Chapter 33: Nightmare (2)

In her youth, Jiang Zhizhou’s ambitions had soared as high as the heavens. She had never imagined that one day she would willingly put on an apron to cook for someone else.

Seated at the dining table, she watched Jiang Qingmeng tuck into her bowl of noodles. In that moment, she suddenly understood the “simple happiness” her parents had always described—the quiet, unassuming joy woven into the fabric of everyday chores like firewood, rice, oil, and salt.

In her previous life, after she and Wen Xun had broken up, her parents had tried to talk her down. “Don’t be so stubborn,” they’d said. “Learn to compromise a little.”

Wen Xun had been the picture of a perfect partner by worldly standards: gentle, thoughtful, devoted. Whenever she was tied up with filming, he would drop by to keep her parents company, buying groceries and cooking meals for them.

No wonder they had taken his side back then.

She remembered one particular night when she had carved out some rare time, catching a flight home just to have dinner with her parents. Her mother had leaned in close, nagging softly in her ear. “You’re still young and foolish. When people get old, they need someone around. Wen Xun’s a good boy—you’ll see that someday. You can’t act forever, can’t be a superstar for life. But he could take care of you forever. He could cook for you every day, just like your father has for me all these years.”

Jiang Zhizhou had let out a cold laugh. “I’ve got two hands and two feet. I’m not going to be some pampered pet bird in a cage. I don’t need anyone to keep me. If you like him so much, make him your son and pretend I was never born.”

Her father had called out, “Dinner’s ready!” as he emerged from the kitchen. Overhearing her words, his face had darkened instantly, and he’d scolded her in a low growl. “Have some respect! Is that any way to talk to your mother?”

Jiang Zhizhou had slammed down her chopsticks and stormed out. She didn’t go home for an entire year after that—not even to answer their calls. Their only contact was the money she wired them each month.

Her temper back then had been truly awful. She could have expressed her resistance in a kinder way, but no—she had to go to extremes.

Would she compromise now?

There would be no more fake socializing, no enduring the relentless storms of public life. She wouldn’t end up like so many female stars who married into wealth after fame, settling into the role of an elegant, idle housewife.

No. She still wouldn’t.

She loved acting. She thrived under the spotlight. She would never become a caged bird. No one—not family, not a lover—could bind her in the name of love.

Once the noodles were finished, the two of them curled up on the sofa to keep watching cartoons.

After such a long, exhausting night, Jiang Zhizhou felt bone-tired and drowsy. Cartoons had never been her thing anyway. As she watched, her eyelids grew heavy, her head nodding forward until it finally lolled to one side, coming to rest on the shoulder of the woman beside her. She was out.

Jiang Qingmeng muted the television and switched to subtitles.

Once the weight on her shoulder had settled into deep sleep, she wrapped an arm around her and gently shifted her head to pillow on her lap instead.

Lying down was far more comfortable than sitting up. Jiang Zhizhou nuzzled against Jiang Qingmeng’s thigh and sank even deeper into slumber.

Jiang Qingmeng glanced at Pikachu on the screen, then down at the sleeping face in her lap.

The room was dim, the television’s faint glow deepening the lines of those features, drawing them closer to someone else’s—imbuing even the air around her with a hint of maturity.

Unable to resist, Jiang Qingmeng reached out and brushed the stray hairs from her forehead. Her fingertips traced the curve of her brow bone, the bridge of her nose, the thin line of her lips. But in the next instant, she caught herself—treating her like someone else—and yanked her hand back, forcing her gaze to the screen.

She had said not to mistake her for anyone. To get to know her anew.

Fine. As she wished. She would try.

Whether it worked or not was another story.

Jiang Qingmeng lowered her eyes once more, fixating on the pale curve of her cheek. She reached out and gave it a light poke.

Who told you to look so much like her? To mimic her? To like me?

You can’t blame me. This is on you.

The television’s shifting lights played across Jiang Zhizhou’s face—now bright, now dim—enough to make her delicate brows furrow faintly, as if disturbed.

Jiang Qingmeng extended her left hand and gently covered her eyes, blocking out the glow.

No sound. No light. Now she could sleep properly.

In her dreams, Jiang Zhizhou murmured something indistinct. She fumbled for the cool hand over her eyes and tugged it away.

A cold snort rose in Jiang Qingmeng’s chest. Ungrateful, she thought—just as Jiang Zhizhou guided the hand to the nape of her own neck. Even unconsciously, she wanted to warm it.

The RV’s heater was running strong. After boarding, Jiang Zhizhou had shed her overcoat, left in just her shirt. She’d unbuttoned the collar earlier and hadn’t bothered refastening it, exposing the elegant line of her long, pale neck and the sharp cut of her collarbone. Casual. Sexy.

Her left palm filled with soft warmth and silken skin, the steady thrum of her carotid pulse clear against it.

Ten fingers linked to the heart. The warmth seeped straight in.

Jiang Qingmeng pressed her lips together. With her right hand, she snatched the remote from the sofa and killed the TV.

The screen went black. The last trace of light vanished. In the pitch darkness, nothing remained to distract her.

From the depths of her mind, nightmare memories surged forth—inescapable.

Once, another woman had seized her hand just like this, screaming hysterically for them to die together.

Her mother, Jiang Jingshan.

Jiang Jingshan hailed from a prestigious family. In her youth, she had countless elites from high society chasing after her, yet she fell head over heels for a penniless young man singing for tips in a bar—Xie Huai.

Xie Huai had nothing to his name but an exceptionally handsome face.

After marrying Jiang Jingshan, the Jiang family handed him a hefty sum to get by.

He set his sights on the entertainment industry, launching a media company that specialized in polishing celebrities’ images and salvaging their reputations.

Quick on his feet and riding the Jiang family’s influence, he climbed the ladder fast. Within a few short years, he was making waves in the business, and the couple seemed blissfully happy.

That changed when an esteemed elder in the Jiang clan got tangled in political infighting. Jiang Jingshan’s father wanted no part of the mess and relocated the whole family abroad.

Jiang Jingshan refused to go. She stayed behind with Xie Huai and gave birth to their daughter.

The elder’s misstep dragged the entire Jiang clan down. Those with resources fled overseas in a hurry, while the dead weight left behind leaned hard on Xie Huai for support.

From then on, the once-gentle, attentive Xie Huai transformed in Jiang Jingshan’s eyes. He barely came home anymore, and when he did, it was to unleash a torrent of biting sarcasm:

“Your cousin showed up begging for cash again today. They married off the Jiang family’s prized daughter to a broke nobody like me, letting me sponge off them all these years. Now it’s payback time.”

“Your family’s full of nothing but leeches.”

“That daughter you popped out doesn’t look a thing like me. Some other guy’s kid, huh?”

Xie Huai bottled up his resentment toward the Jiang relatives outside, but at home, he took it all out on Jiang Jingshan.

To some men, women and children made the perfect punching bags.

He began by griping about her family, then turned his venom on her and the girl; cold barbs gave way to raised fists.

In her childhood, Jiang Qingmeng would throw herself between them, taking the slaps meant for her mother. But she soon realized Jiang Jingshan didn’t mind the abuse one bit.

Her world revolved around Xie Huai. Beat her, humiliate her—he could do no wrong. A few crocodile tears and some bandage-dressing later, and she loved him as fiercely as ever.

A twisted, self-erasing kind of love.

She wouldn’t even let him dote on their daughter. The moment Xie Huai showed Jiang Qingmeng a scrap of fatherly warmth, she lost it—starting pointless fights, locking the girl in the piano room without food or water, no crying allowed, forcing her to play scales until she was pleased.

That love brooked no betrayal, not even a whisper.

Xie Huai’s first affair: Jiang Jingshan slashed his thigh with a knife.

His second: she plunged the blade into his chest.

His third: she torched the house, aiming to burn them both alive.

By the fourth, Xie Huai had reached his limit and demanded divorce. Jiang Jingshan opted for mutual destruction—and took Jiang Qingmeng along for the ride.

That night, she tricked the girl into swallowing sleeping pills, murmuring in her ear, “Baby, come with Mommy. This world’s too filthy…”

Later, on the hospital rooftop, she clung to her, screaming hysterically, “You’re mine too! Die with me!”

In the end, Jiang Qingmeng just smiled. “I’m not yours. Go die alone. I’ll cry at your funeral.”

She watched her mother plummet, smashing into a bloody pulp on the pavement below. Not a single tear fell.

Whatever mother-daughter bond there had been was long eroded away, leaving nothing but seething hatred.

Time had ground even that hatred to dust, scattering it on the wind.

All that lingered were the scars of deep-seated inferiority and suspicion, the dark obsession rooted in her soul.

Her hand tightened unconsciously around the neck. The sleeper stirred, brow furrowing in discomfort.

Jiang Qingmeng came to her senses and pulled away.

After a moment, she cupped Jiang Zhizhou’s cheek, stroking it softly.

You promised you wouldn’t run from me anymore. You said you like me, love me. Don’t let me down. Don’t lie to me. Don’t betray me. Ever.

When Jiang Zhizhou woke, the bed beside her was empty, but a blanket draped over her body.

She sat up, clutching it around her.

The unfamiliar surroundings left her dazed for a second before it clicked: she was in Jiang Qingmeng’s RV.

Then, from the darkness, a familiar voice: “You’re awake?”

The room lit up as the gentle tone settled in.

Jiang Zhizhou turned to see long legs peeking from beneath a bathrobe, leading up to that refined, tender face.

“What time is it?”

“Noon. Eat something.”

Jiang Qingmeng had two salads ready. After a quick freshen-up, Jiang Zhizhou joined her for lunch.

After dinner, Jiang Zhizhou asked, “What are we doing this afternoon?”

“Watching TV.” With that, Jiang Qingmeng turned the television back on.

“I don’t want to watch Pikachu with you anymore—you watch a movie with me.”

Jiang Qingmeng nodded with a smile. “Sure. What do you want to watch?”

Jiang Zhizhou made her selection. “Disney’s Coco.”

It was still an animated film, one about dreams, death, and family bonds.

Jiang Qingmeng sat on the sofa watching with her back ramrod straight, while Jiang Zhizhou found a comfortable position, her head pillowed on the armrest as she lay back to watch.

As they watched, Jiang Zhizhou grumbled, “Why don’t you have any plush toys around here? I want something to cuddle while I watch the movie.”

At those words, Jiang Qingmeng went into the bedroom. She picked out a Pikachu plush toy for Jiang Zhizhou to hug and fetched a soft pillow for her head.

The movie reached its emotional heart, and Jiang Qingmeng watched with rapt attention. At one pivotal scene, Jiang Zhizhou seemed to recall something and gave Jiang Qingmeng’s knee a light kick with her foot. “Your family doesn’t say ‘I like you’ or ‘I love you’ out loud much, do they?”

Jiang Qingmeng didn’t look at her. She hummed absentmindedly in response.

“Then I’ll say it to you from now on. Jiang Qingmeng, I like you. I like you so much—a lot.” She liked her enough to pluck the stars from the sky and hand them over.

The words sent a faint ripple through Jiang Qingmeng’s heart, but her expression remained impassive. She still didn’t look her way. “That kind of confession sounds so straight-guy dry.”

Jiang Zhizhou let out an “oh” and pressed on. “Should I recite some poetry for you? Modern or classical? Bold and heroic, or graceful and subtle?” In her past life, she had studied drama and memorized plenty of poems and songs.

“Just sit here quietly watching TV with me.” She put special emphasis on “quietly.”

Jiang Zhizhou fell silent. After a moment, she kicked her knee again, pestering. “I want snacks, drinks, and fruit. I’m the guest—you have to treat me right with some food.”

She declared it with utter conviction, showing not a trace of a guest’s restraint. Jiang Qingmeng finally glanced her way, then pulled out her phone and sent a message to Little Ai.

“What’re you doing? Calling someone to throw me out?” Jiang Zhizhou gave her knee another gentle nudge.

Jiang Qingmeng looked at her again, her gaze carrying a touch of helplessness and faint disdain. “There are only drinks left in the RV. The fruit’s almost gone, and no snacks. I’m having someone bring some over.”

“Oh, then why didn’t you ask what I want?” Jiang Zhizhou showed no politeness whatsoever.

Jiang Qingmeng was getting a fuller picture of just how shameless she could be. After a pause, she said, “I was going to have them get some dried fruit—low calorie, won’t make you gain weight. What do you want?”

“I want fresh longans. The ripest ones, just picked.”

In that instant, she transformed back into the haughty diva who once had the world at her feet, issuing her capricious demands without restraint.

Jiang Qingmeng tapped a few commands into her phone.

Two hours later, under Little Ai’s watchful eye, several temporary assistants hauled boxes of fresh longans into the RV.

Little Ai spotted Jiang Zhizhou lounging on the sofa, casually peeling longans while watching the movie, and couldn’t help thinking: Come next year, should we line up some lychees for this “Yang Guifei”?

The afternoon slipped away amid the movie, fruits, and drinks. Jiang Zhizhou was in high spirits. By evening, with Jiang Qingmeng’s mood seemingly back to normal, she took her back to the hotel. Everything felt on track again. Work would resume tomorrow. Jiang Zhizhou showered and hit the hay, ready for a solid night’s sleep.

At midnight, the phone on her nightstand rang.

She kept it on twenty-four-seven for her agent’s calls—always ready for a last-minute schmooze, emergency fill-in, or audition. It was actor’s etiquette 101.

Roused from sleep, Jiang Zhizhou rubbed her eyes, flicked on the light, and picked up without checking the caller ID.

Still groggy, she mumbled a greeting. “Hello?”

“Come out and open the door.”

The familiar voice snapped her awake. She bolted from bed and flung open the door.

There stood Jiang Qingmeng, lips bloodless, a fine mist of cold sweat beading her forehead.

She was barefoot in nothing but a white bathrobe, so frail she looked like a stiff breeze might knock her over.

Jiang Zhizhou didn’t hesitate. She pulled her into the toasty room, slipped cotton slippers onto her feet, draped a heavy coat over her shoulders, and moved to draw a hot footbath.

Jiang Qingmeng caught hold of the fussing Jiang Zhizhou and cupped her cheek, smiling softly. “You said I could do anything in front of you, right? Whatever I ask, you’ll say yes?”

Jiang Zhizhou met her eyes, heartache and tenderness plain to see. She nodded. “As long as it doesn’t cross my principles or bottom line, any request—I’m yours.”

Jiang Qingmeng’s smile bloomed. “Then sleep with me.”