Chapter 23

Tang Qin took it over, her face still carrying doubt as her slightly furrowed brows turned toward the assistant, the smile at the corners of her lips fading slightly.

Wen Zhixu pressed her thumb on the play button. As the seconds on the recording ticked down, Tang Qin’s complexion gradually turned ashen, that bewilderment and irritability suppressed.

In an instant, she was like a helpless child on the verge of rage, yet forced to rein in her temper and put on a mature front the next second.

“Finished listening?” Wen Zhixu met her eyes and reached out to remove her earphones.

Tang Qin stared fixedly at her at first, her mind flashing back to the first time she’d asked Wen Zhixu to revise the script. The phone had been placed on the table, and that day Wen Zhixu had told her the role could be recast, emphasizing her on-the-spot regret—all for this recording.

At that moment, she also understood why Wen Zhixu wasn’t afraid of being trashed online and wouldn’t allow her to alter the yuri line. Thinking of this, she let out a dry laugh amid the hot air afterward.

It was as if she were mocking how treacherous people could be. Wen Zhixu’s backup plan was something she hadn’t anticipated, and she’d chalk it up to her own inexperience with the world.

Wen Zhixu slowly put away the earphones. “Didn’t you use this trick yourself?”

“Then why didn’t you bring it out earlier?” Tang Qin asked.

Wen Zhixu said, “I’m not one for trouble. If you don’t provoke me, I won’t bother with you. Tang Qin, I’m letting it slide because you’re young.”

Wen Zhixu looked up at her, her fingers flicking as the earphone case snapped shut with a ‘pa’ and went into her bag.

What Tang Qin had said that day was utterly unrestrained, admitting she wanted to change the script to separate her scenes from Su Yun’s. If this line vanished, Su Yun might well leave the crew.

“You bought those planted articles to leverage public opinion and force me off the crew, making it easier for you to revise the script, right?” Wen Zhixu’s gaze fell slowly and deliberately on her face.

Once the online planted stories blew up, even with a contract in hand, Wen Zhixu wouldn’t be able to join the crew. The drama had no male lead to begin with—it was a story about girls.

Tang Qin’s line was the only official pairing, so only she would need to promote CP later. That was why Ke Yixuan didn’t mind rumors with her to keep the buzz alive.

Wen Zhixu’s words left Tang Qin flushed red. The assistant couldn’t butt into their standoff. With backers behind her, that arrogance had to be propped up even when she was in the wrong.

“Teacher Wen, it’s not hard to talk nicely, is it?” Tang Qin’s voice trembled with each breath, her elbows hugging her chest as her palms clutched the wet wipe.

“I don’t want to market yuri. Selling that kind of CP isn’t worth it for me right now. You don’t know—same-sex scandals won’t kill an actor, but afterward, no matter what I star in, any opposite-sex CP marketing will be tainted.”

Wen Zhixu watched her steadily without moving, then said, “What you look down on is this role, not the line itself. Put simply, you don’t like the role, so you can’t empathize. The story’s appeal lies in emotional resonance, stirring the audience’s feelings.”

“Never mind, I’ve said too much. Get those online posts taken down. I won’t delete the recording. Next time, it won’t be this civil.”

Wen Zhixu’s tone was mild, without a trace of anger, always balanced on a fine line.

Tang Qin just stared at her, tears suddenly welling in those eyes, as if she’d suffered some great injustice.

This abruptly gave Wen Zhixu a pang of guilt—she couldn’t bear to see a girl cry.

“I’ve passed the message to your manager. If he has any ideas, tell him to come find me directly.”

Tang Qin said nothing. The tears hovering in her eye sockets burst forth, and she wiped them with her fingers.

Wen Zhixu glanced at her but didn’t linger. These words weren’t just for Tang Qin—many decisions she couldn’t make alone; they were hashed out with her team.

Wang Yun had the screenwriter approach her first, fully aware of Tang Qin’s team scheming to boot her from the crew. This made her stance clear: she was siding with Wen Zhixu.

After leaving the set, Wen Zhixu waited by the roadside for a ride. During the wait, WeChat pinged with a message, the vibration buzzing in her palm. She tapped it open.

Mom: [Aunt Cai said you didn’t add Xiao Wu. What’s going on?]

Wen Zhixu scanned the line, tapped into the friend request—the note unchanged, still unapproved. She went back to the chat.

As the car pulled up curbside, heat rolled up from her calves. Wen Zhixu pulled open the door, leaned in, and slid inside, one hand typing a reply while giving the driver the last digits of a phone number.

[I saw it, didn’t add.]

Wen Zhixu’s heart leaped to her throat as she hit send, and the “typing…” indicator above the chat vanished.

Roughly three minutes passed, the car filled with navigation prompts. Only then did Wen Zhixu pocket her phone. The sunscreen jacket’s pocket still held the business card she’d picked up from the nightstand that day.

It poked uncomfortably through her thin clothes, so she fished out the conference badge. Lowering her eyes to it: a blue lanyard held a clear plastic sleeve, her name printed neatly.

The event was a producer-marketing company collab themed around the drama’s behind-the-scenes production. When her gaze settled on the marketing company’s name at the bottom, her eyes darkened, her heart clenching once more.

Her other hand delved into her bag for the business card. Tengyu’s name stood out boldly. This felt like an inescapable clash.

Ziwei Road was jammed as always. She gazed out the window to a familiar silhouette by the bus stop—standard female celeb trio getup. Su Yun wasn’t A-list huge, but she stood out among the crowd.

Chongqing, thick with Chinese parasol trees, hummed with cicadas, evoking a youthful vibe amid the din. It was the most multifaceted city she’d ever seen.

She’d probably gotten used to Jian Shichu’s laid-back life in that comfy, slow-paced city—it suited her. But when things ramped up occasionally, the fatigue hit hard.

Mid-Mountain Restaurant had rolled out new dishes. Jian Shichu had been swamped lately with the W.E collab talks, plus feedback on the new menu. She’d hired rounds of tasters and was catching naps in the car now and then.

Her brain switching gears nonstop left her whole body off-kilter. In the car, Song Yi was on a headset meeting. Jian Shichu leaned back in the passenger seat, left hand draped across her belly, right hand tapping out replies on her phone.

The car finally quieted after a stretch. Jian Shichu caught a faint sigh but didn’t glance at Song Yi.

She said coolly, “Meeting done? Told you no need to pick me up.”

“Just on the way. How’d the Chengdu negotiations go?” Song Yi smiled, tilting her head to check the left rearview.

Jian Shichu pocketed her phone, eyeing the bus ahead. “Contract’s signed.”

“That’s great. Why the long face?” Song Yi shot her a look.

Jian Shichu’s side-swept bangs draped lazily, tousled like by wind though there was none. Her lashes flicked, dislodging a couple strands.

No reply, but Song Yi saw right through. “That thing from last time—any progress?”

Jian Shichu shifted against the seatback, turning to the window with half of it cracked open. She changed the subject. “Don’t ask me. What are we eating today?”

She had no face to admit she’d slept once and gotten blocked.

Song Yi glanced over and suddenly chuckled, her ear-pinned hair slipping forward. “Japanese. Bai Xue can’t make it today—she went home to come out. If you hadn’t gone so far for college, would you still be in the closet now?”

Jian Shichu let out a soft breath. “Who knows.”

“I still don’t get it—why insist on Beihai for uni?”

Jian Shichu turned her head slowly to look at her, gaze unguarded. She tilted her head, her expression cooling—like the first ray of winter dawn light, casual yet frigid.

Song Yi flushed at the brows under that stare, laughing awkwardly. “What’re you staring at? Crew internal promo the day after—invite’s with me. Saved it for you.”

“Forget it, not going.” Jian Shichu propped her head on her hand, her response half-hearted. Her shirt collar had slipped, the mark on her collarbone faded into time.

Song Yi pressed on. “Behind-the-scenes theme. I held a spot just for you—show off the restaurant concept, snag a couple interviews. Why not?”

She watched the car slow, sunlight glinting off her gold-rimmed glasses before landing in Jian Shichu’s left pupil.

Jian Shichu blocked it with the back of her hand. “Busy. Too much on my plate. Can’t.”

The glasses’ gleam hit her palm, shifting away as someone exited the bus.

“Excuses.” Song Yi shot back right away, opening the door as she spoke. Jian Shichu said nothing, stepping out.

Dinner hour at New Light World was packed, the new viral dessert shop with a long line out front. The mall’s design ranked top-tier in Chongqing.

Wen Zhixu held two coffees, nudging the glass door open with her elbow.

Two girls coming the other way took one cup from her hand. She murmured thanks and turned toward the outdoor seating.

An Ran set her phone down and stood to take the cup, but Wen Zhixu leaned over and placed it on the table.

“Sit.” Wen Zhixu smoothed her skirt with one hand and sat.

Few patrons sat outside the cafe. Chongqing’s temps ran high; autumn’s quiet beauty arrived late. Sunset hues drifted, half-veiled by high-rises.

An Ran cupped the coffee with both hands. “Teacher Wen, I saw the online posts are down. Tang Qin’s manager used to handle A-listers—ruthless operator. The lead in your last script was his too, so this time he squeezed Tang Qin into the crew as the second female lead.”

Wen Zhixu didn’t speak. Tang Qin was young and had some cunning, but the team hadn’t fully nurtured it in her yet.

After taking a sip of coffee, Wen Zhixu asked, “Are you busy lately?”

She had called An Ran out today to express her thanks. That day, An Ran’s reminder had let her find Tang Qin one step ahead.

If things had blown up and she released the recording, it actually wouldn’t have been good for the crew either. When an actor collapses, the whole crew gets dragged down. As long as they held each other’s handles and stayed out of each other’s business, that was fine.

While speaking, Wen Zhixu looked into the distance. The person entering a Japanese restaurant about fifty meters away looked a lot like Jian Shichu. Just as her gaze landed there, the other party happened to look toward the woman walking beside her.

“Not too busy lately. Just running around preparing the promotional interviews for the ‘Fog Condensing on the Window’ crew,” An Ran smiled, tilting her head to observe Wen Zhixu’s expression.

“Teacher Wen, want to take a look at the draft?”

Wen Zhixu suddenly looked at her, as if pulled back to her senses. She slowly swallowed the coffee and smiled lightly, “Sorry, I was distracted.”

“No worries.”

Wen Zhixu smiled back. “No need to call me Teacher Wen, it’s too polite. An Ran, what year are you?”

“If the info online is accurate, we’re the same year.”

An Ran was referring to Wen Zhixu’s online profile. Many public figures fabricated their ages online, and there were actors in the industry who changed their age every year.

Wen Zhixu was surprised. An Ran looked like a fresh college grad, her clear features wrapped in a hazy purity.

An Ran smiled and asked, “What’s wrong? Doesn’t seem like it?”

“Not really.” Wen Zhixu’s lips pursed slightly.

An Ran kept looking at her. The reddish glow in the sky reflected onto Wen Zhixu’s lips like a mirror; her lipstick had faded, not too vibrant—just right.

An Ran asked, “Hungry? There’s a Japanese place up ahead. Wanna eat?”

Wen Zhixu looked up and instinctively glanced ahead. The person she’d just spotted seemed to have gone into that very store.