Jujiu and A Cha were thunderstruck, their faces shifting through a rainbow of expressions. The two assistants exchanged a knowing glance and casually backed away several steps, pretending it was nothing.
Jujiu said, “Your artist sure has some nerve. Qiao Yingqiu was pretty wild back in the day too, huh?”
A Cha let out a sigh. “To tell you the truth, right now all I can do is pray she doesn’t inherit Qiao Yingqiu’s hopeless romantic streak.”
The streetlights on set were old-fashioned, still casting a warm yellow glow that lit up Xie Yingnian’s face. She gazed mildly at Zhong Jia and let out a soft laugh. “Why don’t you call me Little Mom instead?”
“I…” Zhong Jia kicked at the weeds sprouting from a crack in the pavement. “You two never even got married.”
Xie Yingnian asked, “How old was I back then?”
Zhong Jia replied, “What if you got married abroad…?”
“So you really want me to be your stepmom?” Xie Yingnian stood there with her arms crossed, smiling lightly. Her tone was even, making it hard to read her true feelings.
It was Zhong Jia who had brought up this sensitive topic just to explain away the “auntie” slip-up, but Xie Yingnian had deftly turned the tables on her. Zhong Jia’s shallow understanding of the woman deepened a little further—this woman held grudges, spoke few words, but that didn’t stop her from being sharp-tongued.
The winter wind blew fiercely, nipping at Zhong Jia’s nose until it turned red. She breathed warm air onto her palms. “No, it’s just that Qiao Yingqiu liked you so much. I figured she’d use marriage to tie you down.”
Irresponsible parents had set a bad example for her, so Zhong Jia—who had been single for twenty years—could only view marriage in a negative, defeatist light.
She kept harping on “Qiao Yingqiu,” always qualifying it with “so-called mom” in front. Any proper elder would have lost patience by now, but Xie Yingnian had no intention of correcting or lecturing her. Perhaps she knew Qiao Yingqiu had never been part of Zhong Jia’s upbringing. Or maybe she followed a set of values and morals that ran counter to the mainstream.
“Tie you down?” Xie Yingnian repeated the word, as if savoring it. She found it amusing coming from Zhong Jia’s mouth.
Her arms dropped, and she took a step forward. Zhong Jia instinctively stepped back.
Xie Yingnian advanced another step.
Zhong Jia’s tiptoes curled back in. She wouldn’t retreat anymore—backing down like this went against her personal style. She stood ramrod straight like a utility pole, the words “grinning and bearing it” practically stamped on her forehead.
“Not hungry? Let’s find a place to eat and talk.” Xie Yingnian walked over not just to speak, but to take Zhong Jia’s hand.
Nearby, Jujiu’s eyes were full of hearts; she was practically bouncing. A Cha, watching her, realized just how varied the world was. CP brain was terrifying—even while freezing and starving, the non-shippers could only stomp their feet in place to stay warm.
Zhong Jia’s stiff, frozen hand was enveloped by a soft palm. The hand-holding seemed like a mere pretense; Zhong Jia felt the other woman gently rubbing it to warm her up.
The two got into the car, with the assistants following. Xie Yingnian gave the driver an address. The moment the car door shut, the AC’s warm air began to chase away the chill, and their intertwined hands finally parted.
Zhong Jia said, “You didn’t have to come over just now.”
“If I just said ‘let’s eat,’ would you have come obediently?” Xie Yingnian propped her arm on the car window and turned her face toward her.
She caught the girl’s “why not?” look. Her narrow eyes narrowed slightly. The usual calm in them softened their natural intensity. Xie Yingnian continued, “You’re afraid of troubling people.”
A Cha, sitting in the back, nodded vigorously in agreement. She lowered her voice to ask Jujiu, who was browsing fan sites, “Is Teacher Xie close with Tiantian?”
“Tiantian?”
“That’s my artist’s nickname.”
It was supposedly given by her grandma.
Shi Heng and A Cha burst out laughing on the spot. It didn’t suit her face at all.
Aside from inheriting the lower half of her face from her birth mother, Zhong Jia wasn’t sweet in the slightest. She had no intention of scamming otakus either. Her everyday clothes were casual; she wore skirts often, but the girly ones were for band promotions.
Her style wasn’t exactly boyfriend chic either. Zhong Jia naturally had low body fat—even without frequent workouts, she had defined abs. Her butt was round and perky, perfectly shaped. Her bandmates and roommates loved taking cheap shots at it—a slap from behind rang out with a crisp smack.
“Oh, Zhong Jia,” Jujiu couldn’t help but chuckle. “Close? They’re practically inseparable.”
A Cha grew even more curious and pressed for details, but Jujiu clammed up. She glanced at the back of Xie Yingnian’s head before diving back into her world of 2D crushes.
The subject of the conversation paused, a bit surprised.
Xie Yingnian stayed silent, not bothering to explain how she’d guessed the girl’s thoughts.
“I did want to treat you to dinner, but since we just got to Chongxiang, I wasn’t sure what was good and didn’t speak up.” With what Zhong Jia saw as the auntie misunderstanding cleared up, she felt much more relaxed. As the saying went, if I’m not embarrassed, then it’s others who are. She desperately wanted to shake off the comedic persona she had in front of this woman.
Zhong Jia had only gotten halfway through her explanation, but with context from before, the two assistants pieced it together. Xie Yingnian inviting Zhong Jia to eat meant Xie Yingnian would pay, which clashed with Zhong Jia’s instincts—so a verbal invite alone would prompt an instinctive refusal.
“Even though I guessed it, I still want to ask: why treat me to dinner?” Xie Yingnian was curious.
Zhong Jia, who had been leaning back against the seat, sat up straight. “For what you did with Grandma. Thank you.”
If they hadn’t been in the car, Zhong Jia might have stood up and bowed deeply to Xie Yingnian in utmost respect. Her occasional displays of obedience, laced with a hint of rebellion, made her seem especially endearing—like someone you just wanted to pat on the head.
Thinking it over, she did just that—Xie Yingnian gently ruffled Zhong Jia’s hair. “I didn’t help much.”
She seemed about to say more, but the girl under her palm intuitively finished for her. “Everyone has their own fate. You told me that years ago.”
Back then, at twenty-five, Xie Yingnian had imparted this timeless truth in a flat tone. Her body—already at the pinnacle of the film world, where she could practically hear the cheers of millions—seemed riddled with holes like termite-eaten wood, acid etching through her marrow.
At sixteen, Zhong Jia had sat outside the emergency room, heading toward the classroom of eternal parting in life’s school. More terrified, more unwilling to face it, she’d thought those four words were bullshit.
But later, she understood. Everyone has their own fate—it made sense. No matter her efforts, Grandma still passed. She was born to parents who didn’t care, fated to lose her hearing, cursed as a bastard and a deaf girl at school.
So what?
Zhong Jia gripped Xie Yingnian’s wrist, placing both their hands on her knee. Nothing weighed on her head anymore. She tilted it and smiled. “And I’m still living just fine, aren’t I? Let heaven throw whatever it wants at me. I’m not afraid.”
Lights flashed by outside the window. Xie Yingnian kept watching her.
Zhong Jia rarely showed negative emotions. Most people thought she’d grown up basking in sunshine. Fangtang Entertainment did routine artist checkups; Shi Heng had gone with her and been shocked to learn one ear was deaf.
“No big deal. That’s why I sleep so well.” She’d even smiled about it.
The world wasn’t three-dimensional for her, but Zhong Jia had grown used to interpreting it her own way. For some, just living without offing themselves was a form of strength. She fell into that category but didn’t wallow in her differences—she strove to blend into normal life.
Her resilience had been fully absorbed, manifesting positively. Strangers assumed she had it easy.
The light in the car was dim. Zhong Jia’s silhouette blurred in the shadows. It took Xie Yingnian a long moment to turn away and withdraw her hand. She began fiddling one by one with the prayer beads on her wrist.
Zhong Jia offered to transfer money to Xie Yingnian—that surgery bill was still on her mind.
Later, with funding from a kind soul, she’d returned to school. She’d started early and only dropped out for half a year, so she caught up. Coincidentally, that person was also named Xie, though she never showed her face—her secretary handled everything.
After resuming school, Zhong Jia juggled classes and part-time jobs. That summer before university, she started performing at several bars, formed a band, and gigs poured in. Over the years, she’d earned a decent amount—not to mention now being signed and debuting—but paying off the full surgery bill in one go was still tough.
She was also repaying President Xie’s money, sending monthly transfers to the WeChat user “Zhou Zhou.” President Xie was very concerned about her; Zhou Zhou would request a rough breakdown of expenses, worried Zhong Jia might skimp on herself to pay back faster.
Zhong Jia had a habit of tracking expenses. The app exports showed every detail, even what she ate.
“Can I pay back half first?” Zhong Jia paused, her voice softening further. “Sis.”
Xie Yingnian saw through her ploy—playing cute to lock in the new title and escape the auntie zone once and for all. Kindly, she said, “No need to pay it back.”
“Like you said, marriage makes us legit wives. Even if Qiao Yingqiu kicks the bucket, I’m the little widow. Filial duty comes naturally.”
“…” Zhong Jia was speechless. She’d dug her own grave again.
Xie Yingnian sat casually, holding back a laugh as she revealed the truth. “Not teasing you anymore. Your mom and I aren’t what you think. We’ll talk at the restaurant.”
An eighteenth-tier county town had no trendy spots or Michelin stars. Korean and Japanese places were budget versions. Better to go for local specialties—but there were hardly any shops on Dianping.
Having traveled everywhere for acting gigs, Xie Yingnian knew Chongxiang well. She led the group straight to a rundown alleyway eatery. In this corner of the southwest, the best food was always tucked deep in the lanes.
Zhong Jia wasn’t picky about food quality. The cafeteria slop at school was deemed inedible by the other Make-Do Band members, but she found it fine—cheap was king.
She handed the menu to her first. She remembered Xie Yingnian mentioning in an interview that she only ate vegetarian food, so she casually ticked off two reliable vegetarian dishes that were unlikely to disappoint.
The assistant and driver took a separate private room for the three of them. When the menu came around, Xie Yingnian’s gaze lingered on the checked items for a moment, but she said nothing and simply ordered a few dishes of her own.
While they waited for the food to arrive, the restaurant played a song—an obscure folk ballad. Xie Yingnian found it vaguely familiar but couldn’t place it. The girl sitting across from her, a veritable walking jukebox, hummed along in high spirits.
Mid-hum, Zhong Jia abruptly stopped. Xie Yingnian, who was disinfecting two sets of tableware with scalding tea water, glanced her way. “Not singing anymore?”
“Afraid you’d find it annoying,” Zhong Jia replied, her hands folded neatly on her knees, posture perfectly well-behaved.
The corners of Xie Yingnian’s lips curved up slightly as she let out a melodious note of admiration. “Wow, Tiantian, your singing is just way too good.”
She didn’t directly address the noise issue but skirted around it to ease her worries.
Zhong Jia: “…”
Her eyelashes fluttered lightly. She took a sip of tea and felt her ears slowly growing warm.
Xie Yingnian finished disinfecting one set of bowl and chopsticks and set it in front of Zhong Jia first. The cold appetizers had already arrived, so she could start eating.
Under the soft lighting, Xie Yingnian’s profile looked even gentler. The absence of visible emotion didn’t mar her flawless beauty; if anything, it lent her features a haunting touch of solitary warmth, stirring in others the desire to become a breeze that could ripple the serene depths of her eyes.
The hot dishes arrived one by one. When Zhong Jia lifted her chopsticks, she froze in surprise. How were they all her favorites?
Xie Yingnian caught the probing look but acted unfazed, calmly transferring a piece of sweet-and-sour lotus root slice into her own bowl. “Back then, it was a case of love sparked by the script. We got swept up in our movie roles, but it wasn’t real affection for each other.”
~~~
【Small Theater: Today Not Dancing Phoenix】
After the two began living together, Xie Yingnian came across Zhong Jia’s elementary school diary.
20xx-x-x Weather: dark clouds Mood: crying face
Dong Tianhao called me Little Dragon Girl again today, and I couldn’t hold back—I hit him. His face ended up all bruised and swollen. Then we both got dragged to the teacher’s office. The teacher told me to apologize to Dong Tianhao, but I refused. She whacked me with the ruler from the wall; the plastic one snapped right in half. My butt hurt like hell, but I still wouldn’t say sorry to him. He was the one who started it by insulting me. Later, the teacher threatened to call our parents. Grandma’s legs had been aching lately, and I didn’t want her making the trip on my account, so I finally apologized to Dong Tianhao. I don’t think I was in the wrong at all. It made me so sad.
Xie Yingnian closed the diary. “Zhong Tiantian.”
Zhong Jia, who had been sprawled on the bed playing a game, rolled off in surprise. “Huh?”
She was dressed in cat-themed onesie pajamas, complete with a tail that swished back and forth.
Xie Yingnian spread her arms wide. “Come here—let me give you a hug.”
