Chapter 26: Night Rain

Jiang Qingmeng moved her lips, about to speak, when her phone vibrated in her pocket.

She pulled it out and saw that it was Xu Sheng calling.

Jiang Zhizhou’s gaze flicked over and caught the name on the caller ID. Her expression froze, and all the tenderness in her heart drained away.

“Sorry, I need to take this call,” Jiang Qingmeng said.

“Go ahead,” Jiang Zhizhou replied coolly. She looked away, picked up the glass from the table, and carried it into the kitchen to wash.

“Brother Sheng, good evening. Have they arrived? Okay, no problem. I’ll see you downstairs.”

Those were the only words Jiang Zhizhou overheard before stepping into the kitchen—a smiling invitation to meet up.

She pursed her lips and turned on the faucet, letting the icy water scour her hands.

When she returned to the living room, she saw Jiang Qingmeng wrapping a scarf around her neck and pulling on a hat, bundling up tight as if ready to head out.

Unable to hold back the sour ache in her chest, Jiang Zhizhou asked in a muffled voice, “Dressed up like that for a date?”

Jiang Qingmeng hummed an affirmative. “Something like that.”

The words cut deeper than the cold water. Jiang Zhizhou’s face turned to ice in an instant. “Forget I said anything tonight. I won’t keep you.” She snatched the script off the table and headed for the door without a backward glance.

Jiang Qingmeng caught her hand and met her eyes. “What kind of ‘like’ do you mean? Like a regular friend… or something more?”

Jiang Zhizhou dodged her gaze. “Like a regular friend,” she said coldly.

Jiang Qingmeng nodded and released her hand, escorting her to the door.

At the threshold, Jiang Zhizhou turned back and held out her hand. “Give me back the scarf. You said you were only borrowing it for a day.”

Her tone was sharp and brittle, edged with gritted teeth.

Jiang Qingmeng paused for a beat, then unwound the scarf and handed it over.

Jiang Zhizhou took it and hurried into the elevator.

Jiang Qingmeng leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed, watching the doors slide shut, her brows knitting slightly.

The elevator doors closed.

Jiang Zhizhou’s eyes reddened in silence. Sourness and bitterness twisted in her chest, laced with a dull, knifelike pain.

Back in her room, she tossed the scarf into the washing machine. As she watched it tumble in the drum, she ground her teeth. How could she be so shameless—going out to meet another man while wearing my scarf!

Determined not to give her another thought, Jiang Zhizhou chucked the script into the trash can as well.

She glanced at the time on her phone and headed for the shower, only to spot a message from Jiang Qingmeng, sent just ten seconds earlier.

【Aren’t you going to ask what my relationship with him is?】

Still seething, Jiang Zhizhou tapped out, “A late-night meetup—what could it be?” on her phone, but deleted it. She typed, “What am I to you? What right do I have to ask?”—too resentful. Deleted again. Finally, she settled on “Not interested,” feigning aloofness. She waited three full minutes before hitting send.

One minute.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

No reply from Jiang Qingmeng. Jiang Zhizhou flung her phone aside and got ready to remove her makeup, shower, and crash.

On her way into the bathroom, she eyed the script in the trash. After a moment’s hesitation, she bent down, fished it out, and set it on the table.

It was filled with her analysis notes for the female lead role—she couldn’t bear to throw it away.

Fresh from her shower, she picked up the phone from the bed. Still nothing.

Curiosity and jealousy clawed at her heart like a cat’s paws. Unable to stand it any longer, she swallowed her pride and fired off another message—

【What’s your relationship with him?】

She tossed the phone down and went to blow-dry her hair.

Part of her hoped for an instant reply; another part dreaded it, terrified of hearing something she didn’t want to know.

Her mind a jumble, she finished drying her hair, drew a deep breath, mustered her courage, and checked the phone.

One unread message.

Holding her breath, she tapped it open—

【Balance reminder, dear customer…】

Tch.

Relief washed over her, chased by a creeping disappointment that coiled around her heart like vines.

Whatever. If she wasn’t going to reply, fine. Who needed it?

She had an early morning tomorrow, so she shut her eyes and tried to sleep.

Her foul mood made for fitful rest, waking her over and over.

At last, during one such awakening, she snatched the phone from the bedside table and unlocked the screen.

The glow pierced the darkness. She squinted and flicked on the bedside lamp.

02:15.

The last message in the chat was still hers.

No response. Her heart sank, inch by inch.

Rain was falling outside.

It pattered softly against the window. Sleep eluded her completely. She rose, shrugged on a coat, and leaned by the glass, watching the night rain as she sorted through her tangled thoughts.

On a night like this, she felt like lighting up a cigarette.

She didn’t like smoking, but in her youth she’d smoked heavily and drunk to excess, often snapped by paparazzi. For years, her agent had shelled out cash every month to buy back photos from reporters.

Later, she quit.

She had studied opera and once possessed a fine voice, but cigarettes had ruined her throat. After that, she could no longer sing. At banquets and social gatherings, she was never again forced to perform.

Ten years. She had spent a full decade clawing her way to the pinnacle of the film world.

In those ten years, she had cast aside so much—friendships, romance, even family bonds. The times she had seen her parents could be counted on one hand. In the end, she dropped everything to keep vigil at her father’s bedside, yet she still missed his final moments.

And to top it all off, she had been mired in the Drug Scandal, leaving her parents to depart this world without peace of mind.

What a failure she was.

Now, a decade of triumphs had crumbled to dust in an instant. She had the courage to start anew, but why had she fallen for someone?

Of all people, another woman.

She had never tasted emotions this tangled and tormented.

Wanting to confess, yet too afraid;

Confessing, only to dread her understanding—or her lack of it;

Wanting to ask, yet holding back;

Asking, only to fear the answer—or the silence.

No more torment. But even if they both felt the same, what then? A love like theirs could never see the light of day. Unless… unless she gave up certain dreams…

Was she willing to let go?

Was Jiang Zhizhou willing?

If neither was, then why love at all? Why hold each other back?

Jiang Zhizhou was only twenty, her future brimming with endless possibilities.

Once people reached a certain age, it grew hard to love with the reckless abandon of teenagers. At twenty-seven or twenty-eight, they had learned to weigh risks and rewards, to prioritize stability in relationships.

Jiang Zhizhou’s philosophy of love was devoted, earnest, stubborn, and selfish. She wanted to pour her most sincere, fervent, unguarded affections onto the one person who would stand by her side for life.

Was Jiang Qingmeng that person?

She didn’t know.

With that thought, Jiang Zhizhou unlocked her phone screen once more. Still no reply.

Sick of the repeated letdowns, she powered it off, took a sip of liquor to help her sleep, and climbed back into bed.

Just before drifting off, she thought in a fit of pique: Whatever they wanted their relationship to be, so be it. She was done liking that woman.

The winter rain fell without end.

Jiang Qingmeng stood by the window, lighting one cigarette after another.

One month, two, or maybe three—she hadn’t touched anything related to Jiang Zhizhou.

Movies, interviews, posters, magazines: all piled in a corner, gathering dust.

She couldn’t look. She didn’t dare.

The moment she did, she’d lie awake until dawn, her mind replaying Jiang Zhizhou’s voice, her features, her smile on an endless loop. She’d feel her heart twist like a knife, over and over.

—When I grow up, will you still remember me?

—Of course. You’ll be so beautiful, I’ll spot you in a crowd at a glance.

Liar.

She clearly hadn’t recognized her later on.

To her, Jiang Qingmeng was nothing more than a fleeting passerby in her life—a brief crossing of paths, forgotten in an instant, erased clean.

Yet she couldn’t forget. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t. Her thoughts were consumed by her. Every step she’d taken these years had been to draw closer, yet never too close.

Jiang Zhizhou liked gentle people? Then she’d learn to be gentle.

She wanted a kind partner? Then she’d try to release her hatred for her parents, to show goodwill to the world.

She had remade herself into everything Jiang Zhizhou could want, and still… she didn’t remember.

Fine. It didn’t matter. Being forgotten was better than being despised.

Jiang Zhizhou loathed same-sex attraction. If she knew how Jiang Qingmeng felt, she’d be utterly repulsed.

No. She wouldn’t let herself be hated, wouldn’t be branded a freak. Better if Jiang Zhizhou never remembered at all. She didn’t need to be remembered. She didn’t need her love. Jiang Qingmeng just wanted her safe and whole—happy and alive, with anyone at all. Watching from afar would be enough.

Why?

Why couldn’t even that simple wish come true?

Heh.

If that was the case, then those who’d made her suffer in the past wouldn’t get off easy either. The bar, the tabloid scum, the puppet masters behind the Drug Scandal, and Wen Xun—not one would be spared. She’d make them pay back every bit, a thousandfold.

Every step calculated, every move deliberate. That bar was already shuttered, its owner rotting in prison.

Next up: Wen Xun.

Useless trash who couldn’t even protect the woman he loved. What good was he to the world?

Everything was unfolding according to plan, smooth as silk. The only wildcard was Shen Xinghe.

She resembled her so much. At first, it was just the facial features. Now it ran deeper—one gesture, one motion, and there was her shadow.

She resembled her so closely that Jiang Qingmeng almost believed she was Jiang Zhizhou herself. She let herself draw near, drinking poison to quench her thirst, sinking bit by bit into that gentle warmth.

She resembled her so closely that she began to wonder if soul possession truly existed in this world. Unable to help herself, she probed—and tonight, she had even sent someone to investigate.

How absurd. How laughable.

At the thought, Jiang Qingmeng pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a genuine, soft laugh.

The sound cut sharp through the silent night.

She laughed at her own madness, laughed at her own folly.

But as the laughter continued, her eyes reddened. Tears welled up, blurring her vision.

Her throat tightened, her heart twisting with wave after wave of pain. She sank into a crouch, hands pressed over her face.

Just like that year when she was twelve—soft, restrained sobs, muffled and enduring. Never hysterical. Never a full-throated wail.

This time, no one was there to wipe away her tears. No one to murmur, “Cry if you need to—I’m here with you.” No one to pull her into an embrace and soothe her with gentle words. In the dark of night, there was only her, huddled in the corner like a madwoman, laughing through her tears.