Chapter 18: Drawing Closer to the Answer

The scene on the monitor was breathtakingly beautiful, worthy of admiration. The camera captured it from the side of the bed, the two women’s backs framed against a sunset glowing crimson. The room lights had not yet been turned on, and an April breeze sent the calendar on the wall fluttering toward future days.

Kong Can’s hand received a gentle kiss from Ruan Ting. They gazed at each other in silence, their unspoken emotions flowing wordlessly through their eyes.

Even a straight girl like A Cha looked ready to swoon. She clutched the sleeve of the person beside her, exclaiming excitedly, “Can Teacher Xie’s voice really be this gentle? I’m so happy! What’s happening?!”

The person next to her remained unmoved. A Cha turned around. “Jujiu… uh, Brother Shi…”

Shi Heng immediately let his sleeve drop. The little assistant shrank back at the sight of him, which made sense. Rumors had been swirling around the company before—he’d thought A Cha was hopeless at looking after artists and had given her a fierce dressing-down right off the bat, yelling and laying down the law.

“I’ll head out first since I can’t stick around later. Remember to go in right away and help her get dressed.”

Maybe it was because he had a daughter of his own, but Shi Heng approached these things with a fatherly mindset. He wasn’t as laid-back as Zhong Jia. When the kid had gifted herself semi-nude art photos as an eighteen-year-old coming-of-age present, he’d nearly blown a fuse.

Debuting changed everything. That photo set had only circulated in a small circle back then, maybe a few hundred people. Now it was everywhere online, with netizens praising her figure to the skies—”cutie pie, come give us a hug” and the like—which made Shi Heng look like some backward feudal holdout. Zhong Jia had even gotten a solid knock on the head from him for it.

The photos were out of their hands now. While Shi Heng was there with the team, they tidied up some old messes too—deleting whatever they could from the forums. Nothing too scandalous, but Zhong Jia was such a chatterbox that the team ended up jotting down marketing points while scrubbing posts, pulling all-nighters for days.

All that expressiveness of hers probably went into her writing. For Mid-Autumn Festival, she’d penned a heartfelt essay on five-nut mooncakes. You might think she loved eating them or something, but by the end, she admitted she didn’t like them either—she just felt sorry for the poor things.

What a quirky kid.

But she was genuinely likable. Pretty enough to earn instant favoritism from her looks alone, and hardworking to boot. She still lacked a little polish as an actress, but she was clearly chasing after the kind of steady, reliable idol who made you feel secure.

Shi Heng was only sticking around the set for a few more days. He’d been with the crew for over half a month already and felt confident enough to leave. He had business deals to negotiate back in Yanjing, plus a music variety show had come knocking. Zhong Jia was still in school, too, so he’d have to sort things out there.

After watching for a while, he’d decided A Cha was more than capable. Zhong Jia was plenty self-sufficient; no need for an extra personal assistant.

“Oh, right—I ordered a box of snacks online. It’ll arrive in a couple of days. Share them around, but save the milk tablets and yogurt for Zhong Jia. Doesn’t she love milk?” Shi Heng waved casually and walked off.

Jujiu let out a snort of laughter. “Your Brother Shi’s pretty funny, you know? A big guy like him talking about milk without worrying about how it’ll sound.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘milk’?” A Cha didn’t catch on.

Jujiu just grinned and said nothing. Shipping couples could spread from person to person, and that kind of unspoken rapport could be built up too.

A Cha got it then, her face twisting in disgust. “Ugh, why’d you have to go there? Tiantian just likes dairy products.”

Jujiu sighed dramatically. “Teacher Xie’s got such a perfect bust. Tiantian’s lucky she gets to ‘enjoy’ it while filming.”

The actor playing Gou Jiaxun was Jiang Fuwen, a solid performer of the sort whose characters often overshadowed the man himself. His scenes were mostly flashbacks and the big climactic moments. He was there that day, sitting next to Nong Siqing.

The leads’ scene wrapped up—for that segment alone, they’d done five or six takes. Zhong Jia stood by the door, keeping a deliberate distance. Her eyes were rimmed red. She understood that instant of emotion from Kong Can, and it felt as though she even had an answer now for tumbling into that reverie. Xie Yingnian sat up, and the makeup artist hurried in to touch them up.

“Teacher Xie hasn’t acted in years, but her skills are still top-notch.” Jiang Fuwen had a refined, scholarly look—exactly the contrast Nong Siqing had wanted, the kind of man who seemed like two different people before and after marriage.

Nong Siqing said, “You’re older than her and a senior. Why call her ‘Teacher Xie’?”

Jiang Fuwen smiled. “Age and experience don’t mean much in this business. It’s all about talent. Teacher Xie became a legend with just one movie.”

“You just had bad luck with the timing. If same-sex marriage had been legal sooner, you wouldn’t have gotten blacklisted back then.” Nong Siqing knew all too well how those shifts played out.

Actors like Jiang Fuwen weren’t rare—talents held back by the era. He wasn’t gay himself; he’d starred in a film with explicit content set against a highly sensitive backdrop. The whole production team, from cast to crew, had been barred from working for three years.

He’d sunk so low that he’d ended up teaching performance classes at a vocational school.

The man with his medium-length hair chuckled softly. “Legalization points the way, but there’s still a lot of opposition out there in society.”

The film’s storyboard book lay on the table nearby, the words “The Third Party” on the cover catching her eye. Nong Siqing gazed toward Yuan Yuan’s bedroom, her voice carrying a hint of world-weariness. “Yeah. Public opinion doesn’t shift that easily.”

Filming out-of-season scenes came with its hardships. The door to the small balcony stood open, and the room’s air conditioning wasn’t doing much.

Zhong Jia had thrown on a big coat, but her exposed ankles had gone pale—maybe from the chill. She retied her ponytail, borrowed a cigarette from the makeup artist, and headed out.

“It’s cold out there,” the makeup artist called after her.

Zhong Jia didn’t look back. Her ankles were slim, her silhouette a touch forlorn. “It’s okay, sister. The smoke’s too strong—I don’t want to bother everyone.”

Ai Yilan was probably the only one on set younger than Zhong Jia. She called everyone “brother,” “sister,” “uncle,” or “auntie”—just politeness, but with her looks and sweet voice, it was easy to peg her as a charmer.

It was a stark contrast to Yi Jia onstage, shaved brows and plucking the pipa, positively radiant.

No one had expected Zhong Jia to be like this offscreen.

When she’d first joined the crew, the online rumors had been everywhere. Her wild, unhinged birth mother was dead, but her father was a cold, selfish hardass who’d played the long-suffering live-in son-in-law for years. Lately, business circles were buzzing with talk that Zhong Kefei had maneuvered the family empire—her maternal grandfather’s—into his own hands.

The crew knew bits and pieces of Zhong Jia’s backstory. Following the path of least resistance, they stuck to their jobs and kept their distance, gradually leaving the young woman on her own.

Zhong Jia spent her breaks by herself most of the time, chatting only with her assistant and manager. She never seemed to feel singled out or anything.

Now and then, some temp laborers would sidle up when she was alone, prying about her parents and brother. They were in it for the gossip and the chance to sell tidbits, with zero regard for whether it hurt anyone.

Zhong Jia never got upset or angry. She hadn’t even taken the standard artist training classes, but she managed a pretty convincing manager line: “My manager says no loose talk.”

Once they scattered, her real manager showed up. Shi Heng had that reassuring, fatherly look about him. No sooner had he sat down than a head leaned against his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, handsome?” He knew his artist had loads of hardcore fans online—the kind who idolized her from her features to her stage presence—but in private, she was just a little girl.

Zhong Jia let out a long sigh. “Kinda tired.”

The set was full of all types, eyes everywhere. Shi Heng couldn’t babysit her around the clock or stop every bit of backbiting. As a second-generation star and heiress, she got hammered with claims that she’d bought her way in, that her beat-up old phone was just for show.

The pressure of the role was immense to begin with. Shi Heng had been ready to line up psychological counseling for her, but up till now, this was her first real complaint—just “a bit tired.”

Shi Heng went full dad mode. He’d seen plenty of kids from relatives and friends; he knew what one her age should be like.

This girl was fruit forced to ripen too soon, weathered by wind, sand, snow, and hail. Only under a barrage of ice pellets would she finally whimper that it hurt.

The balcony was narrow, the railing speckled with rust. Once she squatted down, there was barely room for one more person beside her.

The wind outside howled cold, but Zhong Jia found it refreshing. At least her heartbeat slowed, and the scorching blood racing through her cooled bit by bit.

She held a slim women’s cigarette, lighter in hand, but suddenly she didn’t feel like lighting it.

Wouldn’t there be a smell later? Even air freshener might not mask it completely. She remembered that last kiss laced with smoke—she’d loved it, like being completely enveloped by Xie Yingnian. But if the smoke was on her… Xie Yingnian might not like it.

Her thumb paused on the lighter’s click. Zhong Jia realized her thoughts had slipped out of character. This was her and Xie Yingnian—not Kong Can and Ruan Ting.

Zhong Jia tilted her head back, eyes closed, and took a deep breath.

Her mind was a jumble. She pushed through the irritation to sort it out, her nature hating evasion. She even pressed herself, demanding answers.

Inevitably, her thoughts traced back to Qiao Yingqiu’s funeral—the first time she’d met Xie Yingnian. The young star had already rocked the film world, her looks alone mesmerizing enough. Neighborhood gossip had only amplified that allure endlessly.

Same-sex marriage wasn’t even on the legislative table back then. Textbooks clung to outdated ideas long past their expiration date. The post-00s generation had no guidance, just internet culture telling them being gay was trendy, not taboo.

But the older crowd treated it like a dirty secret, full of scorn. To them, affection between the same sex was some wild fairy tale. That rift in perspectives filled Zhong Jia with curiosity. Qiao Yingqiu was distant enough that no slaps would reach her, so she felt free to indulge her endless fascination with her mother’s second love.

All the varied imaginings from every channel took solid form in the cemetery. The woman from the wuxia films who whipped up swirling fallen leaves and sword flowers into the sky was holding nothing but a strawberry lollipop in her hand—just one, as if specially prepared. She bent down and handed it to the rail-thin girl standing beside Qian Peiqing.

She even ruffled the girl’s hair.

Qian Peiqing said, “You’ve worked hard, Little Xie.”

“It’s nothing,” Xie Yingnian replied with a smile.

This fairly splendid funeral had been funded by Qiao Yingqiu’s friends from before her death, with Xie Yingnian covering the lion’s share. She had consulted Qian Peiqing on every detail, handling all matters big and small personally with steady thoughtfulness that made people almost forget she was only twenty years old.

Zhong Jia tucked the lollipop into her pocket and caught the whispers rippling around her—gossip about the urn soon to be laid to rest and the ever-bustling Xie Yingnian.

At eleven years old, she couldn’t grasp the obsessive fervor amid those ambiguous murmurs, the sense that it had to be this woman and no other. But she did feel that Qiao Yingqiu’s second chance at love had bloomed in the right place.

In her eyes, Zhong Kefei had never had much going for him beyond his looks, and even there, Xie Yingnian outshone him.

Putting on crocodile tears at his ex-wife’s gravestone was downright disgusting. Zhong Jia muttered under her breath and earned a scolding from Qian Peiqing. The old woman was a bit stodgy, her face etched with wrinkles and her bones steeped in Confucian virtues.

Then came a wail. Xie Yingnian shoved through the crowd and sent Zhong Kefei flying with a kick. Everyone gasped in shock—no one had expected her to plant a man pushing six feet into the dirt like that. Her leg strength was unreal; no wonder she handled even the toughest stunts in her movies herself, pulling them off with such flair.

Zhong Jia harbored not a shred of fondness for her deadbeat dad. She held back her laugh only to avoid her grandma’s nagging.

That kick from Xie Yingnian didn’t just erase Zhong Jia’s lingering resentment—it planted an inexplicable longing deep inside her. From then on, she found herself drawn to women’s legs. She watched and rewatched the fan-made wuxia montage clips of Xie Yingnian countless times; her year-end recap even noted her looping them deep into the night.

She had liked the top comment in the section: Xie Yingnian’s legs are perfect for stepping on people.

At sixteen, she met Xie Yingnian again.

To earn money for her grandma’s medical bills, Zhong Jia had scrimped on food and gone hungry for days. She finally filled her belly at the late-night snack stall across from the club.

Xie Yingnian ordered her a pile of treats and had the boss whip up a bowl of noodles. She wouldn’t let Zhong Jia have iced soy milk. “You’re eating too fast—iced stuff right now would be bad for your stomach.”

Once she finished, Xie Yingnian walked her to the hospital. They passed a square hosting an open-air music festival, the speakers booming and the screams deafening.

Zhong Jia’s ears were ringing. She barely twitched her hand before Xie Yingnian’s palms clamped firmly over both of them.

Only after they escaped the clamor did Xie Yingnian let go.

Zhong Jia admitted frankly, “It’s fine. My left ear is deaf.”

“And that means you don’t take care of it?” Xie Yingnian didn’t seem surprised at all. She pinched Zhong Jia’s cheek—hard enough to sting, though whether it was punishment for her self-neglect or for haunting a place like that club, Zhong Jia couldn’t tell. “My ears aren’t even half as pretty.”

The cool evening breeze of summer stung at her eyes. Driven by impulse, Zhong Jia rose on tiptoe and buried herself in Xie Yingnian’s arms. The crushing weight of medical bills hadn’t broken her before, but now tears came all too easily.

She understood all too well why Kong Can had fallen for Ruan Ting. That gentleness—the kind that coaxed out buried grievances and turned you back into a child—could detonate a heart full of affection, sweeping over you vast and unstoppable, even as it veiled the purest emotions.

Studying music didn’t mean she had to enter showbiz. The movie contract wasn’t something she had to sign. Yet she agreed without a second thought.

Zhong Jia didn’t want much. She just wanted to be closer to Xie Yingnian—even a senior-junior dynamic would do. She admitted she craved the warmth of that embrace. The windfall had left her dazed; every day on set since felt like a dream.

The immersive acting gradually peeled back her naivety. Today’s kiss on her wrist brought Zhong Jia even closer to the truth.

The sunset still lingered on the horizon, casting a deceptive glow—all because of Xie Yingnian’s faintly cool tone not long before, which painted the same sun in shades of chill and warmth, onscreen and off.

The medicated patch was still stuck to her skin, and Zhong Jia’s wrist was so slender that a single one nearly wrapped it entirely.

She couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss the spot Xie Yingnian had touched. Even the brush of her lips burned.

The script supervisor rapped lightly on the door. “Next scene’s up.”

Zhong Jia nodded. She rose and headed inside, thinking to herself: Thanks, Kong Can. For letting me feel her affection. Even playing Ruan Ting is enough.

She’s such a wonderful person. I don’t have the confidence.

But I still want to give it a try. What if?