Chapter 3: Chasing Fame

Half a year ago, Jiang Zhizhou was at the lowest point of her career. The drug scandal’s fallout had cost her every endorsement deal and lead role, leaving her with just one secret production: the movie Dream Butterfly.

That banquet drew the entertainment industry’s elite—tycoons and celebrities from every corner. It was a classic case of kissing up to the powerful and kicking those who were down. The same stars who’d once clung to her, desperate for connections, now scattered at the sight of her ruin. Only Jiang Qingmeng approached with a wineglass in hand. She sat down beside Jiang Zhizhou and said, “Teacher Jiang, hello.”

Back then, Jiang Zhizhou had been brooding in a dim corner, nursing her drink. She glanced over at the sound of the voice and murmured a flat “Hello.” They exchanged no more words after that.

Only at the banquet’s end, as she prepared to leave, did Jiang Zhizhou notice the business card tucked into the corner of the table. It was Jiang Qingmeng’s, with a single line of handwriting: Jingzhe arrives, peaches begin to bloom, the yellow warbler sings, all things come to life.

It was dialogue from her debut film, Jingzhe—a reference to the solar term when peach blossoms burst forth, spring thunder cracks the sky, and the world awakens.

In the story, it heralded the protagonist’s rebirth.

Jiang Zhizhou stared at those words in silence for a long moment before instructing her assistant to pass her own card along to Jiang Qingmeng.

They’d traded contacts.

That encounter was one reason—one of the few good ones—why she’d accepted the ten million today.

A flicker of warmth kindled in her chest. Jiang Zhizhou watched Jiang Qingmeng depart, then shut the door and returned to her room.

She touched the bandage wound around her head, fetched medicine from the storage cabinet, and stepped into the cramped bathroom. Facing the mirror, she changed her dressing.

Once finished, Jiang Zhizhou gazed steadily at her reflection.

A lovely face stared back—familiar in flashes, yet utterly strange. The facial bruises had faded to near nothing, leaving her skin looking impossibly fair and smooth.

She lifted her right hand, fingertips ghosting over her brows, eyes, nose, and lips.

She had to admit it: the features echoed her own from another life. Slender brows, long eyes, a high bridge—cool and crisp, the kind of look that lingered in the memory.

But this face was far younger, brimming with collagen and the faint awkwardness of youth.

Flaws existed, of course. The yellowish wavy perm with bangs felt dated and clashed with her natural poise. And judging by the original host’s old TV clips and photos, her posture had been a glaring weak point.

Still, beauty like this forgave a multitude of sins. It was striking. It photographed well. That was enough.

Jiang Zhizhou changed clothes, shouldered her backpack, stuffed it with cash and ID, masked up, hatted down, and headed out.

She cabbed it to a villa in Chengnan.

Password lock on the door. Unchanged? She was in.

Dodging every camera with ease, she slipped into the bedroom.

Her eyes roamed the room: chandelier, curtains, wardrobe, desk, bed.

Nothing had changed. It was frozen in time, exactly as she’d left it last.

Her gaze settled on a photo frame atop the desk.

She crossed to it, lifted it—and her eyes burned red.

A family portrait.

Father. Mother. Her.

The three of them.

Jiang Zhizhou traced the image with her fingers. Memories flooded back.

Two years prior, on the night the drug scandal exploded, paparazzi snapped her in police custody. The photos hit the papers by morning. Outrage exploded across media and social feeds, fiercer than any storm before.

Her father had already succumbed to illness by then. Her mother wept endlessly over the headlines. Terrified of worrying her more, Jiang Zhizhou never shed a tear in her presence—forcing daylight smiles, pretending the vitriol slid off her back. Only in the dead of night did she let the silent sobs come.

Family had carried her through those days.

They never lived to see her bask in award-show glory.

A bittersweet thought followed: maybe it was a mercy they’d gone first. No white-haired parent burying a child.

She slipped the photo into her pocket for safekeeping, then raided the safe: a hundred thousand cash, a handful of cards. Into the bag.

One final glance at the bedroom. Door shut. Gone without a backward look.

At the bank, under the name Shen Xinghe, Jiang Zhizhou opened a fresh account.

Anything in Jiang Zhizhou’s name was frozen since her “death”—proper channels required for release. These cards were old gifts from brands and partners: loose change adding up to about a million.

Two hundred thousand went into savings. The rest? Investments in film and TV, her old stomping grounds.

A million-plus was a fortune to most. To big money? Laughable. Ten million in debt wouldn’t budge.

Bottom line: act. Get famous. Cash in.

Chasing name and profit. The crudest, truest dream right now.

After depositing the money, Jiang Zhizhou bought some paper money, hurried out to the suburbs, and secretly burned it for the departed original host.

Over the next few days, she consulted a lawyer to draft a loan agreement, then sent it off to Jiang Qingmeng for her signature.

Only after all the formalities were squared away did Jiang Zhizhou dare to use that bank card loaded with ten million to pay off her debts.

With that, her current creditor became Jiang Qingmeng.

She rested for more than a month, and by mid-April, Jiang Zhizhou felt her body had recovered well enough. She took the initiative to contact her agent, Chen Lin, and asked about any upcoming gigs.

Chen Lin threw out a single line: “Come to the company tomorrow morning at nine.” Then she hung up.