Chapter 2: Clear Dream

When the doorbell rang, Jiang Zhizhou turned off the induction cooker and walked to the door. She peered through the peephole for a moment before opening it.

The door swung open, and her gaze fell into a pair of gentle, clear eyes.

Those bright eyes sparkled with life, yet they were threaded with faint bloodshot veins and a touch of puffiness, making one wonder if their owner had shed a recent storm of tears.

It was early March, the season when spring’s warmth teased but winter’s chill still lingered.

Jiang Qingmeng wore a classic khaki trench coat, her long hair like flowing seaweed draped over her shoulders. Tall and slender, she carried herself with gentle elegance and an effortless aura of poise.

She slipped off her mask, revealing refined features, and spoke in a soft, captivating voice. “Xinghe, it’s been a while. Yuhe told me about your car accident—the one that left aftereffects in your brain. How are you recovering?”

Jiang Zhizhou touched the bandage on her head and gave a slight nod, her tone polite and reserved. “Almost fully recovered. Thank you for checking in.” She stepped aside to usher Jiang Qingmeng inside.

The heavy scent of instant noodles hit Jiang Qingmeng the moment she entered.

Noticing her subtle sniff, Jiang Zhizhou hurried to open a window for some air.

“Were you making noodles?” Jiang Qingmeng asked.

Jiang Zhizhou murmured an affirmative and counter-questioned, “Have you had breakfast?”

Jiang Qingmeng shook her head with a smile. “Not yet.”

“Can you eat instant noodles?” Jiang Zhizhou asked. “Braised beef flavor.”

Entertainers had strict rules for weight control, and she wasn’t sure if Jiang Qingmeng would dismiss instant noodles as junk food.

At those words, the smile slowly faded from Jiang Qingmeng’s lips. She fell silent for a moment, her gaze dropping as if lost in memory. Only when Jiang Zhizhou shot her a puzzled look did she meet her eyes again and say softly, “I shouldn’t, but I really want some. It’s been ages.” She smiled and pivoted. “I’ve never seen you cook before.”

Jiang Qingmeng had served as the original host’s assistant for half a year and had never once seen her set foot in a kitchen.

The original host was a pampered heiress from a wealthy family, the sort who never dirtied her hands with housework. To keep up appearances, Jiang Zhizhou replied simply, “All I can make is instant noodles.” She tore open another pack and dropped it into the pot.

Kids from poor families grew up fast—in truth, she knew her way around a kitchen just fine.

She blanched some greens and tossed in an extra egg. Soon, the golden noodle cake was tumbling through the steaming broth, filling the air with savory aroma. She fished it out and plated it up.

In short order, a humble breakfast sat on the table.

Jiang Qingmeng took her seat and stared at the bowl, a shadow of sorrow crossing her face. The atmosphere around her grew noticeably heavier.

Jiang Zhizhou wondered to herself: What’s her deal? Staring at instant noodles like she’s reliving hard times or pondering the meaning of life?

A guest was a guest; she bit back the snark. “If you don’t like it, don’t force yourself. I—”

“No, I love it,” Jiang Qingmeng cut in softly. She grabbed her chopsticks and dove in for a quick bite—only to nearly scald her mouth.

Jiang Zhizhou rose to pour her a glass of warm water. As she sat back down, meaning to crack a joke and ease the tension, she caught sight of Jiang Qingmeng with her eyes downcast, rims reddening as tears traced silent paths down her cheeks. She cried like a pitiful little rabbit.

Jiang Zhizhou froze solid.

What was this play?

She snatched a tissue and handed it over.

Jiang Qingmeng took it, dabbed at her eyes, and murmured, “Sorry. I lost it for a second.”

With no clue about the backstory, Jiang Zhizhou picked her words with care. “It’s okay, I get it. Folks like us in the arts… we’re emotional types.”

Though few wore it quite so vividly.

There had to be some hidden story, but Jiang Zhizhou wasn’t one to pry. She acted like nothing had happened. “Dig in before it cools. It’ll taste off once it’s cold.”

Jiang Qingmeng fell quiet and focused on her bowl.

The noodles were salty and spicy, chewy with just the right bite; she nearly slurped down the broth too.

Jiang Zhizhou had once lived on instant noodles for a full month straight—the smell alone had made her gag later on. This morning’s bowl was just a convenient stomach-filler out of necessity; her appetite was meh.

She stirred her own noodles and glanced up, studying Jiang Qingmeng intently for a couple of seconds.

Jiang Qingmeng was stunningly beautiful, but in a soft way—like polished warm jade, refined and graceful. Her bone structure was impeccable, her lines clean and sharp, flawless from every angle and perfect for the camera. Her eyes stood out most: clear and pure, fringed with long, curled lashes. They brimmed with gentle warmth when she smiled, but held a faint, elusive distance otherwise.

The longer Jiang Zhizhou stared, the more a strange familiarity bloomed in her chest, warm and intimate, as if she knew this woman from somewhere.

Not just the charity gala half a year back, but even earlier.

She had seen her before.

Jiang Zhizhou racked her brain to remember, but it buzzed suddenly with sharp pain.

Her car-crash-addled head wasn’t cooperating.

Frowning, she massaged her temples, let the memory slip, chalked the feeling up to echoes of the original host’s life, and returned to her noodles.

They ate the rest of breakfast in silence.

Afterward, the two settled on the sofa with tea, chatting idly.

Jiang Qingmeng didn’t breathe a word about the reason for her earlier tears, acting as if she had completely forgotten the incident ever happened.

Every so often, though, she would glance at Jiang Zhizhou, her clear eyes clouded with a veil of sorrow.

Jiang Zhizhou shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny and touched her face. “Is there something on my face?” she asked flatly.

“No.” Jiang Qingmeng quickly averted her gaze, her voice tinged with bitterness as she bowed her head. “Sorry. I lost control again.”

She was impeccably polite, thank yous and apologies always on the tip of her tongue—but politeness was often the surest way to keep people at arm’s length.

Clearly, the original host and she weren’t close.

Jiang Zhizhou relaxed.

Not close was good. No risk of giving herself away.

She poured her a cup of tea.

Aside from Xia Yuhe, Jiang Qingmeng was the first visitor, and Jiang Zhizhou had no idea how to handle her.

In her previous life, she’d been a lone wolf with few real friends, rarely inviting anyone over. After her parents passed away one by one and that storm of public backlash, she’d grown even more reclusive.

The original host had developed depression after her family fell on hard times and had clammed up too, so they had that much in common at least.

With Jiang Zhizhou staying quiet now, Jiang Qingmeng didn’t find it odd. Still, a flicker of surprise lingered in her chest—the woman’s every gesture felt worlds apart from the old days.

When the host wouldn’t talk, it fell to the guest to break the ice.

Jiang Qingmeng’s eyes drifted to the medical gauze wrapped around Jiang Zhizhou’s head. Recalling Xia Yuhe’s mention of her dissociative amnesia and all the forgotten memories, she spoke up. “Do you need me to line up some doctors for follow-up treatment?”

Jiang Zhizhou measured the space between them and shook her head with polite restraint. “Thank you, but no need to go to the trouble. A few more days of meds, and it’ll be mostly healed.”

Jiang Qingmeng tapped her temple. “But Yuhe said you… lost your memory?”

Jiang Zhizhou nodded. “Yeah, a lot of things are fuzzy right now, but it’ll come back in time. No big deal.” She’d pored over the original host’s diaries from the past year—not an expert by any means, but she had a solid grasp on fifty or sixty percent of recent events.

Right now, survival came first.

It was pathetic: plummeting from A-list stardom, adored by all, to holing up in a cramped apartment scarfing instant noodles.

Jiang Qingmeng pressed her lips together, thinking it over, then unzipped her purse and pulled out a bank card. She jotted down the PIN and slid it across to Jiang Zhizhou.

“Ten million. Call it a loan from me—my way of thanking you for the chance you gave me to break out. There wouldn’t be a me today without you.” She’d gotten the details of the car crash from Xia Yuhe, who suspected Shen Xinghe had been cornered by debts, desperate enough to take her own life.

So this visit was really a money drop.

Ten million, no less.

Ever wary of a free lunch, Jiang Zhizhou asked, “What are the terms? Interest rate?”

Jiang Qingmeng shook her head. “No terms. No interest.”

Jiang Zhizhou arched a brow. “Then what do you want from me?”

She’d only just met the woman; better safe than sorry.

Jiang Qingmeng smiled and set the card on the table, nudging it closer. “Nothing. Take it easy—I’m not out to hurt you.”

“Hurting you? Hardly.” Jiang Zhizhou paused, tossing out a harmless jab. “But if you were a guy, I’d wonder if you’d fallen for me.”

Back in the day, the entertainment world was rife with tales of tycoons bankrolling broke starlets. Tabloids ate up stories of ambitious celebs ousting the sugar daddy’s wife.

These days, not so much. Folks were flush with cash now, and newcomers were mostly spoiled rich kids or nepo babies—too proud to be kept, more likely to do the keeping.

Jiang Qingmeng met her eyes, holding the stare for a beat before a smile curved her lips. “And since I’m a woman, no need to worry?”

Jiang Zhizhou froze, caught off guard. “That’s… pretty niche. You…”

Everyone loved a pretty face. Same-sex attractions weren’t rare in the industry—maybe even more common than elsewhere—but mainstream? Not quite.

Jiang Qingmeng’s smile softened. “Kidding. No interest on my end, and I wouldn’t go there anyway.”

Jiang Zhizhou: …

She lifted her glass for a sip, mulling it over.

“I’ll take the money. Thank you.” It solved her crisis in a pinch; no sense turning it down, and she had no intention of stiffing Jiang Qingmeng. “I’ll get a lawyer in the next day or two. We can draw up a loan agreement, hash out fair interest, and any side conditions—as long as they don’t cross my lines and I can manage them, count me in. I might not pay it back right away, but give me two years, and it’ll be cleared.”

Jiang Qingmeng gazed at Jiang Zhizhou as if sizing up a stranger. “Xinghe, you’ve changed so much.”

Jiang Zhizhou replied, “Wasn’t there just that car accident? Think of it as a new lease on life. Yesterday’s troubles died with yesterday; today’s are a fresh start.”

Jiang Qingmeng smiled at her words. “I really don’t have any other conditions. As for interest… if you insist, we’ll go with standard bank loan rates. No need to consult me on the minor details—just draft the agreement and send it over for my signature.”

Jiang Zhizhou was stunned by her casual extravagance. She raised an eyebrow and asked coolly, “Does your family own a gold mine or something?”

Jiang Qingmeng had only risen to fame a year ago. Even with her skyrocketing net worth, shelling out ten million without batting an eye to pay off someone’s debts wasn’t something just anyone could do.

She must come from serious money—rich or nobility.

Jiang Qingmeng just smiled without a word.

Which only confirmed Jiang Zhizhou’s suspicions.

But one thing puzzled her.

If her family was loaded, why had she been the original host’s assistant?

To get a taste of the common folk’s struggles?

Having achieved her goal of visiting, Jiang Qingmeng didn’t linger. After a brief chat, she took her leave, promising to drop by again soon. Jiang Zhizhou walked her to the door and watched from the threshold as she departed.

As she left, Jiang Qingmeng turned back for one last, lingering look at Jiang Zhizhou, as if committing her face to memory.

The intensity of her stare made Jiang Zhizhou a little embarrassed.

Could she have had a crush on the original host?

The thought sent a shiver down Jiang Zhizhou’s spine, raising goosebumps on her arms. She rubbed them away and waved goodbye to Jiang Qingmeng.

It was more like shooing her out.

Jiang Qingmeng got the hint. She paused for a moment, then turned and walked away, her eyes rimming red as if on the verge of tears.

Jiang Zhizhou didn’t notice. Arms crossed, she watched Jiang Qingmeng’s retreating figure, a hazy memory surfacing of the banquet half a year ago where the two of them had first met.