Zhong Jia lowered her head and wrote her name. The company had designed several signature styles for her, and she had chosen the one with flowing strokes and a little heart. But the signature she put on the IOU was in her everyday handwriting—a soft, rounded script that resembled a childish font.
They say that a person’s handwriting reveals their true nature, and Zhong Jia’s childlike side was buried deep. Xie Yingnian gazed at her calm profile. Those phoenix eyes had slightly elongated corners from which a wealth of emotions slowly flowed, their subtle upward curve lingering like the final period at the end of a long sentence.
Nong Siqing loved to linger on Zhong Jia in slow motion, zooming in on her eyes from the side. It was pleasing to the eye at the very least, but it also made it easy to immerse oneself in the role of the character—to believe in that unwitting moment of heart-fluttering attraction when she first laid eyes on Ruan Ting in the rain.
It was a pity that once the cameras stopped rolling, the actress snapped back to her true self. Her outlook on life was far too independent, devoid of the naivety and softness that came with being twenty years old. Eyes like those—seductive and full of hidden allure—looked the same whether on a man’s face or a woman’s. Zhong Kefei was a perfect example. Zhong Jia had inherited her father’s brows and eyes, but not his shameless ability to use his looks to charm women.
Instead, she had been the one deceived by a woman pushing thirty, signing the IOU as if it were a deed of servitude. What had started as her taking the initiative turned passive in an instant, leaving her in a submissive position. After a few seconds of hesitation, she signed with resolute finality and handed it over as if marching to her death.
Zhong Jia’s innate pride was on full display even offstage. Her musical talent ensured she would never lead an ordinary life, and with stardom’s glow enveloping her—shining brightly yet burning hot—one couldn’t help but hope she would climb even higher. To look up at her, to accompany her in crafting a legend, would be the greatest honor.
Yet those heaven-blessed eyes of hers couldn’t muster a hint of vulnerability. Zhong Jia held the IOU—informal from the paper it was printed on to its haphazard format—and extended it to Xie Yingnian. Her demeanor was neither servile nor arrogant, carrying a touch of aloof stubbornness.
From a distance, Jujiu watched the scene unfold. Xie Yingnian lounged casually, her arm draped over the back of her chair, her pale right hand idly twirling her prayer beads with leisurely poise.
Jujiu thought that this kind of acting was fine on set, but why did it spill over into real life? First the stunt double bit, then the stepmom routine, and now she was playing the role of a pimp forcing an innocent into vice.
The IOU was ridiculously childish, really—just a random sheet of paper she’d grabbed from the props guy. Zhong Jia didn’t even look like the gullible type, so how had she failed to notice that the woman in front of her was just toying with her?
Xie Yingnian’s bad reputation stemmed from her love life, but she had plenty of praiseworthy qualities elsewhere. She was generous and kindhearted, helping out countless people in the industry with money or by pulling strings for resources. Yet she never asked for IOUs or kept track of debts, treating it all as a simple favor.
Suddenly, this pairing felt hard to root for. Jujiu could clearly sense that her own artist’s interest in Zhong Jia was the highest it had been in years, leaving her with mixed feelings of joy and worry.
Zhou Chun, with her bobbed hair and the sharp features of a high-powered executive, shared the sentiment. She was leaving today and had been catching up with old friends on set when she stumbled upon this unexpected scene.
It reminded her of the old days.
A once-in-a-lifetime talent like Xie Yingnian’s would have others grinning from ear to ear, but Zhou Chun—ever the overachiever riding the wave of industry competition—had spent her early years tossing and turning sleeplessly at night, terrified that the stardom in her grasp might prove to be just a fleeting shooting star.
In the end, all that worry had been for nothing. She had turned herself into the anxious eunuch fretting while the emperor remained unconcerned—and not just any eunuch, but one at the pinnacle of the palace.
Xie Yingnian’s natural talent for acting was so absurd it bordered on ridiculous; those were the only words Zhou Chun could summon to describe it.
But it wasn’t as if Xie Yingnian took her career lightly. She acted whatever role she played to perfection, thanks not just to talent but to a willingness to suffer for her craft. In war films, she’d nearly been blinded by flying debris from an explosion. In wuxia flicks, she never used a stunt double, gritting her teeth through severe back injuries with cortisone shots before performing. In action thrillers, she’d leap from high-rises in a single bound…
In her early twenties, during her most prolific years, she was in and out of hospitals constantly, accumulating a body full of injuries.
Those years, Xie Yingnian’s state of mind had been off. It was as if she were testing just how tough her life could be. Looking back, it felt like a grand fireworks display—brilliant and tragic. Zhou Chun had no idea who it was all for and lived in fear that Xie Yingnian’s luck would run out one day, leading to her untimely end.
When the fireworks finally faded, it was as if they had drained Xie Yingnian’s vitality. Her filming schedule grew sparse, her energy dimmed, and the dark circles under her eyes required the best concealers to hide.
Zhou Chun figured there were two huge words stamped on her forehead: “kidney deficiency.” Hospital checks turned up nothing, and her private life wasn’t the scandalous mess the rumors made it out to be. Over the years, she’d only dated two or three people, and every breakup boiled down to the same reason—they couldn’t handle her sexual frigidity and low libido.
So what kind of “kidney deficiency” was that?
Zhou Chun puzzled over it endlessly. With Xie Yingnian’s former athletic build—practically that of a semi-pro athlete—why had she suddenly changed? Zhou Chun suspected it had something to do with the prayer beads on her wrist; the timing lined up. But Xie Yingnian denied it.
When her manager started getting paranoid and suggested she might be keeping some kind of kuman thong spirit, Xie Yingnian rolled her eyes and snapped that she was being ridiculous.
Xie Yingnian was indeed a rare night-blooming epiphyllum, but Zhou Chun always imagined her planted at the summit of a dormant volcano. With every breath, the magma churned deep within the mountain. In the moment of eruption, that flower would warp unpredictably amid the scorching torrent.
All she needed was a spark.
Xie Yingnian accepted the IOU and said something else. Zhong Jia smiled, and the two of them seemed to be chatting amiably.
Zhou Chun looked away and beckoned Jujiu into an empty room nearby. She wanted some answers.
During the break for the next setup, Xie Yingnian wore a down jacket over a water-blue long skirt with a side slit—it was an out-of-season scene. Ruan Ting, who had relocated to Chunhe Alley, hadn’t bothered adapting to local customs. She had no intention of staying long. To escape her persistent husband with his powerful connections, she had fled from northern China to the southwest, and soon she might head northwest.
She picked places at random, like this backwater town of Chongxiang—a nowhere spot she’d never even heard of before. Careful planning and meticulous schemes would only make it easier for them to be tracked down.
Ruan Ting had severed ties with her past and migrated tirelessly with her daughter, like a footless bird in endless flight. Yet Chongxiang’s relentless rains had soaked her wings. She knew that stopping meant drowning, but the bird still hovered above Chunhe Alley No. 32. A gust of the mountain city’s damp wind sent her plummeting straight into that building, dooming her to a lifetime mistake—and Kong Can’s as well.
She never left that small county.
In the story, Ruan Ting had few friends nearby. She kept to herself, and the neighbors gossiped endlessly: the woman had come from who-knows-where, no man in sight yet dragging along a daughter, dressed in flashy, revealing outfits with a free-spirited attitude. Who knew—maybe she’d been in the world’s oldest profession, had the kid, and gone straight.
On Ruan Ting, that side-slit long skirt carried the allure of a vixen, turning heads left and right. Marriage and motherhood hadn’t made her give up her freedom to dress as she pleased; she wore whatever made her look best.
The same dress on Xie Yingnian lost all that flavor, coming off as bland and ascetic, like something born of a strict vegetarian diet. Her face showed no emotion.
But some people were into exactly that—the vagueness invited fantasy and projection. Old fans came and went, new ones arrived, and her dream-girl fandom kept growing. Many had fallen for her in the behind-the-scenes footage from Reed Shoal Moon. At eighteen, Xie Yingnian’s face was fresh and youthful, yet she drew those words from the much older Qiao Yingqiu: “She’s so good at taking care of people. I really depend on her.” And she said it right in front of the reporters.
That intoxicating blend of younger and older dynamics reached its peak in the instant Xie Yingnian ducked her head in a shy smile. It felt as if even the sunlight outside favored her—the room half in shadow, dust motes vanishing, save for one soft beam slanting in to illuminate her face.
The few minutes of that interview produced countless iconic photos. With tags like “dysfunctional marriage” and “ironclad straight woman,” she even sparked shipping fever among die-hard yuri fans like Qiao Yingqiu, who rarely paired up with women.
The pen that had been in Zhong Jia’s hand moments ago was now in Xie Yingnian’s. She had folded the IOU and tucked it into her palm while watching the girl rummage through her bag and pull out a thick stack of photos.
“I have a roommate who’s a huge fan of yours. If it’s not too much trouble, could you sign a few for her…?” The photos spread across the table were clearly more than “a few.” Zhong Jia paused. “Uh, I didn’t realize she’d sent so many.”
She probably had decision paralysis; even when the four of them went to the cafeteria together, the others would have sat down to eat while this one still dithered between windows.
Zhong Jia said, “Just pick a few to sign. Two or three is fine.”
Seeing no response from Xie Yingnian, she grew uneasy and backpedaled. “Even one is okay.”
Xie Yingnian set down the pen and slipped the prayer beads back onto her wrist. This could have waited, but she chose this moment, leaving Zhong Jia to awkwardly gather up the photos. Zhong Jia didn’t have much experience with autographs and wondered if someone at Xie Yingnian’s level got tired of signing them. There had to be a reason for refusing.
“Give them all to me. I’ll sign them later and get them back to you.” As she spoke, Xie Yingnian watched new light flood into Zhong Jia’s eyes.
It had gone from “a few” to “one” to seemingly nothing—all in less than half a minute. Who knew what was going through that head of hers? Xie Yingnian couldn’t help but smile.
If she’d agreed right away, it probably would have just been a polite “thank you.”
The props assistant came panting over to announce that the next scene’s set was ready.
Zhong Jia murmured an acknowledgment. She stole a glance at the composed Xie Yingnian before quickly looking away, then rose with her head down to head to makeup.
She figured Xie Yingnian seemed calm and that she herself had played it cool too—but unfortunately, her assistant saw right through her the moment she stepped into the makeup room.
A Cha’s eyes widened. “Tiantian, why are your ears so red?”
The makeup artist had overheard and glanced toward the door with a smile. “Rehearsing with Teacher Xie? The next scene must be tough to film. They might cut a lot for the censors, and Director Nong will clear the set anyway, so don’t be too nervous.”
The production group chat had all the details, making it easy for the various departments to stay on track. The next scene was Ruan Ting sick at home, with Kong Can coming to take care of her. After the two poured their hearts out to each other, they made love, while Yuan Yuan was asleep in the second bedroom.
Zhong Jia said thanks and walked over to the sister with the floral arm tattoo. She sat down in the makeup chair.
The makeup artist sister was quite the chatterbox, but today she keenly sensed that the fresh-faced beauty was off and didn’t start prattling on. Instead, she just hummed a tune to herself. It was a hit song from an internet singer who’d blown up in the past couple of years. The female singer was Vegetable Dumpling. Last year, some platform had invited her to their online Spring Festival Gala. She’d worn a half-mask onstage, her whole body bundled up tight, but her singing style was truly unique.
As Zhong Jia left the makeup room, she passed a few empty offices. From one came a familiar voice, joined by someone else with a loud tone that was easy to recognize.
It was Xie Yingnian’s manager, Zhou Chun.
Knowing eavesdropping was wrong, Zhong Jia couldn’t help slowing her steps, driven by curiosity—she thought she’d heard her own name.
But she passed by at the worst moment; the conversation inside was already winding down. Zhou Chun sighed. “Forget it, I’m done trying to talk sense into you. You never listen anyway.”
Zhong Jia: “…”
Why did Zhou Chun make Xie Yingnian sound like some foolish tyrant?
The foolish tyrant Xie Yingnian: “She’s very well-behaved.”
Who was “she”? Zhong Jia crept forward at a snail’s pace, straining to listen, afraid she’d miss something crucial if her hearing failed her. Xie Yingnian went on, “Didn’t you say the same thing? Why the sudden grudge against Zhong Jia?”
So she was talking about me. Xie Yingnian thinks I’m well-behaved?
Zhong Jia’s ears conveniently filtered out words like “grudge.” She’d been praised for her looks and musical talent her whole life, so she was pretty immune to it by now. But this time, it felt like a long-lost compliment, and the corners of her mouth curved up. Her steps turned bouncy.
At the corner, she suddenly stopped. Wait, something wasn’t right. If Xie Yingnian was the foolish tyrant, then what role did that make her?
And she didn’t even know Zhou Chun before. Why would Zhou Chun think she was well-behaved?
