Chongxiang was a county nestled in the southwestern mountains. Getting there from Yanjing required a flight to the provincial capital, followed by a high-speed rail ride. Winters in the south were already damp and chilly, with frequent rain, so once the cold set in, clothes mostly hung damp indoors. Dryers were practically a must-have in every home.
A Cha had never been there before. While prepping daily essentials, she researched a ton online and ran the shopping list by Zhong Jia, asking if she needed anything else. Snacks could be snuck in without telling Shi Heng.
“Sis, you pick. I’ve got no clue,” Zhong Jia said with a smile. “Get the snacks you like. I only get snacky now and then. I do love yogurt, though—they probably sell it there, right?”
She let out a yawn right after, her eyes heavy with sleep. The business van had just pulled away from the TV station, and it was already past two in the morning. These past few days had been low-key gigs like radio interviews. Newbies like Zhong Jia couldn’t overexpose themselves before a movie dropped, or it’d kill the hype.
The last star A Cha had assisted was a total diva. One day, during her period, her stomach was killing her, and A Cha was a few seconds slow handing over the thermos—bam, she got reamed out like nobody’s business. The next day, the whole Fangtang Entertainment was buzzing about how she’d slacked on artist care. A Cha took the heat and got bounced from the team. Nearly two months without a gig after that, so she was beyond grateful for this shot.
“You’re way too easy to handle,” she couldn’t help sighing, a little regretting bailing from the group chat so fast. She could’ve dropped some shady @-mentions on that artist, eternal thanks for the boot.
Just wishful thinking, though. Even if she’d stayed, A Cha wouldn’t have dared. That one had serious backing—she’d be squashed flat.
The so-called no-backing newbie conked out fast, her head lolling this way and that until it landed on A Cha’s shoulder.
A Cha was more than happy to be a pillow, scooting closer for comfort. In the assistants’ group chat, she posted: “Artist little sis is such a good girl, total dream to work with.”
But… her parents didn’t even seem to care. Kinda heartbreaking.
Debuting as the lead in Nong Siqing’s movie, opposite Xie Yingnian to boot—starting that high was bound to breed envy.
Shi Heng had pieced it together by now. It was an audition rival who thought the role was hers, only for the female lead to drop in out of nowhere. Livid, she tried spinning Zhong Jia as a nepotism case online, especially since the director and co-star both had deep ties to Qiao Yingqiu.
Fangtang’s PR team moved quick, scrubbing every post. No official statement, though.
Even A-listers had a right to family privacy. No need to blast it public.
Shi Heng finally got why Zhong Jia had seemed familiar. The girl’s features were a refined version of Qiao Yingqiu’s best ones—no flaws inherited. That brow bone must’ve come from her dad.
The Zhong surname wasn’t common. These days, Zhong Kefei was a fixture on the rich lists, but he’d started as a classic phoenix man—handsome in that sharp, scumbag way, with angular features like a mixed-race guy. He’d tricked Qiao Yingqiu into marriage and knocked her up, then bailed once the son arrived. Changed the kid’s surname to He, married into big money. His new wife was too frail for kids.
Qiao Yingqiu had been nothing but a tool from start to finish.
She’d spilled it all herself in a fit of rage. Lost the man, lost the cash—nothing left to lose. She dove back into acting to make ends meet, but she’d been out of the game for years. The market belonged to the young blood now; comebacks weren’t easy.
Reed Shoal Moon had made Xie Yingnian explode, not her. Failed marriage, stalled career—her road just kept narrowing.
Eventually, she sank into depression, her personality twisting.
It was a sigh-worthy tragedy. It went down at a high-society bash. Qiao Yingqiu’s star had dimmed, but even a skinny camel was bigger than a horse—she was still an award-winning name, so the invite made sense.
She’d never liked those scenes, all fake schmoozing and forced smiles. She wasn’t a networker and couldn’t hold her liquor—said so in interviews. Everyone figured she’d just gotten swept up in fate’s cruel current.
How perfectly timed: running into that infuriating family at the exact party. The deadbeat ex who’d lied and left her, the son who rejected his own mom for the rich life, the snarky trophy wife laying into her with barbs. The argument escalated, and somehow she slipped off the terrace during the scuffle—cracked her skull on the way down…
One coincidence after another. Her death hit sudden, ruled an accidental fall in a fight. Witnesses galore, police cleared it—no murder.
She’d always spent big, and even after falling on hard times, she wouldn’t scrimp on food, clothes, or travel. She wired living expenses to her mom far away, and that was it—barely anything left. Her estate couldn’t even cover a proper star send-off.
In the end, industry friends pooled cash for the funeral. Zhong Kefei showed up shamelessly to mourn his ex and the boy’s birth mom, bawling his eyes out. The second he turned, the bigger guy ate a solid kick from the famously even-tempered Xie Yingnian. The little one froze solid, bracing for his turn.
The video blew up online. Comments were unanimous: good kick. Some thirsty ones fixated on that Reed Shoal Moon scene where she tiptoed to hang laundry, those long legs glowing in the moonlight—perfect for stomping, basically a fetish fuel.
Through the whole mess, Zhong Jia had zero involvement.
Without the blowup, who’d even know that feuding couple had a daughter? She was about the same age as He Family heir He Lifu. Qiao Yingqiu might’ve been carrying twins; Zhong Jia could’ve been the unwanted bonus.
That anonymous forum post ignited a firestorm of curiosity, especially among those who’d missed the original drama. Clickbait nine-grids went viral, including one long-buried funeral snap amid all the reaction shots—now airtight proof Zhong Jia was Qiao Yingqiu’s daughter.
The positioning screamed closeness: a frail old lady holding a scrawny girl’s hand, right up front. Plain clothes, blank expression—no one pegged them for family, just distant relatives.
Pixels were crap back then. Netizens cleaned it up, zoomed in, and the mob kicked themselves. How’d they miss it? She’s the spitting image!
The sudden scandal jacked Zhong Jia’s profile sky-high. Her freshly verified Weibo gained followers by the boatload.
She’d had some buzz already. Freshman year at the music fest, she’d hit it off with senior Chen Kuang. They and some like-minded friends formed a quirky indie band—no genre purity, just called it Make-Do.
Make-Do had a short-video account, no pro management. The four rotated posting clips and casual dailies—gone quiet for weeks, then spam. Fans rolled with it.
They blew up covering a classic KTV staple that spanned generations. Lead singer Chen Kuang kicked off with a killer Qinqiang blast, hooking viewers who couldn’t swipe past. The East-meets-West vibe was fresh and seamless, the band scorching hot, a full audiovisual feast capped by Zhong Jia’s pipa solo that tingled scalps.
Zhong Jia had no idea how many fans had binged the backlog. She genuinely loved music, no agenda—just pure immersion that radiated vibe and pulled people in.
Stanning these days was all about picking winners, and Zhong Jia came with director prestige plus that fresh-talent thrill.
Her departure day drew a crowd at the airport—fans and press alike.
Shi Heng’s elder was sick, so he’d fly over later. Just A Cha tagging along. Casual fans dominated, keeping things orderly.
The middle-aged straight-guy agent probably didn’t clock the diehard crowd, suggesting boredom busters for the months in Chongxiang.
Zhong Jia packed her guitar. Make-Do blended styles, leaned folk, but modern gear worked fine.
She’d played pipa since childhood, total pro. Guitar was strings too, but self-taught—not as fluid.
Zhong Jia rocked a black hoodie, ripped jeans (no long johns underneath), the twenty-year-old college kid blissfully ignorant of old-man knee woes. Her exposed knees screamed youthful recklessness, white sneakers the cheap national brand—hundo a pair.
It passed for budget streetwear, but her model figure gave it luxury vibes.
The company wasn’t grinding her, but juggling school and performance classes meant homework piles from profs. She hadn’t seen a bed in days. Napped on the way to the airport, but stumbled off sleepy. Calling out “A Cha sis,” she drew echoes from other girls praising her voice.
Zhong Jia didn’t quite catch it, asked what they meant—then blushed at the chorus of compliments, ducking her head to stare at her sneakers, fat hoodie sleeves swinging wildly.
A Cha turned back to fetch her. Just as Zhong Jia started following, a voice from the crowd called her clumsy walk an adorable moe point. Guitar on her back, she tripped over her own feet. Laughter erupted all around.
“Did you record that part where I got lost too? You’ll all laugh at me again next time.”
Zhong Jia wore a black mask that accentuated her features above the bridge of her nose. Her untamed brows weren’t particularly fine—in fact, they looked a bit messy—with prominent brow ridges and deep irises. Just judging by her brows and eyes alone, even among guys, people would call her a total heartthrob.
“Does the character in the movie have to play guitar?”
“Not at all,” Zhong Jia said. “I just mess around with it when I’m bored on set.”
The white knit hat she wore was plain, with no pattern at all—a cheap market find that no one could track down online. Her long hair fell straight and neatly to both sides of her chest.
“Do you like playing games?”
“I only play Fight the Landlord and match-3 games. I’m too slow for anything else.”
“But you play the pipa so fast it leaves afterimages.”
“That’s from practice—pure muscle memory. My hands are usually pretty clumsy. It took me ages just to learn how to knit a scarf.”
Zhong Jia held her boarding pass in one hand as she chatted and walked along. She had been a little nervous at first, but she relaxed as they talked. Then someone hollered “little brother!” followed by whoops and hollers, and even cries of “son!”
She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved that no one had yelled “hubby” yet—after all, she was only twenty and not even at legal marrying age. But as that thought crossed her mind, the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood on end. Why was some guy squealing “so handsome!” in that cutesy, simpering voice…
A Cha had bought coffee, and Zhong Jia tugged her mask down below her chin for a sip. Her lower face came into view, its heroic edge softened within refined features. If anything, the labels that fit her best were “gentle” and “strikingly handsome.”
It was just that today, she’d thrown on the wrong pants—loose and baggy, hiding her perky, firm rear end. Her hoodie disguised her chest too. Otherwise, her style skewed pretty feminine, and she wouldn’t have been mistaken for a statue of a boy like this. Blame it on those brows and eyes she’d inherited from her deadbeat dad—they gave her fair-skinned, rosy-lipped face a real boyish vibe.
Before long, the two of them boarded the plane.
It was Zhong Jia’s first time in first class. Her seat was by the window, with the shade pulled down. Under the reading light overhead, she flipped open the script’s title page. The movie was called The Third Party—a tale set in the early 2000s.
