Chapter 24: Fans

The greatest advantage of sharing the same gender was that you could show concern, draw close, and even embrace under the banner of friendship.

The greatest drawback was that without piercing that fragile window of paper, all that care and intimacy had to hide behind the mask of mere friendship.

Jiang Qingmeng handed Jiang Zhizhou a carton of hangover-relief yogurt, then had Little Ai bring over two scripts and two pens. She gave one set to Jiang Zhizhou and set the other on the table.

“Take a look at the script first. Little Ai and I need to handle some personal work matters.”

She stressed that they were personal, so Jiang Zhizhou naturally didn’t pry. She watched them head into the office area, then picked up a pen and began scribbling notes on the script, studying it intently.

But she wasn’t analyzing the Female Second Lead’s role. No, her focus was on the female lead—Yuan Zhi.

She needed to understand her thoroughly before she could guide her effectively, and without making it obvious.

“Notify the head of the scriptwriting team: that scriptwriter from earlier is off the project.”

Jiang Qingmeng stepped into the office area, closed the door behind her, and made her way to the desk chair. She sat down and flipped open the file on the desk. There wasn’t a trace of a smile in her eyes now; her delicate features sharpened with cold resolve.

Little Ai quickly pulled out a notepad and pen to jot it down.

Jiang Qingmeng said, “Sit. You don’t have to stand there writing. How did you handle that girl who brought the drinks this morning?”

Only then did Little Ai sit in the chair facing her across the desk and give her report. “We’ve looked into her. Zhang Miaomiao, fifteen years old, student at A City Normal University Affiliated Middle School.”

“A minor…” Jiang Qingmeng paused in thought for a moment before sighing. “Fine, let her off the hook this time.”

Two years earlier, she’d dealt with extreme anti-fans who mailed black-and-white posthumous photos and death threats to her home, even stalking her. After that, she’d hired a team of bodyguards—some overt, some shadowing her discreetly—to keep her safe.

Neither Lin Mo’s harassment the night before nor today’s anti-fan truly endangered her physical safety.

What surprised her was one particular person. Twice now, that person had stepped forward to shield her, eyes brimming with tension and genuine worry.

She might have schooled her expression, but her eyes didn’t lie.

She cared—deeply, inescapably.

And that caring filled Jiang Qingmeng with an unexpected warmth.

Little Ai asked, “The fan visit this time was organized by Zhang Yi from the Fan Support Club. She didn’t screen them properly. Should we replace her?”

“No need. ‘Fool me once’ is the saying—this is the first time. Just remind her to be more careful going forward.”

Jiang Qingmeng signed off on the document, then seemed to remember something. “How’s Lin Mo doing?”

“He’s still in the hospital. Broken nasal bone—Brother A-Heng might’ve gone a little overboard.” A-Heng was one of Jiang Qingmeng’s bodyguards. “Oh, and that Zhang Miaomiao from this morning? She turns out to be one of Lin Mo’s fans.”

“Really? What a coincidence.” A sincere smile lit up Jiang Qingmeng’s face. “Tomorrow, we drop the official costume fitting photos. Build hype for three to five days, then leak Lin Mo’s dirt. That’ll give the production crew a clean reason to cut him loose and stir up more buzz for the drama. Have He Jia manage the timing—the spotlight stays on Lin Mo. I want him ruined.”

She spoke casually, but Little Ai didn’t dare let her guard down. Sure enough, the most beautiful women are the most dangerous.

Jiang Qingmeng asked, “Any word from the execs at Star Source Entertainment?”

“Massive purge at the top. Old Zhang held on, though. Word from him is they’re planning a backdoor IPO by the end of next year.”

“Mm. Tell him to keep his eyes open.”

They went over a few more updates as the minutes ticked by. Jiang Qingmeng rubbed her temples wearily, and Little Ai poured her a steaming cup of coffee without being asked.

Jiang Qingmeng took a sip and turned to the stack of files on her desk.

To the left lay the annual financial reports from her own company and the yearly performance summaries from her executive directors at various ventures. To the right were dossiers on every artist under Star Source.

In the entertainment industry, drama investment lists were littered with fly-by-night shell companies—faceless outfits that popped up for a single project and vanished. Most were stars setting up shop to funnel money into their own films or shows.

Celebrities launching their own labels was par for the course; whether they succeeded was another story.

Jiang Qingmeng wasn’t a born actress. Her real gift lay in investment. She was cut out to be a businesswoman like her father—one who always put profit first.

With the files squared away, she picked up the artist dossiers on the right.

The top one belonged to Shen Xinghe.

Jiang Qingmeng traced the photo on the page with a fingertip, lost in thought.

Little Ai rarely pried, but seeing her boss study the photo so intently, she ventured, “Miss Shen’s vibe and personality have changed a lot. Planning to sign her down the line, boss?”

“She’s an idiot.” Jiang Qingmeng tapped the image. “Locked into a ten-year management deal with Star Source—only year four. Breaking it would run her twenty million in penalties.”

Little Ai asked, “We covering it?”

“No, she’s proud. Wait until she comes begging me herself, pleading for my help in terminating her contract.” At this point, Jiang Qingmeng smiled faintly. “Right now, she’s a priceless pearl up for grabs. She shouldn’t remain at Star Source.”

She should be in my hands, under my control.

“Boss, you seem awfully interested in her,” Little Ai chimed in again.

Jiang Qingmeng paused, set aside the documents in her hand, and glanced up at Little Ai with an indifferent look. “Nothing of the sort. Focus on your work.”

Little Ai bowed her head and threw herself into her tasks, though inwardly she fumed: She’s clearly treating her differently! It’s nothing like how she deals with the other artists she’s trying to recruit. She even brought her back to her room! And she still won’t admit it!

“I’ll step out for a moment. You keep at it.”

After lingering in the office area for nearly an hour, Jiang Qingmeng remembered the person waiting in the living room. She left her special assistant to handle the overtime work and headed out on her own.

Little Ai nodded with a straight face, though inside she was screaming: Just admit it already, Boss! You’re treating her so differently!

In the living room, the person on the sofa wore a creamy white turtleneck sweater. She sat cross-legged, head bent over her script as her pen scratched notes across the pages. She had tucked the hair on her right side behind her ear, revealing a pale earlobe, and the curve of her profile was exquisitely perfect.

Jiang Qingmeng leaned against the doorframe, quietly taking it all in.

In the past, a face like this had stirred no emotion in her heart whatsoever. She had known full well that no matter how much Shen Xinghe resembled Jiang Zhizhou, she was not Jiang Zhizhou.

But now, bathed in the lamplight, Jiang Qingmeng felt as though she were gazing upon the nineteen-year-old Jiang Zhizhou.

That was the exact expression Jiang Zhizhou always wore while poring over a script—head lowered, brow occasionally furrowing before smoothing out again, scribbling away on the page. She was quiet and beautiful, like a painting come to life, so serene that no one dared disturb her for fear of shattering the tranquility.

Sensing something, Jiang Zhizhou looked up and glanced toward the upper right. Her eyes met Jiang Qingmeng’s.

They held each other’s gaze.

Jiang Qingmeng offered a soft smile, her eyes warming with a tenderness like gentle spring rain.

Jiang Zhizhou smiled back.

She rarely smiled, and she wasn’t one for idle chatter, but lately she had been smiling at Jiang Qingmeng often.

“You two were in there for ages. I went downstairs earlier and picked up a few things to brew. Give me a second—I’ll go grab them.”

Jiang Zhizhou rose and headed to the kitchen. When she returned, she carried a tea brewer and three cups.

A rich aroma of red dates drifted from the transparent brewer.

As Jiang Qingmeng approached, Jiang Zhizhou poured a cup and handed it over.

“Honey red date tea. I heard earlier today that you like it. It’s my first time brewing it—hope it doesn’t taste bad.”

She had remembered such an offhand comment.

Jiang Qingmeng wasn’t sure if it was gratitude or something deeper that gave her pause. She accepted the cup and lowered her head toward it.

Steam rose invitingly from the liquid, and Jiang Zhizhou murmured softly, “Careful, it’s hot. Blow on it first.”

Jiang Qingmeng looked up, lips pressing together as she struggled with this unfamiliar gentleness. “You… why are you so good to me?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Jiang Zhizhou replied simply. Her clear, unclouded eyes shone with sincerity. “I don’t have many friends, but the ones I do, I want to treat with genuine care.”

The words “genuine care” hung in the air, and both women looked away.

One felt a rare flicker of guilt stir in her chest; the other squirmed with unease, ashamed of cloaking her true feelings in the name of friendship.

Right then, the doorbell rang. Jiang Qingmeng set her cup down and opened the door. In wheeled a small cart pushed by one of the temporary assistants.

Jiang Qingmeng’s primary assistant was Little Ai, but when shooting on the film set, the team swelled with three to five temps—some handling meals, others errands or makeup touch-ups.

This was Little Qian, the one who ran errands.

“Teacher Jiang, these are the gifts your fans sent today. The bodyguards checked everything over.”

Jiang Qingmeng nodded with a smile. “Thank you. You’ve worked hard—go get some rest.”

Little Qian beamed. “No trouble at all! I’ll head out then. You…” Spotting Jiang Zhizhou beside Jiang Qingmeng and recalling the wild gossip swirling around the set, Little Qian’s eyes gleamed with mischief. Her words shifted on her tongue: “You two get some early rest too!”

Jiang Zhizhou arched a brow. You two?

What an imagination.

Little Qian practically skipped out of the room in excitement, barely containing her inner gossip: The industry’s a mess! Who knew Teacher Jiang was into girls? No wonder she never dates guys! They’re both gorgeous—who’s topping whom?!

Jiang Qingmeng paid no mind to the pile of fan gifts. She walked to the table, picked up her cup, and took a sip of the red date tea. A sweet, fragrant warmth bloomed on her tongue.

The living room felt too quiet. She grabbed the remote from the table, flicked on the television, and selected a channel at random to provide some background noise.

Jiang Zhizhou eyed the stack of gifts. “Aren’t you going to deal with those?”

“Little Ai will sort them out,” Jiang Qingmeng replied, cradling the glass cup in her hands.

“What about the letters they wrote you? Not even a peek?” Jiang Zhizhou plucked a few envelopes at random.

She didn’t seem to care much about her fans. Last time Jiang Zhizhou had asked her, “Aren’t you afraid your fans who like you will see you smoking?” She’d simply smiled and replied that what her fans liked wasn’t her—it was her public persona.

Jiang Qingmeng took a sip of tea while picking up the remote to change the channel. “If you’re interested, feel free to read them.”

Jiang Zhizhou did just that, tearing open the envelope and reading the letter aloud to her, word for word.

“It’s from a little girl who’s taking the Gaokao next year. She says she really likes you and is so grateful for those encouraging words you posted on Weibo for students facing exams. Her grades have improved a lot recently, and she promises to study hard and get into a good university next year.”

Jiang Qingmeng gave a faint smile. “Did I ever post anything encouraging exam takers? I don’t remember.”

Jiang Zhizhou tore open another envelope. “Hmm, this one’s from a little boy—just fourteen years old. He watched the TV drama you starred in and says he wants to find a girlfriend just like you someday: gentle and beautiful. It would be even better if you could be his girlfriend—” At that point, Jiang Zhizhou let out a cold snort. “In his dreams! He’s only fourteen—what’s he doing thinking about girlfriends?”

As if Qingmeng would ever be his girlfriend. Pure fantasy.

Jiang Qingmeng smiled lightly and, out of politeness, turned down the TV volume.

“Another one from a little girl. She says she suffers from depression and has wanted to kill herself for a long time. But that day on the rooftop, she saw one of your ads. Your smile—so clean and beautiful—made her realize there was still something pure and wonderful in the world, and suddenly she didn’t want to die anymore. You’re like a star in the sky, not shining just for her, but lighting her path all the same without even trying. You live the life she dreams of but doesn’t dare to chase. Just thinking about you makes her believe the world is worth sticking around for…”

Jiang Qingmeng took another sip of tea and said nothing, idly flipping through channels.

Jiang Zhizhou read through the dozen or so letters in her hands in one go, and Jiang Qingmeng poured her a cup of jujube tea to soothe her throat.

Cradling the glass cup, Jiang Zhizhou hesitated for a moment before finally speaking her mind. “Qingmeng, there must be fans out there who truly adore you—who couldn’t bear to see anyone badmouth or hurt you. You’re their hope, their guiding light, the tenderness buried deep in their hearts, the very picture of everything beautiful in the world. A single offhand comment from you might inspire them to become better versions of themselves. If you ever had a crush when you were young, you’d understand that feeling completely. You’d want her to cherish your affection, wouldn’t you?”

A sincere crush was something precious, something to be treasured.

Jiang Qingmeng didn’t reply. She turned up the TV volume, set the remote aside, and fixed her amber eyes straight on the screen.

Jiang Zhizhou followed her gaze.

—There on the TV screen was twenty-year-old Jiang Zhizhou. Her face was still so youthful, stubbornness and defiance written plain as day in her eyes.

It was an interview clip from an entertainment outlet, the reporter firing questions and her answering them one by one.

“What animal does Zhizhou like the most?”

“Cats. They’re super soft and adorable.”

“And your favorite color?”

“White. See, most of my clothes are white—white shirts, white sweaters…”

“This one’s a bit gossipy: what kind of person do you like best?”

“Gentle people. I have zero resistance to gentleness.”

“You’re so pretty—has anyone of the same sex ever confessed their feelings to you? How did you handle it?”

“Uh… yeah. I thanked them for liking me, but I like guys. I want to get married someday, start my own family.”

“What do you think about the relationship between celebrities and fans?”

“Mutual inspiration and growth. A fan’s love can push a celebrity to keep striving. At the same time, kids around thirteen or fourteen are at that age where they idolize people while their worldviews are still forming. As public figures, celebrities have to mind their words and actions—a casual remark might just motivate them to push harder and become better people…”

Seven years ago, Jiang Zhizhou had said all that.

She didn’t even remember it herself.

The interview kept playing on the TV, and Jiang Qingmeng turned to look at her, silent. Her amber eyes brimmed with scrutiny and doubt.