Fangtang Entertainment’s marketing team had done an excellent job promoting Zhong Jia’s signing. Shi Heng had even spoken to the person in charge of marketing that day about buying some interesting trending spots, but man proposes and God disposes. Despite fumbling clumsily until midnight, they still managed to stay on the charts.
The still images were one thing, but netizens had turned them into GIFs from all sorts of angles. Zhong Jia had already steeled herself for being dragged out and mocked every few days.
To debut on her first day as an aspiring comedian? She didn’t mind that at all. If it brought joy to others, it counted as accumulating good karma. But recalling Xie Yingnian’s expression made her cringe with embarrassment. The other woman had stifled her laughter so obviously—might as well have let it out with a good belly laugh.
What depressed her even more was that she had only met Xie Yingnian three times in total, and she’d embarrassed herself on two of those occasions. Such a high strike rate seemed to foreshadow that things would head the same way once they entered production.
After the press conference wrapped up, filming on the movie hadn’t started immediately. There was still some pre-production work to handle.
For a full month now, Zhong Jia had been shuttling between two districts for acting classes, heading out early in the morning and dragging herself home late at night. She was so busy she’d forgotten all about everything else. The teacher was an acquaintance from Nong Siqing’s network, packed with experience and teaching her from the very basics.
Entertainers kept wildly irregular hours, and living in the company dorms came with all sorts of inconveniences. Shi Heng had thought of that too.
The man was a walking pun from head to toe—hopelessly unbalanced.
He had a name straight out of a Mary Sue idol drama for the male lead, but unfortunately, his face belonged to an extra office drone in a workplace series. He threw himself into his work with dogged diligence, terrified of losing his job. Overly cautious and considerate to the point where he didn’t even seem like a man. He’d already been hunting down housing options for Zhong Jia.
The apartment had been finalized a few days earlier. It was close to the television station and a bunch of interior studios, making it convenient for shoots and gigs. Best of all, the company was footing the bill.
Zhong Jia didn’t have any big furniture pieces to move around. She couldn’t slack on her studies anyway; she’d just keep running between places. One more spot to crash—that was all it was. She wasn’t fussy and never had trouble sleeping in a new bed.
The company car pulled up right on time outside the school gates and whisked Zhong Jia straight to her class location.
During the mid-session break, Shi Heng showed up with some snacks. He wasn’t in his usual suit today; instead, he sported a casual outfit. He chatted with the teacher for a bit about his artist’s progress before making his way over to Zhong Jia and plopping down to sit cross-legged on the floor beside her.
“What are you looking at?” Shi Heng fished a bag of chips out of the plastic bag.
Zhong Jia was scrolling through her phone screen. It kept lagging, so her pace varied wildly between fast and slow. “Just eating some melon,” she said.
A Cha leaned in from nearby. Shi Heng asked, “What kind of melon?”
He racked his brain. His friends’ social feeds were dead calm—no sign of any earth-shattering gossip. So why was this kid, who usually only cared about music, staring so intently?
“My melon,” Zhong Jia replied calmly.
Shi Heng nearly choked on his chips.
A Cha read the post aloud: “Real amateur or Awan’s stand-in Qing? Nong Siqing movie newbie’s family background exposed—stand-in literature hits reality. Old flame unquenched; ex’s daughter makes for the perfect comfort sub…”
It was a long post loaded with trendy slang like “stand-in literature” and “comfort sub,” but nothing packed the punch of “ex’s daughter.” Shi Heng felt like he’d been struck by lightning. It took him a good long while before he turned to Zhong Jia and asked, “Qiao Yingqiu is your mom?”
It was a simple yes-or-no question, but Zhong Jia pondered it for a moment. “She gave birth to me.”
Shi Heng: “…”
His immediate reaction was pure exasperation. A Cha froze in shock. Zhong Jia must have realized her answer didn’t quite clarify her relationship with Qiao Yingqiu, so she elaborated: “Qiao Yingqiu gave me life, but she never raised me. If that qualifies someone as a mom, then I suppose she counts.”
Zhong Jia’s tone was utterly flat—no bitterness, no sarcasm. It was as if she were talking about a total stranger.
She took a sip of her yogurt, her eyes fixed on the phone screen. The post was packed with details, and the “evidence” was thorny enough that any denial or legal letter would just turn them into a full-net laughingstock.
The problem was, Qiao Yingqiu had been dead for years. Even if Zhong Jia’s status as a second-generation star got confirmed, what did it matter? She’d just be pegged as a nepotism case riding her mother’s coattails, handing fresh fodder to the ever-vicious trolls online.
That forum had a reputation for pure toxicity. One of Shi Heng’s previous artists would get so worked up just skimming a few pages that he’d lose his appetite, then spend half the night sobbing into his pillow until he couldn’t sleep—and that was a guy.
His gaze settled on Zhong Jia’s face. The girl had just celebrated her twentieth birthday, her lashes long and thick like tiny feather fans. A natural youthful innocence softened her features, giving her an almost childish air. She’d barely bothered with makeup, just a slash of lipstick that A Cha said was a spot-on dupe for some big luxury brand. Even on something girls obsessed over like cosmetics, she pinched pennies.
Her phone was battered and ancient, yet she kept using it. She squeezed every cent like it was two. You might pity her, but she shone with such relentless sunshine that you’d feel like a fool for worrying.
Shi Heng figured the kid was genuinely cool, though her coolness had the flavor of coffee laced with sugar—sweet and bitter in equal measure.
“Quit lurking on that forum; it’s just gonna stress you out more. I’ll head back to the company right now and sort this for you. Probably just some jealous hack.” With that, Shi Heng got to his feet to leave.
Zhong Jia’s mood hadn’t been rattled much, but since Shi Heng said so, she obediently pocketed her phone. “Thanks, Shi Ge.”
She was so slight, curled up small on the floor like a little bundle. Her skin was pale to the point of translucence, practically glowing with its own light even on a gloomy, overcast day. Faced with all this, she was still grinning cheerfully. Shi Heng couldn’t tell if she was just naive or had an unbreakable mindset. As he turned to go, he hesitated. “You…”
“I’m fine. I was planning to tell you anyway. Don’t artists have to lay all their cards on the table with the company?” Zhong Jia smiled.
She was the optimistic sort, a master at making peace with herself. People and things that weren’t meant to be? She let them go cleanly and completely—like her so-called parents and brother, who had no real bond with her. She rarely voiced outright contempt, but her breezy detachment carried the sharp edge of disdain all the same.
To this day, the one thing Zhong Jia still couldn’t let go of was her grandmother’s death.
When it came to raising her, Qian Peiqing was the only one who truly deserved the title of mother.
Aside from life itself, Qiao Yingqiu had given Zhong Jia two other things. One was her name, picked at random but interpretable through character dissection as oddly fitting: the base stroke of “walk,” as if wishing her gone; and “add,” marking her as superfluous. The other was her left ear, robbed of hearing—not a birth defect, but the aftermath of a high fever that went untreated too long before she made it to a hospital.
Then Qian Peiqing had appeared. She took the three-year-old Zhong Jia back to her hometown, and the grandmother and granddaughter leaned on each other for survival.
The closest relationships bred the deepest fears of loss. Zhong Jia had long outgrown the age of fairy tales and knew her grandmother would leave her someday. She thought she’d prepared herself for it. But the moment her grandmother was wheeled into the emergency room, Zhong Jia shattered. She cried until her eyes swelled shut and she could barely breathe.
All the money Qiao Yingqiu had transferred over the years, Qian Peiqing had squirreled away. The old woman hadn’t spent a dime on herself; every bit went to Zhong Jia—music lessons, lip-reading classes, you name it. Then illness struck out of nowhere, though really, it was just the inevitable toll of old age. Few people shuffled off this mortal coil peacefully.
Fate offered no mercy, forcing the sixteen-year-old Zhong Jia to grow up overnight.
Qian Peiqing had taught music at the county elementary school. Even in retirement, she ran classes from home, charging next to nothing purely because she loved kids and wanted some fun. She’d even feed a few students dinner—meat, eggs, milk, no shortages—often subsidizing more than she earned.
So when disaster hit, their poverty laid bare all its cruel shortcomings.
They sold the little two-bedroom apartment. Against her homeroom teacher’s pleas, Zhong Jia dropped out of school to earn money. The hospital, moved by humanitarian spirit, performed the surgery even though they couldn’t cover it all upfront. But they couldn’t keep extending credit forever; after all, they weren’t a charity. There were too many people worldwide who couldn’t afford treatment—whom could they help?
The attending physician pulled Zhong Jia aside and urged her to scrape together some cash somehow; they’d make allowances if she did. Otherwise, they’d have to halt the medications.
Somehow? How?
Qian Peiqing had only ever helped the poor. A few hundred here, some condolence goods there—the families who could spare more were few and far between. Nobody’s money grew on trees. The cost of keeping her grandmother alive far outstripped any social aid. They’d tapped every connection that could walk, tried every crowdfunding platform, but the donations trickled in like drops in a bucket. Plenty figured lending to a kid like Zhong Jia was throwing good money after bad.
Besides, her grandmother’s condition was a bottomless pit. The doctors had hinted as much: lifelong meds, lifelong caregiving. It would only buy a few more years, and it would hold Zhong Jia back.
Their well-meaning advice fell on deaf ears; all Zhong Jia heard were the words “extend life.”
She picked up multiple part-time gigs, working from dawn till dusk without rest, but it still fell woefully short.
The critical condition notices came down several times. That final night, after delivering her last takeout order, it was already very late. She was underage and couldn’t register on the platforms herself, so she scraped by as a casual hand for various restaurants. This time, her bag had leaked oil, earning her a scolding. She’d gotten by that day on a single discounted loaf of bread nearing its expiration date. Now the lingering scent of shrimp from her hands was teasing her empty stomach.
There was a KFC right nearby, but Zhong Jia only bought a bottle of water. Water filled the belly; she didn’t eat anything else.
Exhausted, she slumped onto the cold concrete steps, pulled out her phone, and dug up the number she’d found online a couple of days earlier. She stared at Zhong Kefei’s name on the screen, clenching her jaw until it ached.
Afraid she’d chicken out at the last second, Zhong Jia didn’t give herself time to overthink. A gust of wind swept by, and she made her choice.
The call rang for half a minute before a woman’s voice answered, introducing herself as Zhong Kefei’s secretary.
Zhong Jia explained the situation. There wasn’t much reaction on the other end—no surprise, nothing. Just a rote, formulaic response: “I’ll pass this along to President Zhong. You’ll hear back within twenty-four hours.”
She waited all day long, and by evening, there was still no word. Zhong Jia even wondered if her phone was out of credit.
She checked her balance—plenty left. Unable to resist, she dialed the number several times. No one answered, no callbacks came, and her texts vanished into the void. She couldn’t play dumb any longer.
With her grandmother clinging to life in the hospital, Zhong Jia was out of options. She headed to a club known for quick cash.
Flashing neon lights in every hue mingled with men and women thick with the stench of booze. Zhong Jia’s entire frame of reference came from cryptic high school whispers, leaving her blind to the real dangers ahead. Earning money to save her grandmother consumed her thoughts; everything else faded away.
The club apparently catered to underage workers. The manager didn’t bat an eye at Zhong Jia. He had her sign a few papers, hinting that her job was just to drink with guests—what happened next was anyone’s guess.
Zhong Jia sensed something off, but her lack of street smarts and pressing time left no room for second thoughts. She agreed. Fate, however, had other plans—a cursed twist of destiny. Barely started on the job, she crossed paths with Xie Yingnian.
She’d met her only once before, at Qiao Yingqiu’s funeral. Zhong Jia had been eleven then, Xie Yingnian twenty. Her looks hadn’t changed much.
Zhong Jia couldn’t say how she’d been recognized this time—maybe her name, or that eye-catching red mole on her collarbone.
Xie Yingnian didn’t seem to be there for the usual indulgences, either.
The biggest private room teemed with people, men and women alike, plus the club’s male and female escorts. The moment Zhong Jia was ushered in, her eyes locked on the woman smoking alone in the corner. Something fluffy sat beside Xie Yingnian, its shape indistinct.
The lights swirled in chaos. Someone crawled across the floor, waist bending impossibly supple, a plush tail whipping wildly right at Zhong Jia’s feet. Goosebumps prickled up her bare calves in waves.
Some played rock-paper-scissors drinking games, others raved to the beat—the noise was deafening.
Zhong Jia approached and finally made out the half-life-sized teddy bear next to Xie Yingnian.
Even if this woman had bizarre tastes, she wouldn’t pick a place like this to fool around with a stuffed bear…
The manager handling Zhong Jia introduced her to the customer who’d specifically called for someone, slapping her with a lazy stage name: Xiao Jia.
Xie Yingnian had kept her head down, but at the mention of “minor,” she tore her gaze from her phone. She fixed it on Zhong Jia, a slim cigarette smoldering halfway between her fingers. Amid the group’s jeering laughs about the schoolgirl, she spoke. “What are you doing here?”
“Nian Jie, you know her?”
“Xie Yingnian, gone for this type now?”
“One of Nian Jie’s girls? Then count me out.”
Xie Yingnian rose, grinding her cigarette into the ashtray. She shot a glance at the dumbstruck Zhong Jia. “My girl? She better be.”
“Have your fun. I’m heading out.” Xie Yingnian doubted she’d return. Her parting words were for the bear. “Put it in my car later. I want to take it home.”
She hadn’t gone far from the room when she told Zhong Jia to wait, then turned back.
The club skirt rode high, barely skimming her thighs. Zhong Jia shrank into the corner like a frightened quail. Desperation had made her bold before, but now, hitting the brakes, she realized just how short it was—short enough to flash her rear with the slightest move.
Near the elevators, the metal doors slid open and shut nonstop, foot traffic heavy. Every whisper or odd chuckle made Zhong Jia—chin tucked, eyes glued to the floor—feel like the center of guilty attention.
She wanted to bolt but had nowhere to go, terrified a big stride would expose her. After wrestling with it, she picked the least humiliating fix: turn around, stand straight at attention, facing the wall.
“So well-behaved. Doing a timeout?” Footsteps drew near. Xie Yingnian’s voice rang from overhead. In the next breath, a trench coat enveloped Zhong Jia from behind, wrapping her securely.
A pale wrist flashed into view—too close, too sudden. It grazed Zhong Jia’s neck for a fleeting moment. Her breath caught as she realized Xie Yingnian was fastening the coat’s buttons for her.
The hands before her eyes were long and elegant, yet not purely delicate like a woman’s—knuckles defined, veins mapping clear paths across the backs. The wrist bone jutted slightly from the black leather jacket sleeve: a sensuality born of strength.
Xie Yingnian said, “You’ve grown fast. Last time we met, you barely reached my waist, right?”
“Not that short…” Zhong Jia kept her head down. She couldn’t fathom why her legs had gone weak. She even craved the wall’s support, but acting on it felt shamefully needy.
The blank white wall glared. She darted her eyes wildly, landing on Xie Yingnian’s hands at her waist, securing the lower buttons. Her arms caged Zhong Jia in the process. The coat’s bulk made it tricky from a distance, so Xie Yingnian edged half a step closer. Zhong Jia felt embraced from behind.
In that suspended moment, her mind blanked. Zhong Jia’s thick lashes quivered faintly.
Xie Yingnian asked, “Shaking? You cold?”
“Uh… itchy…” At sixteen, Zhong Jia felt the electric tingle of touch for the first time. She chalked up the strange thrill to her rare closeness with anyone.
Beyond the spark, a dull haze settled in.
Zhong Jia turned to Xie Yingnian. “I… I think I can do the buttons myself.”
Their eyes locked in silence for seconds. Xie Yingnian broke away first, coughing awkwardly. “I rushed it, didn’t I? Made you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
Zhong Jia could sense Xie Yingnian’s haste, of course. Eyes dropping to the hand lingering on the buttons, unsure, warmth welled inside her endlessly. Memories of her ordeals since her grandmother’s illness flooded back. On impulse, she covered that hand with her smaller one, voice earnest. “It feels really good. Thank you…”
Sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing her in cozy warmth. It felt so nice.
Zhong Jia’s grip on the yogurt bottle had lost its girlish clumsiness. The teacher cleared his throat and resumed the lesson. She murmured agreement. Then her phone pinged—a message from the production WeChat group.
Location: Chongxiang.
Time: Next Monday.
Filming starts.
