Chapter 25: Liking

Seven years later, twenty-seven-year-old Jiang Zhizhou still loved cats, adored white, and cherished gentle souls.

The difference was that this twenty-seven-year-old had fallen for a gentle woman—one with tender eyes and a soft smile.

But now, those tender eyes brimmed with scrutiny and doubt.

—Maybe a casual word from you can inspire them to become better people.

—Maybe a casual word can motivate them to strive harder, to become better versions of themselves.

How was she supposed to respond to this “coincidence”?

Jiang Zhizhou lowered her gaze, cradling the glass cup in both hands. She took a sip of the hot tea, and then an idea struck her. With a helpless smile, she said, “All right, I admit it. I’ve seen that interview of hers, and I just happened to remember the line. It’s pretty insightful, don’t you think?”

Jiang Qingmeng stared at her without blinking, scrutinizing every flicker of expression on her face. “Really? I seem to recall you couldn’t stand her back then. Why would you watch her interviews?”

The original host, Shen Xinghe, had debuted under the moniker “Little Jiang Zhizhou.” Everyone who saw her brought up Jiang Zhizhou, and with her strong-willed nature, the original host refused to linger in someone else’s shadow. Over time, that resentment had grown naturally.

This woman was no longer as easy to placate as she had been at twelve.

Jiang Zhizhou sighed inwardly but kept her expression steady and composed. “After the car accident, I had a change of heart. Since I look so much like Jiang Zhizhou, I figured I might as well learn what was inside her too. I pored over all her movies and interviews, watching them again and again. There’s that old saying, isn’t there—those who imitate me will thrive, but those who merely resemble me will perish. Copying just the surface is a dead end. Only by absorbing her acting techniques and thought processes can I truly make them my own and benefit from them.”

“So…” Jiang Qingmeng tightened her grip on her glass cup, a sudden chill flashing in her eyes. “You’ve been imitating her all this time?”

Imitating her gestures and mannerisms, her way of speaking—so lifelike it was almost impossible to tell them apart…

“Something like that.”

Jiang Qingmeng set her glass down and stared at the television screen in silence.

On the TV, the interview was drawing to a close. The reporter posed the final question:

“What kind of person do you hope your other half will be?”

“Um… someone gentle. The kind who’s seen all the beauty and ugliness in the world, who’s weathered light and darkness, yet still harbors a soft heart—still moved by the smallest joys.” At this point, Jiang Zhizhou smiled. “Rather than hoping my partner is like that, I’d say I hope to become that kind of person myself…”

On the sofa, Jiang Qingmeng pointed at the woman on the screen and let out a self-mocking laugh. “Didn’t you say that if you’d liked someone when you were young, you’d understand that feeling? That you’d hope she cherished your affection?”

“She… is the person I liked back then.”

What did it feel like to hear the one you loved confess their feelings right to your face?

A racing heart, as if plunged into a soft, dreamy haze?

Had Jiang Qingmeng’s eyes not been reddening, her sockets brimming with tears, Jiang Zhizhou might have felt exactly that.

But there was no joy now. Seeing her cry made Jiang Zhizhou’s heart clench in pain.

“I never hoped she would cherish my feelings…” Jiang Qingmeng gazed at the screen, then lifted her eyes to the Jiang Zhizhou before her. She smiled even as tears spilled over. “Someone like me doesn’t deserve her love…”

Did she truly not hope for it?

No.

It was just that this affection wasn’t ordinary admiration. It was romantic longing—the kind she found utterly repulsive and abhorrent, coming from another woman.

How could she dare hope for her to cherish something like that?

“Someone who’s seen all the beauty and ugliness, weathered light and darkness, yet still has a soft heart, moved by the smallest joys.”

She had once strived to become that person. But she wasn’t. Not at all.

In the end, her heart was filled with hatred, her hands stained with sin. With such an ugly, twisted face, how could she possibly deserve that woman’s regard?

Heartache. Nothing but heartache.

Jiang Zhizhou would rather face relentless pressure, endure suspicion and interrogation—anything but see her cry. All her composure shattered, and for the first time, she felt utterly at a loss, with no idea what to do.

In the end, she reached out, gently brushing away the tears with her thumb. She leaned in, pulling Jiang Qingmeng into her arms, and murmured soothingly, “Qingmeng, it’s not like that. You’re an entertainer too, remember? Interviews are scripted, full of polished lines—they’re not the raw truth. No matter who you are, if I were her, I’d cherish you deeply. I’d love you beyond measure…”

Jiang Qingmeng buried her face in the crook of her neck, her voice soft and faint. “But you’re not her…”

“I—”

The words “I am” were on the tip of her tongue when a light cough sounded from nearby.

Jiang Qingmeng pushed out of Jiang Zhizhou’s embrace.

Two pairs of eyes shot toward her at once, filling Little Ai with an acute sense of shame for barging in on their private moment. She instinctively reached up to cover her face, then remembered her reason for coming out here. Pretending to stay calm, she walked over and carefully offered the phone.

“Boss, you left your phone inside…”

Jiang Qingmeng glanced at Little Ai, her gaze deep and inscrutable.

A chill ran down Little Ai’s spine, but she forced herself to meet those eyes. “There’s a call… from Director—Director He…”

It was Sister He Jia calling. She couldn’t very well ignore that…

After blurting it out, Little Ai took in her boss’s disheveled hair, the red rims around her eyes, the glistening tears. Pity surged through her, and she shot Jiang Zhizhou a fierce glare. Inwardly, she fumed: Miss Shen, what did you do to my boss? You look so put-together—how could you make her cry?!

Catching the flicker of anger in Little Ai’s eyes, Jiang Zhizhou blinked in confusion. Her clear black-and-white gaze brimmed with innocence.

Jiang Qingmeng wiped her face, took the phone, and stood. She answered it, held it to her ear, shot Little Ai a meaningful look, and headed for the office area.

Little Ai got the hint and trailed after her like a shadow. Once they were in the office area, she shut the door, muffling the conversation inside.

As Jiang Qingmeng spoke with the caller, she picked up the cigarette case from her desk, drew out a cigarette, and held it between her slender white fingers. Her eyes flicked over, giving Little Ai another signal.

Little Ai caught on immediately. With quick thinking, she pulled out her lighter. Click—the flame sprang to life, igniting the cigarette.

Jiang Qingmeng pushed the window open. Wisps of smoke curled upward from between her fingers.

Her eyes were still reddened at the corners, a single tear clinging to her lashes, but her expression held no trace of vulnerability. Instead, there was only calm—cold, detached calm.

After a brief, to-the-point exchange with He Jia, Jiang Qingmeng hung up. She turned toward the window and stood in silence for a long moment before letting out a soft sigh.

Little Ai kept her eyes on the floor, not daring to look up.

“You ruined my moment. You have to be punished,” Jiang Qingmeng said, flicking ash from her cigarette. Her voice was soft, but it brooked no argument. “Go investigate her. Use every connection you have. From after her car accident in February—every place she’s been, every person she’s met, everything she’s done. Dig up whatever you can and report it all to me.”

Little Ai nodded at once, any lingering sympathy for her boss vanishing into thin air.

She recalled Miss Shen’s clear, innocent eyes, then glanced at the striking beauty by the window, exhaling streams of smoke. She couldn’t help grumbling to herself: Come on, boss—this is too much. You set her up, and now you’re the aggrieved one? You even cried…

Jiang Qingmeng turned around, catching Little Ai’s glance. “Cursing me in your head again?”

“No, I wouldn’t dare,” Little Ai said, shaking her head vigorously. She laid it on thick with utter sincerity. “You’re my electricity, my light, the one who puts clothes on my back and food in my belly. How could I ever curse you?”

“Next time you say something like that, don’t look so deadpan. Smile—it’ll seem more genuine.” Jiang Qingmeng stubbed out her cigarette and dropped the butt into the ashtray. “We’re heading out soon. Sort the files on the desk, then come with me.” With that, she left the office area.

On the sofa, Jiang Zhizhou rubbed her forehead, a faint sense of something amiss lingering in her mind.

What kind of person was Jiang Qingmeng?

At twelve years old, she’d watched her mother leap to her death from a building right in front of her. Her father had abandoned her in the hospital without a backward glance. Yet she hadn’t cried or made a fuss—she’d simply crouched silently in the corner of her hospital room.

Eight years later, at twenty, her mind was far beyond her years, her sharp edges carefully concealed beneath an ever-present gentle smile.

Breaking down someone like that emotionally? It wasn’t easy.

Jiang Zhizhou didn’t believe she mattered that much. A few words, a single interview—none of it should have been enough to strip away Jiang Qingmeng’s defenses and draw out her true self.

And that line of hers—“But you’re not her”—had felt loaded, almost like a deliberate prod.

She’d exposed plenty of cracks in her facade: her personality, her mannerisms, her gestures, her speech. None of it matched the original host, Shen Xinghe. Dissociative amnesia was a perfect cover for those inconsistencies.

Yet Jiang Qingmeng had grown suspicious anyway. Not just tonight—it went back further. She’d been probing, subtly, for some time.

Where had she slipped up?

Perhaps Jiang Qingmeng had noticed how much the current her resembled her past-life self, Jiang Zhizhou. Every gesture, every habit—it was all there.

But for her to pick up on that… it meant her attention had been unusually intense. Years of close observation would be needed to know someone that well.

Was it simply because she was a fan?

Somehow, that didn’t ring true.

In a daze, Jiang Zhizhou recalled the messages Jiang Qingmeng had sent half a year ago. She couldn’t remember the exact words, only that she’d professed to like her—to have liked her for many years.

Jiang Zhizhou had always taken it as a fan’s admiration for an idol: fervent, genuine, tinged with caution.

Looking back now, though, something felt off.

Back then, she had confessed to liking her for many years but never dared to say it aloud. Tonight, she claimed she didn’t deserve her affection.

What kind of like was too shameful to voice?

And why claim she didn’t deserve it?

A hazy answer began to take shape in her heart.

It was a thrilling notion, yet one that instinctively sparked worry—was she just reading too much into it?

Jiang Zhizhou pulled out her phone, logged out of the current account, and prepared to sign into the one from her previous life. She wanted to reread the message Jiang Qingmeng had sent back then. But a gentle voice interrupted her—

“Sorry about that. I had to take a work call and couldn’t just hang up.”

Jiang Zhizhou quietly pocketed her phone and turned toward the speaker.

The sight of her reddened eyes and the faint bloodshot veins in them tugged at Jiang Zhizhou’s heart.

“Qingmeng, you…” Jiang Zhizhou started to ask, but then caught the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to her. She couldn’t help frowning. “You smoked again?”

“Does it smell bad?” Jiang Qingmeng leaned down to sniff at her own clothes and gave a small smile. “Sorry, I’ll go take a shower first.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jiang Zhizhou caught her hand and guided her to the sofa. She wanted to pick up where they’d left off, but the words wouldn’t come. After a moment’s hesitation, Jiang Qingmeng prompted her. “Right, what were you going to say? ‘I’ what?”

I am… Jiang Zhizhou.

She had nearly admitted it moments ago.

Truth be told, if her suspicions were correct, Qingmeng felt the same kind of like she did. There would be no harm in confessing.

With that thought, Jiang Zhizhou met Jiang Qingmeng’s gaze. She spoke slowly and earnestly, each word deliberate. “Nothing. I just wanted to say… Jiang Qingmeng, I like you. I like you so much. You’re wonderful—don’t sell yourself short.”

Jiang Qingmeng looked back at her.

Their eyes locked.

The world fell silent in an instant. Jiang Zhizhou stared into those amber depths and heard nothing but the thunderous beat of her own heart.

“Like” could mean so many things.

It might be simple fondness—like for a cat, or the color white, or a person you wanted as a friend.

Or it could be something deeper: the desire to hold hands, to embrace, to kiss, to build a life together.

How Jiang Zhizhou wished time would freeze right here, letting her gaze upon Qingmeng like this forever. No more chasing fame or fortune—just this moment, and the hope that Qingmeng would understand her heart.

If she did understand, if she was willing to accept it… then Jiang Zhizhou would tell her everything, holding nothing back.