Xie Yingnian tried a few more times, but it was still a struggle. She thought of how some male actors couldn’t even lift their female co-stars, turning domineering CEO scenes into awkward mutual support acts that looked like help between the disabled. The crew on set didn’t find it strange anymore.
The reason they were surprised was the same as Nong Siqing’s.
More than a decade ago, the domestic beauty standards weren’t all pale, skinny, and youthful, but fitness culture hadn’t taken off either. Back then, tastes were diverse, and even plastic surgery trends at hospitals varied widely.
Xie Yingnian’s debut was on the big screen. That steamy scene had audiences drooling regardless of orientation. The newcomer actress lay sideways on the edge of the bathtub, her back to the camera, her figure shrouded in mist. Even without seeing her face, everyone knew she was a beauty— with healthy pale skin, long legs, and a slim waist, like a model from a classical oil painting.
The later bed scenes were turned into GIFs. The solo shots were used by fitness influencers as bait for glute and back workouts. Netizens who talked big but did nothing sighed in envy before adding them to their digital harems.
At eighteen, Xie Yingnian’s breasts were already stunning, rivaling Victoria’s Secret models. And that was just the start— in the bed scene where she and Qiao Yingqiu licked each other, her abs made frequent appearances, and the lines of her leg muscles exuded raw power.
If this were today, with fanfic culture booming, Xie Yingnian would be a insatiable vixen in the hands of those smut writers, leaving Qiao Yingqiu flooded one moment and parched the next.
Of course, that body wasn’t built overnight. During the film’s roadshow and later interviews, Xie Yingnian addressed the topic multiple times. She’d been on her school’s special training team from elementary through middle school— practically a semi-athlete— mainly practicing high jump, though she was decent at long-distance running too.
High school brought academics, halting her training, but the foundation was solid, and she had the theory down. Even casual workouts yielded twice the results for her compared to average people.
So how come she couldn’t lift this ninety-pound slip of a girl now?
What on earth had happened to Xie Yingnian during her years away from the spotlight?
“Never mind. Let’s stick with the earlier plan. I didn’t lock you into anything specific— just go by feel and try it once.” Nong Siqing took a sip of tea and instructed the assistant director to prepare.
Yuan Yuan’s bedroom had a scene too. The little girl had a nightmare, crying out for Mommy. It woke the two lovers next door, who were in the heat of passion.
Nong Siqing’s directions to Ai Yilan were straightforward. For this part, she simply told her: You need to sleep, wake up crying from the nightmare, go out looking for Mommy when she doesn’t answer. You open the door and see Sister Kong Can there too. The bed’s a mess, and both Mommy and her have strange looks on their faces.
You rub your eyes, and slowly stop crying.
As for the two leads, Xie Yingnian was reliable as ever. Zhong Jia had gotten past her initial awkwardness and was easing into the role. Nong Siqing let things flow naturally, rarely interfering even if her own understanding of the characters differed from the actors’.
Actors could feel if the emotional beats were right— because they embodied the role.
Nong Siqing only discussed the level of exposure with Zhong Jia. Both women would be down to their underwear, slipping under the covers to find the right angles. It would look like the real thing without going overboard— censors wouldn’t pass it anyway, and stripping alone couldn’t carry the atmosphere. The actors had to be fully immersed.
She also mentioned clearing the set. Everyone except essential personnel had to leave the room.
“Any problems?” Nong Siqing looked at Zhong Jia.
In the past, she wouldn’t have asked. She assumed actors should devote themselves body and soul to the film. But these days, the industry was warped. Actors were treated like precious commodities, backed by traffic or capital. She’d even heard a male idol’s on-screen first kiss cost a third of the production budget. On her set, he’d be shown the door.
Zhong Jia’s throat felt dry as she replied, “No problems.”
She had her hair in a loose low ponytail, the band barely holding back her silky strands. They would probably fall loose soon.
She glanced at Xie Yingnian a few steps away. The makeup artist was still adjusting, making her look convincingly haggard. Or maybe it was just the weathered aura this woman carried naturally, which was why she’d hesitated so long during the rehearsal.
Reluctant to bite down.
When her teeth brushed Xie Yingnian’s upturned neck, Zhong Jia recalled some trivia she’d heard somewhere: the neck had arteries and veins; too intense kissing or biting could be fatal. Her teeth grazed the skin, then stopped.
In that instant of pulling back, a soft palm cupped the back of her head. Xie Yingnian leaned against the wall, applying gentle pressure to force the hesitant girl to complete the bite. The motion flowed seamlessly— to outsiders, it looked like choreographed interplay.
“What are you afraid of?” Xie Yingnian released her hand. Two faint teeth marks bloomed on her neck.
Nong Siqing had walked off, saying to repeat it just like that next time, with Zhong Jia taking more initiative. She knew the scene.
A person’s personality had many facets, but since joining the production, this unfamiliar side of herself felt alien. Zhong Jia sometimes thought back to that coffee shop conversation with Nong Siqing, where she’d said she didn’t care either way. It was only two months ago, yet it felt like another lifetime.
From indifference to attachment— thanks to the script supervisor sister’s example, she’d realized her unease was all for the woman before her.
Zhong Jia licked her lips, eyes half-lowered. “I think it’ll hurt.”
Xie Yingnian said, “You don’t seem like someone afraid of pain.”
As the words left her mouth, she realized they’d revealed how well she knew Zhong Jia. Luckily, the girl seemed distracted and probably hadn’t noticed.
“I’m afraid you’ll hurt,” Zhong Jia whispered.
Xie Yingnian saw she was thoughtful like that, but also overly cautious— afraid her natural kindness would be mistaken for flirtation. She seemed used to being on her own island, radiating goodwill from afar.
That goodwill, mixed with Zhou Chun’s concerns, doused the skeptical Xie Yingnian in cold clarity. She was adrift in the water, afraid to reach shore. How many years of tectonic shifts would it take for two islands to draw close? It was an unsolvable riddle.
She wasn’t the young woman from before. Her compassion remained, but the gold leaf on this bodhisattva statue had flaked away, leaving a clay figure that dissolved in water— unable to save herself, let alone others.
A few years earlier, before nightmares ensnared her, Xie Yingnian might have let them both drown in the story, salvaging a shard from unwavering devotion. Even contrived romance could fill her broken genes, painting a pumpkin into a century of harmony.
But fate had toyed with her too many times. Now she refused to trust destiny, fearing she’d become a pawn of the gods again.
Xie Yingnian sensed Zhong Jia truly wanted to get close. In that moment, she urgently reined in her perceptions, letting those three words stay surface-level. She restrained herself from overthinking.
No heartache. No pity. No warming solace.
“If you don’t want me to hurt, then bite like that when we film.” Xie Yingnian walked past Zhong Jia to find the makeup artist.
Zhong Jia turned, watching the woman’s back— her long coat revealing a glimpse of pale calf. A breeze slipped through the window, carrying traces of her scent in the air.
It was back-to-summer weather, walls and floors beading with sweat like this rundown building staggering out of last year’s heat, still drenched in April.
Ruan Ting’s forehead glistened with clammy sweat. She lay on the bed with eyes squeezed shut, her mind flashing through old scenes. Was it a dream, or was she feverish and delirious?
The jumbled images tormented her: wedding guests filling the hall one moment, then home in chaos, the drunken man smashing her head open before unzipping his pants and forcing her to kneel…
Ruan Ting had once been unable to bear hardship or injustice. But her husband knew how to break her. Marriage was one lock; the child another. After the beatings came written promises. Both families turned a blind eye— even her mother urged her on: Women endure this after marriage. Men mature late; tough it out a few years.
What about Yuan Yuan if you divorce? Whoever she lives with, do you want her scorned by a stepdad or abused by a stepmom?
With that, her mother rose to fetch foot-washing water for her husband.
In the open courtyard, a chill wind raised goosebumps on Ruan Ting’s back as she watched her mother’s weary figure. She’d endured to this age, and things still weren’t better.
Ruan Ting ignored the advice and insisted on divorce, but the process dragged on with endless obstacles. Finally, a friend explained: her husband had paid off people; her family had pulled strings. No one was on her side.
Ruan Ting found it absurd. Before marriage, they’d painted paradise; now even her freedom was gone. Dress lightly and he’d slap her, calling her slutty, accusing her of seducing others outside. But on their blind date, she hadn’t bundled in a coat— why no complaints then?
The best, prettiest woman became worthless chaff once tied to daily grind. What wasn’t served up was most tempting.
So Gou Jiaxun cheated. The price? Another promise paper.
Ruan Ting couldn’t take it anymore, unwilling to wait for a sluggish court ruling. She took Yuan Yuan and fled their hometown, starting a life of reluctant wandering.
Roughly speaking, this stay in Chongxiang was unusually long— half a year already. Even Yuan Yuan was asking, “Mommy, why don’t we go travel somewhere else?”
Yuan Yuan had no idea what set tourism apart from running away. She also didn’t know that her parents’ marriage had long since developed cracks. Ruan Ting always timed things perfectly for Gou Jiaxun’s business dinners and socializing, dropping Yuan Yuan off at her grandfather’s house early so that the man’s drunken antics wouldn’t leave any psychological scars on an innocent child.
She would occasionally ask about her dad and got the reply that he was away on a business trip. With a child’s petulance, she would grumble that it had been so long already.
Ruan Ting would stroke the back of Yuan Yuan’s neck, figuring she’d tell her daughter the truth once she was a bit older.
Why not go somewhere else?
Why…
Someone smoothed the furrow between her brows. Ruan Ting had already heard the footsteps. She was utterly exhausted, her eyelids too heavy to lift, but she knew that someone else had been bustling around all day.
Coaxing the child, doing the housework—Kong Can moved through the home like its true mistress.
Ruan Ting, by contrast, had turned into the lazy layabout.
All because she was sick. All because she had spent the day playing the role of Gou Jiaxun.
“How did you get hurt?” Ruan Ting asked, taking hold of the girl’s slender wrist. The texture of the ointment made her eyes snap open.
Kong Can tried to pull away but couldn’t, so she explained, “I slipped while taking out the trash. The stairs were all wet. You and Yuan Yuan need to be careful too.”
The bedroom had been tidied to perfection. The clothes that were usually flung haphazardly over the chair had been neatly folded and put away in the closet. Even the trash bin had a fresh plastic liner. Ruan Ting withdrew her gaze and rolled onto her side, scooting closer to Kong Can. “Does it hurt?”
“Mm…” Kong Can started to say it didn’t, but Ruan Ting’s gentle gaze softened her resolve, and the words came out differently. “It hurts.”
“You’re hurt, and you still did all this work for me? You should’ve just come and sat with me.”
“I like doing these things for you.”
Ruan Ting gazed at Kong Can’s face, which was flushed red, and thought that playing Gou Jiaxun felt wonderful. No wonder every man wanted to marry a woman. She hadn’t even been in the role long, and already she felt utterly indolent, her very bones gone lazy and loose.
But this girl—the one indulging her in the Gou Jiaxun role—was injured and still pitching in with the chores. Why didn’t the Gou Jiaxuns of the world know how to cherish their women?
She probably couldn’t keep playing Gou Jiaxun much longer.
The caramel-hued sunset cast its lingering glow through the window, the last warmth before nightfall. Ruan Ting wouldn’t let Kong Can pull her hand back. She held those slender bones, so like her own, and pressed her lips gently to the heavily medicated plaster.
Kong Can bowed her head and heard Ruan Ting murmur in the same soothing tone she used with the child: “Pain, pain, go away.”
