she wanted to see her—and she wanted to see Jiang Qingmeng.

They chatted idly, this way and that, and before she knew it, Jiang Zhizhou had downed quite a bit more wine.

Jiang Qingmeng didn’t drink herself, nor did she try to stop her. Whenever a glass ran empty, she’d refill it, one after another.

Jiang Zhizhou grew hazy-eyed with drink. In her blurred vision, she saw Jiang Qingmeng step over to the window, bow her head, and light a cigarette with practiced ease.

Tendrils of smoke curled upward.

Jiang Zhizhou frowned. “You… how did you learn to smoke?”

Even that frown was so similar. Jiang Qingmeng gazed at her face and smiled faintly. “Don’t you remember this either? I’ve always known how.”

She assumed it was due to the amnesia from the car accident.

Jiang Zhizhou wasn’t sure what role or stance to take in advising her. They hardly qualified as friends yet. All she could manage was a mild, “Smoke less. It’s bad for your health.”

Jiang Qingmeng replied with gentle courtesy. “Thank you.”

Jiang Zhizhou nursed a sullen glass of wine before asking, “Aren’t you afraid your adoring fans will see? It doesn’t fit your ethereal beauty image.”

Jiang Qingmeng gave a faint smile. “They don’t like me. They like the image.”

An image crafted from market research data.

Jiang Zhizhou fell silent.

This woman seemed gentle on the surface, but she had a cool, aloof temperament.

In the end, Jiang Zhizhou had to be helped into the car.

Jiang Qingmeng didn’t take her back to the production team’s hotel. Instead, she checked her into a room at her own.

Jiang Zhizhou held her liquor well. When drunk, she never caused a scene—just obediently went to sleep. Even in her state, she managed to stagger into the shower first.

She collapsed onto the bed with her hair still damp, out like a light.

Seeing that she was asleep, Jiang Qingmeng didn’t leave right away. Instead, she stood by the bedside, quietly studying that slumbering face.

That face, five points similar to Jiang Zhizhou’s.

She didn’t like Shen Xinghe.

Shen Xinghe and Jiang Zhizhou were opposites in so many ways.

The only thing they shared was their looks.

And yet, for a long stretch of time, she and Shen Xinghe had maintained a decent personal friendship.

Until Shen Xinghe signed with Chen Lin’s agency, and the company’s resources began tilting her way. Shen Xinghe was sidelined, resentment festered between them, and their relationship soured into outright enmity.

Shen Xinghe was forthright and upright, despising the tactics she used to climb the ladder—hype, marketing, every trick in the book—while she herself cultivated an image of a gentle, innocent lotus flower, uncontaminated by the world. It was utterly contemptible.

And she had discovered a path that brought her closer to Jiang Zhizhou, sparing her the need to fool herself with that merely similar face. She let her connection with Shen Xinghe cool—and Shen Xinghe saw it as sheer ingratitude.

In February, Shen Xinghe was involved in a car accident—the very same night as Jiang Zhizhou’s.

When she awoke, Shen Xinghe’s personality had changed dramatically. She had forgotten much of her past. Seizing the opportunity, Jiang Qingmeng tried to shed the label of “ungrateful”—by giving her ten million to pay off her debts.

Yet the amnesiac Shen Xinghe treated her with a strange detachment, keeping her at arm’s length one moment and drawing inexplicably close the next.

Later, Jiang Qingmeng happened to overhear the producer from Shen Xinghe’s crew discussing investments with Chen Lin. She promptly pulled together two hundred million and had He Jia invest under a private name.

She had always made a point of mentoring juniors and networking with seniors to build her connections, but this time, she sought no favors in return.

Shen Xinghe discovered it anyway. She even showed up on set, gazing at Jiang Qingmeng in the night shadows. Her looks and aura nearly mirrored those of the nineteen-year-old Jiang Zhizhou.

Perhaps that night, she had truly mistaken Shen Xinghe for Jiang Zhizhou and thus felt safe collapsing into her arms. Or maybe she had begun drinking poison to quench her thirst once more, projecting those vile, hidden, unspeakable desires onto someone who so resembled her.

Jiang Qingmeng knew she was despicable for deceiving herself this way to get close to another person, yet she felt no shred of remorse.

She was dead now. Other people’s opinions no longer mattered—be it hypocrisy or perversion.

Standing by the bedside, Jiang Qingmeng fixed her amber eyes unblinkingly on the sleeping woman. After a long moment, she raised her arm. Her fingertip brushed tenderly over the woman’s brow, then her nose, before lingering on her red lips.

The woman in her sleep stirred slightly.

Jiang Qingmeng’s gaze flickered, and she withdrew her hand.

Sleeping Jiang Zhizhou suddenly frowned and murmured something indistinct in her dreams.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jiang Qingmeng leaned down, drawing close to make out the words. But her waist was suddenly gripped tight. She lost her balance and tumbled into a warm, soft embrace.

The woman’s faint, clean fragrance filled her senses. Jiang Qingmeng stiffened and instinctively tried to pull away, only to hear a soft, “I’m sorry…”

Startled, Jiang Qingmeng looked up. Jiang Zhizhou’s clear, bright eyes were gazing right at her.

Jiang Zhizhou held her tightly, her warm palm pressed against Jiang Qingmeng’s waist.

As their gazes locked, she gently kissed the corner of her lips and murmured in a low, hazy voice, “Qingmeng… I’m sorry…”

I’m sorry—for forgetting you all these years.