Chapter 24: She’s Back

With Xie Yingnian absent, and considering Zhong Jia’s impending return to school for finals along with the other actors’ schedules, the production coordinator made minor adjustments to the call sheet.

This compressed all of Zhong Jia’s scenes before heading back to Yanjing. Kong Can had her own independent storyline in the film, which didn’t involve many other actors since the character preferred to keep to herself and hadn’t made many friends in Chongxiang.

The scene wrapped: Kong Can leaving the hair salon after work and stopping by Xingfa Supermarket to pick up a few things. Behind the counter sat Boss Chen’s computer chair. The actor playing him, still riding the high from the take, plopped down and cracked open some sunflower seeds. The bulky white desktop computer was yellowed with age but still functional, running Windows XP. On its serene blue-sky-and-clouds wallpaper, he fired up a game of solitaire.

The digital shuffling of the cards filled the air. Zhong Jia took her seat behind the mahjong table as the makeup artist fussed over her hair and touched up her makeup.

A tangle of cables snaked across the floor toward the supermarket storeroom. Nong Siqing emerged from it, wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses that made her gaze look even sharper through the lenses. Zhong Jia’s recent performances had improved steadily, though, so she rarely caught any scolding anymore.

“Why’d you flub that line just now?” Nong Siqing asked as she passed a shelf without a camera setup. She casually grabbed a can of Wangzai and handed it to Zhong Jia.

The table was piled high with mahjong tiles. The supermarket boss was great in every way except for this one habit—hosting friends late into the night, their shouts and clacks echoing as they played.

Zhong Jia cradled the can of Wangzai, her thumb rubbing absently over its surface. She parted her lips but then pressed them together without speaking.

Nong Siqing picked up on her hesitation and smiled. “It’s fine. If you’ve got questions, ask away. Or if you have any ideas, feel free to share.”

The director’s smile was warm and kindly, her eyes full of gentle encouragement. Zhong Jia knew some of that goodwill stemmed from her connection to Qiao Yingqiu—old friend’s daughter. It earned her a bit of preferential treatment. Even if the film came before everything else in Nong Siqing’s principles, she couldn’t fully shake the sentimentality that colored her judgments.

Especially as the years piled on, drawing more people and events into the realm of “the old.” A certain world-weariness seeped from wrinkles into the bones, visible even in the carefully constructed realism of the set.

“There’s really an Xingfa Supermarket in Chongxiang,” Zhong Jia said, recalling her recent visit. She smiled faintly. “A few days ago, on my way back to the hotel, I popped in to buy something. For some reason, when I checked out, I just blurted out ‘Boss Chen.’ And sure enough, his surname is Chen—though he’s way younger than the one here.”

“That’s what threw me off earlier. It felt too coincidental: same supermarket name, same surname for the boss.”

Nong Siqing tilted her head. “Do you think things like that really happen?”

Her smile was faint and enigmatic.

Zhong Jia replied, “I don’t think it’s that coincidental. But I hope it is.”

If it was pure chance, then the script was just artistic invention. If not… then it might be based on real events. Had the real-life Kong Can and Ruan Ting met that same tragic end?

The female director across from her deepened her smile, and Zhong Jia felt a pang of regret for her own bluntness.

Nong Siqing had poured her heart into this film as her farewell project, preparing it for so long that even Yuan Yuan—a minor role mostly serving as set dressing—had been selected after rigorous auditions.

If the script wasn’t fiction, what part had the devoted director played in that heartbreaking real-life story?

“Director Nong, I’m sorry, I—”

Nong Siqing cut off her apology. “It’s okay. I prompted you. It just reminded me of your mother.”

Since joining the production, Nong Siqing had occasionally mentioned Qiao Yingqiu to Zhong Jia—usually sparked by some fleeting association. It made Zhong Jia realize she shared certain subtle similarities with her mother.

She hadn’t grown up by Qiao Yingqiu’s side, yet their blood tie had mysteriously imprinted those traits on her appearance and mannerisms anyway, faint as they were. The thought gave Zhong Jia a momentary pause.

“Qiuqiu asked the same question once,” Nong Siqing said, idly toying with a mahjong tile. “But way more directly than you.”

Zhong Jia perked up. “How directly?”

Nong Siqing’s laugh crinkled the lines around her eyes. “She asked if I was her in the story… or Xie Yingnian.”

Zhong Jia fell silent.

Qiao Yingqiu had always been a straight-shooting blockhead—no wonder people used to tease her as an “iron straight-arrow.” The woman was single-minded to a fault.

Zhong Jia remembered being a child, lured into the car by Qiao Yingqiu with a milk ice cream cone. They’d left Yanjing for her grandmother’s place. Qiao had promised they’d return the next summer. Such a cheap trick, yet it kept Zhong Jia waiting through summer after summer—until the news of her mother’s death arrived.

The hopeful heart she’d pinned on her mom had died right along with it.

“That’s what I told her back then.” Nong Siqing flipped the tile end over end before laying it faceup on the table—a one-of-bamboos with its head inverted. “Film is art, and art is the vessel for our dreams. If you want it to be fake, it is. If you want it real, it can be that too.”

“It’s just a dream, after all. No matter how immersed you get, you’ll wake up. Don’t take it too much to heart.”

The word “immersed” hit Zhong Jia again—from Nong Siqing’s lips no less—and she froze for a beat.

Nong Siqing rose and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Next scene’s up.”

The production van idled outside the set. Zhong Jia emerged from the changing room in a lamb’s wool jacket over a white hoodie whose collar poked out with fuzzy bunny ears. A chunky knit scarf was looped haphazardly twice around her neck, dangling heavily down her chest.

Her steps lacked their usual post-scene bounce; her canvas sneakers splashed through puddles several times, soaking the edges.

A Cha juggled bags and parcels while the driver popped the trunk. She stuffed everything inside in a rush.

Before the door could close, A Cha ducked in and slid onto the seat beside Zhong Jia.

Her young charge was staring blankly at her darkened phone screen, utterly out of it.

“Tiantian, are you just exhausted?” A Cha asked with concern. “The live stream will be quick. Shi Ge said you don’t have to touch any sensitive topics.”

Zhong Jia snapped back to the present. Her fingertip brushed the screen by accident, its glow piercing the dim interior and chasing away the haze in her eyes.

She shook her head. “The brand already posted the promo, right? It’s fine. I’ll nap on the way.”

Sleep was supposed to ease her fatigue, but the more Zhong Jia dozed, the more alert she felt.

Nong Siqing’s voice echoed in her mind. Images from the kiss scene and bed scene flickered up next. Most crucially, there was Zhou Zhou’s WeChat message: Xie has no objections to the person you like. But she looked it up online and knows you’re shooting a romance with her. Do you really like her, or is it the character she’s playing? Maybe think it over some more?

Did she need to?

Zhong Jia could separate Xie Yingnian from Ruan Ting. She wasn’t so deep in the role of Kong Can that she couldn’t pull herself out. It was just… she’d suddenly started questioning if her feelings had come on too fast, too easily, too fleetingly. No wonder Mr. Xie assumed it was her getting too immersed in the part.

If she confessed rashly to Xie Yingnian, the woman would surely chalk it up to a mistake every dedicated actor makes—dismiss it with a laugh and move on.

Zhong Jia rubbed her brow, then opened her eyes and unlocked her phone. She tapped into her chat with Xie Yingnian. Her own curt “good” sat there starkly on the screen, with no follow-up.

Qiao Yingqiu had left her mark on film history—not huge, but solid. Her peak was dazzling; her downfall dramatic. Life’s twists made for great theater. In today’s internet memes, she’d perfectly embodied “stay away from men or you’ll end up miserable.”

Plenty of disillusioned ex-fans still hoped for her comeback—until her sudden death snuffed that out, leaving an unresolved ache.

He Lifu had photos from his international school days circulating online. The public dissected his looks from childhood on, slapping tags like “uglified” or “handsomer” on him every year. Not even a public figure, yet he became fodder for gossip.

Now Zhong Jia popped up—supposed daughter of Qiao Yingqiu and Zhong Kefei—with a birthdate matching He Lifu’s exactly. Twins with different surnames? Pure soap opera. Public curiosity was through the roof.

Fangtang Entertainment’s mass post deletions only fueled backlash. Their previous announcement had dodged the main issues. Without seizing control of the narrative, rival companies could easily steer the conversation.

The domestic brand’s daytime live-stream promo—topics vetted by both teams, hyped by influencers—had blown up. Views climbed steadily as melon-eaters flooded in.

Shi Heng had warned her glitchy phone might lag out, so she was using A Cha’s. The app was pre-installed and hooked to the hotel Wi-Fi, usually speedy. Today, though, it stuttered with network delays. The comments section lagged too, high-frequency words piling up.

The sales stream used a split-screen setup. The brand had brought in an experienced beauty influencer who knew how to hype products to the heavens and keep the chat flowing.

A few days before the live stream, the staff had sent the script to Zhong Jia via WeChat. It was all just a formality anyway—the merchants knew full well that some celebrities treated these gigs as nothing more than a quick cash grab. Shi Heng hadn’t forced her to memorize it word for word. He felt the girl had been pushing herself too hard lately. A Cha had mentioned that she was up studying until midnight, catching up on her regular schoolwork, and rising early every morning.

She could fall asleep within half a minute of sitting down for makeup.

A Cha propped up a teleprompter across from Zhong Jia. She’d been nervous at first, worried something might go wrong without Shi Heng there to oversee things, but she soon grew so bored that she was yawning nonstop. The teleprompter went unused. Zhong Jia had memorized the key points and ad-libbed the rest. She’d done plenty of live streams with the Make-Do Band members before, so the format felt familiar.

The hotel room featured a cozy little living area, and the lighting near the floor-to-ceiling windows was ideal. Zhong Jia sat on a dining chair with her back to the entrance door. She’d already wiped off her lipstick from the set earlier, yet viewers kept asking for the shade number.

“Not applied yet—is it the filter?” Zhong Jia tuned out the barrage of filthy comments scrolling across her screen, mostly gripes about her faking her image. She double-checked her settings, and the moment she leaned in close to the camera, her face filled the frame.

-Holy shit, this close-up is intense—the nose bridge is top-tier, so beautiful, a real stunner.

-Sis, didn’t your company hook you up with makeup and hair? Rocking just a hoodie like that, and the hair’s super casual.

-She looks prettier than He Lifu. An AI gender swap might make her even handsomer than him—talk about genetic magic. A bunch of second-gen stars in the industry don’t hold a candle to their parents. Qiao Yingqiu really did her part for us face fans.

-Cool yet babyish, such a unique vibe. That droopy-eared rabbit hoodie from some street stall? Link plz.

-Give me a break, quit playing the victim. Qiao Yingqiu might be gone, but her dad and brother are still around. He Lifu drops six figures without blinking, and here you have a bunch of suckers pitying a loaded second-gen celeb kid. Piling on cheap crap to peddle that outdated grassroots persona—how try-hard can you get?

The comments raced by in a blur. The Q&A segment was saved for last, so Zhong Jia stayed focused. She gazed straight into the lens. “The filter’s on default—it should be pretty close to real life, right? My natural lip color runs a bit dark, so I’ll swipe some on my arm in a sec for you all to compare.”

The influencer host had never encountered a celebrity this cooperative before. She joked that this gig was a breeze.

As the product demo wound down, viewership hit its peak. Plenty of people had tuned in just for the gossip, only to get derailed by her looks. They ended up adding items to their carts left and right, impulse-buying like crazy. The host grinned until her eyes nearly vanished, delighted—her commission was tied to sales, and it was bound to be substantial.

Zhong Jia had rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. Her forearm bore a series of lipstick swatches in varying shades and depths, while her lips now sported the fastest-selling color. Her lip lines were faint, skipping the need for concealer altogether. The velvet-textured true red brought out just the right touch of womanly allure in her girlish charm—youthful yet enticing.

“That’s about it for the products. Next up, my take on some of the recent rumors…”

Zhong Jia was so absorbed that the climbing viewer count in the corner only ratcheted up her nerves. She never heard the doorbell, oblivious to Xie Yingnian standing just outside the door.