Chapter 14: Eat Properly

An IOU note and a song—they sounded so light and insignificant, yet Zhong Jia felt burdened by a crushing debt. Every day on set, the mere sight of Xie Yingnian left her feeling deeply uncomfortable, but the other woman carried on as if nothing had happened, interacting with her exactly as before.

That night, she had replied on WeChat with an especially meek “Okay,” accompanied by a Little Cat saluting emoji. Her mind had been flooded with thoughts, but none of them involved venting at her creditor in C code. They were more like, “Can I lip-sync?” or “Teacher, pick another song and I’ll throw in a free one…”

Zhong Jia realized once again that she wasn’t herself around Xie Yingnian. She loved calling the woman “sister,” but the words never came out. She kept handing over the initiative without even realizing it.

In truth, she wasn’t like that at all. Twenty years of upbringing had blocked that straightforward path.

If the abortion had precisely targeted the girl in the twins, Qiao Yingqiu definitely wouldn’t have hesitated back then. She had never liked children, thinking they were noisy and annoying. She had only endured it for Zhong Kefei.

But Zhong Kefei had inflicted an even greater humiliation on her, turning her into a national laughingstock overnight. Everyone in the country knew she had been tricked into marriage and motherhood.

That grievance was cast aside, layered atop the one from birth and the ones intensified later on. Zhong Jia had no choice but to bear them—who asked her not to carry the Y chromosome her parents wanted?

Zhong Jia hadn’t received meticulous care as a child. The nanny Qiao Yingqiu hired started off attentive but soon grew perfunctory, knowing full well that the family didn’t care about this child.

When she got sick with a fever, it was just a lazy “Oh, give her some medicine then.”

Qiao Yingqiu’s tone was utterly casual, as if fevers were no big deal. Zhong Jia heard it so often that she started believing it herself, and the nanny even told her not to be delicate.

Zhong Jia sat on her little stool, nodding half-understandingly, a sheen of sickly sweat beading on her forehead. She had inherited her parents’ good looks—even as a toddler, her face and voice were soft and milky. That soft “oh” melted the nanny’s heart too. She sighed, “What a sin,” and rummaged through the medicine box, patiently feeding her the medicine spoonful by spoonful for once.

That evening, the nanny asked for leave to go home. Qiao Yingqiu agreed without sending a manager or assistant over. She figured a three-year-old being alone for one night was no issue.

She didn’t wrap up filming until after three in the morning, exhausted to the bone. Passing Zhong Jia’s room, she still went in for a look. Flicking on the light, she saw the child on the bed with flushed cheeks, lips parting and closing as she murmured indistinctly.

Qiao Yingqiu was terrified. She rushed to the bedside, scooped Zhong Jia from the covers, and with her free hand, called the driver—who surely hadn’t gone far—while hurrying downstairs and out the door. She was still in her loungewear and slippers.

There were no taxis near the villa complex. Qiao Yingqiu paced anxiously in place, clutching Zhong Jia like a hot coal stove—it burned her hands fiercely. In the end, this was her child, carried for ten months. Unlike Zhong Kefei, who became a father with one little twitch down there, the umbilical cord providing nourishment might have been severed, but the bond remained.

“Mommy…” Bumped around on the way downstairs, Zhong Jia stirred a bit, but she felt awful—her stomach churning, her head spinning. She said the word weakly, without strength.

Zhong Jia rarely called her that. Qiao Yingqiu usually snapped back ferociously, “What the hell are you calling me for?” But this time, she was both shocked and delighted, tears streaming as she swatted her daughter’s bottom. “If you’re not feeling well, why didn’t you say so? Didn’t I give you that phone watch?”

Another feeble “Mommy” came from beside her ear. The child, fresh from the swat, touched Qiao Yingqiu’s teary eye corner. Zhong Jia kissed it with utmost caution—even in her delirium, she didn’t dare get too close.

“I don’t know how to use it… Don’t be mad.”

Qiao Yingqiu often just bought things and tossed them to Zhong Jia, as if spending money fulfilled her duty, without caring what happened next.

She had no time for self-recrimination now; she was frantic and at a loss. Zhong Jia’s words felt like blasts of fire on her face—how high was the fever, and how long had it been burning?

Luckily, the driver arrived quickly. They rushed to the nearest hospital, but the situation was dire. The doctor said the little girl’s immunity was very low; fevers like this could easily lead to complications. “Your daughter might lose her hearing.”

Qiao Yingqiu had no experience as a mother; she hadn’t known it could escalate like this.

Sitting on a chair outside the ward, she was silent for a long time before contacting Qian Peiqing.

Zhong Jia’s need to seize the initiative might stem from that fever too—afraid to take medicine without understanding the label, she huddled under the covers on the bed, enduring it passively. The wait cost her a lifelong price.

Every gain has its loss. Zhong Jia lost hearing in one ear but gained a carefree childhood at her grandmother’s side.

Hearing impairment did pose significant hurdles for a singing career, and some voices around her said she’d go even further with normal hearing. Zhong Jia was an optimist, rarely troubling herself with such nonsense. She brushed off the gossip—talent and effort were what mattered. Having lost half her talent, she made up for it with relentless work day and night.

This rare optimism and open-mindedness among the young subtly enhanced her presence too, making her stand out like a crane among chickens at any event. She exuded a maturity beyond her years, calm and composed, drawing stares even from strangers.

Zhong Jia was hugely popular in the band, with only Chen Kuang—who had competed in countless contests—edging her out. Wa Si was too taciturn; once she finished drumming, she’d just giggle vacantly. Ju Zai had no interest in fan service, cradling her erhu like an ice queen, earning plenty of sneers.

After debuting, Zhong Jia deleted her old Weibo account; the company set up a new one, and fans poured in. Looks didn’t matter much for singers, but being attractive was a bonus—especially now that she was acting. Plenty of marketing accounts hyped her as a potential all-round idol in film, music, and TV.

The hype was overblown; anyone could tell Fangtang Entertainment wasn’t behind it. But if the promise fell through, Zhong Jia would be the one mocked. Netizens didn’t care which company backed those accounts.

Shi Heng figured young people loved their phones—maybe confiscate it for half a month to let her focus. But no need; in costume, it was inconvenient, so Zhong Jia left her phone with A Cha, only playing a few rounds of Fight the Landlord during lunch breaks to unwind.

She had been on set for over ten days, and her Weibo was still stuck on the first post: a photo A Cha took on the plane. A knit cap covered her wispy bangs; her “yeah!” gesture hid her eyes, the expression and pose pure cocky charm.

In this era, cocky kids had a market for their cockiness. Zhong Jia drew in heaps of casual passersby, and Shi Heng’s business talks went smoothly—even the scammy ones were willing to try.

At lunch with boxed meals, Shi Heng came over to remind Zhong Jia to post the pre-edited lipstick promo in the group chat later. She had fan photos too—her Yanjing days weren’t just classes; she had plenty of stock.

Zhong Jia said, “Okay.”

The manager took a few steps, then turned back. The wind was strong; he squinted as he lit a cigarette. “Eat more. Don’t pick at it like a cat, or fans will say the company starves you.”

Another distracted “Okay.”

Shi Heng sighed and shot A Cha a look before leaving.

A Cha looked helpless too—she couldn’t very well force-feed her. When Zhong Jia got serious, she entered a trance-like state. If she recorded a vlog, it might snag her some career fans.

They shot the kiss scene early to help the leads bond quickly. Afterward, Nong Siqing reordered the shots to follow the story mostly chronologically: from Ruan Tinglai arriving at Chunhe Alley, the three-wheeler passing Kong Can’s barbershop, the two arguing over the last half-roast duck at the market…

Zhong Jia knew Nong Siqing was accommodating her. Jumping timelines would be tough for a film newbie like her.

But it disrupted the natural flow, taxing the crew with constant transitions. Zhong Jia didn’t want to burden the whole production—and besides, once she adapted, Nong Siqing wouldn’t indulge her forever.

It was inevitable sooner or later, so a few days ago, Zhong Jia had approached the director herself. She explained she was the type to rebound from rock bottom—too much comfort sapped her drive, while adversity spurred faster growth.

Nong Siqing’s gaze held more approval.

Kong Can was restless by nature, inherently unsettled. Poverty made survival mere scraping by; every step from here to there—still in the same province—made her heart race more vividly.

On the school music festival stage, Zhong Jia’s bouncing figure had given Nong Siqing a similar vibe: like lush, upward-climbing vines. Looks were secondary—she resembled Qiao Yingqiu, but aside from the sharp, handsome eyes from Zhong Kefei, her features were too subdued overall.

The director smiled. “Alright then. We’ll follow my schedule from here on. Don’t cry when the time comes.”

That morning, they jumped to the story’s later acts.

Kong Can’s mindset here was utterly different from before. Zhong Jia had analyzed it, but her acting talent fell short. In front of Xie Yingnian, she was utterly crushed—even a passable take looked like a fail.

They finally nailed one, only to stumble again.

It was mealtime now, and Zhong Jia had zero appetite.

This was the barbershop scene—NG’d who knows how many times. No dialogue; extras milled about in character. It was just Kong Can’s daily routine.

During editing, Nong Siqing wasn’t even sure whether to include it. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision on her part, extending from the hair-washing scene. She even mentioned that Zhong Jia would need to head into the studio later to record a few narration segments.

There was no script for the narration. Nong Siqing had simply told her, “You’re Kong Can. Come up with it yourself.”

Zhong Jia figured that if this kept happening a few more times, she could finally confirm her suspicion: there was no point in asking at all.

Nong Siqing was a director who gave her actors a great deal of freedom. She provided no templates, no standards. Even if the lines weren’t perfect, it didn’t matter. All she wanted was that elusive, indescribable feeling.

It was just like back when she’d scoured the land from south to north for the casting of Reed Shoal Moon. She found established actors in the industry too worldly, and even child stars had been tainted by their environment over time. What she needed was a true newcomer—someone who’d never acted before, not from a formal drama school. A blank sheet of paper for her to paint on. And that wasn’t all; the most crucial—and most unreliable—criterion was that they had to click with her on sight.

She’d spent over half a year on it and found nothing.

There were a few barely suitable backups, but Nong Siqing refused to compromise. Her longtime friend and producer dragged her to a night market for some food to lift her spirits and talk her out of being so picky. “Good enough is good enough,” he said. “It’s not like the golden age of Hong Kong cinema anymore. Out of over a billion people, how many Xie Yuyaos can there be?”

The Xie Yuyao he mentioned had entered the industry to pay off her father’s debts. She’d starred in countless classic films and risen so smoothly that she was just one dramatic rise-and-fall legend away from superstardom. Unfortunately, that legend’s downfall had been bizarre. First came the whirlwind marriage and divorce with genius screenwriter Zhao Yangguang, followed by her sudden retirement and relocation to Canada.

The once-glamorous beauty had become a nostalgic tearjerker from the era of face-licking fans, with stan bots posting her photo grids every few days—bright eyes and white teeth, captivating in every glance. The comments below were full of howling fans still pining for her.

Nong Siqing hadn’t said a word, in no mood to respond.

The night market bustled with people. It was peak lobster season, and roadside stalls had massive woks over roaring flames on gas stoves. With a sizzle, hot oil met spices, accompanied by the hiss of beer cans opening.

That was where she met Xie Yingnian.

The girl was dressed plainly—a white T-shirt with a black waterproof work apron tied over it—briskly scrubbing the lobsters.

Over a decade had passed since then, and Xie Yingnian’s circumstances were worlds apart now. But the marks left by time were like flying gravel; no one escaped unscathed. Zhou Chun could still spot faint echoes of that girl in her. These days, though, she was shrouded in endless dust and sand. Her resilience and vibrancy weren’t what they used to be.

Some things hadn’t changed at all. For instance, Xie Yingnian still had a knack for courting trouble, doomed to stumble endlessly into the pit that was her little sister.

Before fading from the spotlight, Xie Yingnian had already taken few jobs. Good scripts were rare, and without a role she loved, she’d rather stay idle.

Her love for film was visibly a career, not a passion. Otherwise, with her sweep of domestic awards, she would’ve gone international instead of climbing Xin Ting Mountain and redefining the pinnacle on her own terms.

Her fans had long prepared for her potential disappearance. Her social media was nothing but ads. Even in the early days before online outrage went extreme, she shared nothing personal with the world, rarely revealing her true self.

Forget pandering to fans—she probably didn’t care about those strangers filling their voids with imagined sentiments.

Still, those fans were curious. From a whirlwind of scandalous romances to suddenly stepping into the Daoist path—what on earth had Xie Yingnian gone through in recent years?

Even Zhou Chun, Xie Yingnian’s manager, knew little. She managed other artists too, signed under Xie Yingnian’s Studio. After wrapping one schedule, she’d detoured to Chongxiang just to placate the boss.

She glanced at Xie Yingnian’s screen. The actress had sent several messages to a contact saved as “Little Cat”:

Eat your meals properly.

If you don’t get it, just come ask. Why are you avoiding me?

Oh, right—the IOU note still needs to be drawn up, doesn’t it?

“You’ve gotten addicted to playing mom, huh? Even nagging about meals?” Zhou Chun grumbled, still resentful of her own role as “Zhou Zhou the Secretary,” taking the chance to poke fun at the self-sculpted Ms. Xie.

Xie Yingnian sighed. “Come on, cut it out. If you keep calling me that, I won’t even dare film the bed scene in a few days. I won’t be able to get past that mental hurdle.”

That tone of yours doesn’t sound hesitant at all.

Jujiu let out a tsk. She saw Zhong Jia glance back at them, so Xie Yingnian just smiled and waved her phone. The young actress immediately turned away and obediently picked up her boxed lunch.

Jujiu: “…”

Am I the weird one here? That outdoor-dom vibe is seriously strong.

But if it were her, she’d probably find this Xie woman annoying as hell.

Zhong Jia’s actual thoughts, however, were: Does Xie Yingnian really like that song so much? I haven’t even sung it all the way through. The time fans requested it, I didn’t finish—the barrage of comments was too embarrassing.

Hmm, but since Xie Yingnian likes hearing it, I’ll practice it properly.

~~~

【Side Story · Family Bonds】

Before sending Zhong Jia off, Qiao Yingqiu took her for Kaifeng cuisine. Zhong Jia ate agonizingly slowly, nibbling a single french fry over several bites before finishing it. Sitting on her stool, she didn’t dare swing her little legs.

They took nearly two hours like that. When Zhong Jia clearly couldn’t eat another bite, Qiao Yingqiu finally got up to pay.

As they stepped outside the shop, the little one—who’d just been discharged from the hospital—clung to Qiao Yingqiu’s legs. Zhong Jia had started crying without a word, her tears wetting her lashes, which in turn dampened Qiao Yingqiu’s pants.

Qiao Yingqiu was somewhat moved but still spoke coldly: “What are you doing?”

Zhong Jia sniffled. “Mommy.”

Qiao Yingqiu looked away. “Call me that again, and what? Who’s your mom?”

Zhong Jia hesitated, then mimicked her grandma’s tone. “Qiuqiu.”

Qiao Yingqiu: “…”

Before Qiao Yingqiu could snap, Zhong Jia nuzzled her mom’s pant leg, choking out, “I’ll be good from now on. No more getting sick and bothering you. Please don’t make me leave, okay?”

For the first time, Qiao Yingqiu understood how even raising a pet could foster feelings. She nearly broke.

That day, feeling she couldn’t be a proper mom, Qiao Yingqiu heartlessly lured Zhong Jia into the car with a milk ice cream.

Years later, when Zhong Jia saw Qiao Yingqiu again, it was at her funeral—a box of ashes and a tombstone.