Chapter 42 Part 1

Leng Xiang nodded. Jiang Sisi massaged her while observing her closely. After Leng Xiang let out a yelp from the first unexpected hard press, she didn’t make another sound.

Jiang Sisi couldn’t resist teasing her. “Why are you holding back? If it hurts, just yell a couple times. I’ve even heard you moan in bed—yelling won’t kill you.”

The two sat facing each other on the bed, Leng Xiang’s leg stretched straight across Jiang Sisi’s lap. Jiang Sisi’s hand rested on the bruised area of her calf, slowly and firmly kneading the injury. Hearing this, Leng Xiang said nothing and kicked out directly, nearly landing the blow on Jiang Sisi’s face.

“Alright, alright, my bad. I apologize—don’t move around.” Jiang Sisi took the kick to her chest, which didn’t hurt much; it was no different from a swipe from Xiangxiang. A smile lingered on her face as she apologized cheerfully.

She hadn’t jumped off the bed and stormed out right away—she’d only kicked once.

That was unusual, Jiang Sisi thought. Did this mean her immunity to her had improved?

Maybe she could push the boundaries even further next time?

As Jiang Sisi mulled this over, she finished massaging the bruise on Leng Xiang’s calf. The area had turned bright red and scorching hot from the rubbing. Leng Xiang had gone numb from the pain by the end. Seeing Jiang Sisi finally stop, she hurriedly pulled her pant leg down to cover the mark.

Leng Xiang said, “Thanks.”

Jiang Sisi grinned. “No need to thank me. Remember to come find me tomorrow night.”

Leng Xiang said, “Tomorrow too?”

Jiang Sisi said, “Of course. This injury needs at least two days of medicine to heal properly.”

Leng Xiang said, “…”

Fine. But why was this woman so skilled at it?

Reading the unspoken question in her eyes, Jiang Sisi said, “I went wild during my four years of university abroad, and I was a tomboy as a kid. I’ve had my share of scrapes and bruises—they’re no big deal.”

Jiang Sisi added, “Besides, your injury isn’t your biggest problem.”

Leng Xiang whipped her head around to look at her. After a moment of silence, she said, “Then what’s my biggest problem?”

Jiang Sisi said, “Your biggest problem is the emotional scenes.”

She reached for the script spread out on the bed. The one in Leng Xiang’s hands was already the thickest among all the actors in the crew, but Jiang Sisi’s was at least twice as thick—it contained the scripts for every actor in Luxury Goods.

And that hefty script was already worn from constant flipping.

Leng Xiang spread out the script she’d brought as well. Jiang Sisi said, “You should have no issues with the first four segments. The key is the last one, with you, your husband, and Jiang Chuan. I don’t think you’re there yet.”

The script for Luxury Goods was divided into five segments based on Su Qing’s emotional arc. The first three followed the original lighthearted, comedic route: Su Qing juggled three men, had brief romances with each, and ended them in absurdly funny ways. In the fourth segment, she went on a blind date and met her future husband. In the fifth, eight years later, she finally realized Jiang Chuan’s feelings for her and responded at Jiang Chuan’s wedding.

But by then, it was too late.

In this hectic society, what did love mean?

Love was a rose, love was a flamingo. Love made the heart race with fear, love made one throw caution to the wind.

Love itself was a luxury good.

The scene Leng Xiang had shot that day featured Jiang Chuan painting her eyebrows as she prepared for the blind date where she’d meet her future husband.

Jiang Chuan gazed at her face through the mirror, eyes full of endless reluctance, but powerless to stop it. She couldn’t prevent Su Qing from meeting the man fate had destined her for in marriage.

But Su Qing didn’t understand.

Jiang Sisi said, “I can tell Su Qing doesn’t get it, and neither do you. That’s why you nailed that scene without a hitch.”

“But what about later? How will you handle the emotional lines between your husband and Jiang Chuan? You like your husband, but you also like Jiang Chuan. When things get complicated, what then?”

Leng Xiang pressed her lips together and said, “I’m an actress.”

An actor’s basic job was to act. Otherwise, what were they?

“By your logic, if I need to play a murderer, do I have to go kill someone?”

Jiang Sisi said, “Behavioral empathy and psychological character empathy are two different things—you can’t conflate them.”

“Can you empathize with Su Qing psychologically?”

A truly great film ultimately depended on the actors to bring it to life. The director, screenwriter, and crew were all support—the actors were what ended up on screen.

As the lead, she was the film’s ultimate vessel.

Actors were the most important.

Jiang Sisi’s demands on actors went beyond mere technique; they encompassed every facet of the performer’s being, down to the smallest character traits.

And those demands started from casting. Leng Xiang being chosen for Luxury Goods was both chance and inevitability.

Leng Xiang pressed her lips together and fell silent.

Jiang Sisi said, “In all my years directing, I’ve never endorsed actors who rely solely on technique without genuine emotion—except for Song Limo.”

Song Limo, the national goddess famed for her precise, powerhouse acting, had won the Golden Deer Award for Best Actress three years in a row. After disappearing for two years, she returned with One Glance Without Regret to claim the industry’s top honor for female actors once more, then faded from leading roles, occasionally doing cameos.

Years ago, during her breakout, media had claimed her skills rivaled Song Limo’s. That year, they vied for Best Actress, and she lost.

She’d had a crush on Jiang Sisi and begged Shen Cheng for a spot on Jiang Sisi’s show Welcome to Tar. She got on, only for Jiang Sisi to bring up the Best Actress rivalry, leaving her humiliated.

The name Song Limo marked the start of her poor impression of Jiang Sisi.

What a cringe-worthy black mark on her history.

Talk about bringing up the one thing better left buried.

After a long pause, Leng Xiang looked up, her eyes locked straight on Jiang Sisi. “And what about you? Can you understand Su Qing?”

Jiang Sisi paused, then smiled. “I’m a director—and the one footing the bill. Why would I need to understand her?”

She added, “If I were acting, I’d suit Jiang Chuan better. Su Qing’s so oblivious and heartless—I couldn’t pull that off.”

Leng Xiang stared at her.

“When I signed you, it was because you’re so decisive in relationships. Deep down, that’s heartless—you don’t fixate on others, and you probably haven’t truly fallen for anyone. That matches early Su Qing perfectly.”

Jiang Sisi said, “In short, you’d better fall for someone before filming that segment. Anyone, even for a moment. Forget them when you leave the set—as long as it’s real.”

Leng Xiang suddenly said, “In your last film Youth Tour, how did you cast Luo Pi as the lead?”

Jiang Sisi fell silent, as if weighing whether to tell her.

Finally, she spoke. “Luo Pi’s an orphan.”

Leng Xiang looked up in shock.

Jiang Sisi said, “She was in a car accident as a kid. Her parents and brother all died, leaving her alone. The driver fled.”

Her casting was always spot-on and masterful.

Suddenly, a meow sounded from the room.

Leng Xiang glanced back. Xiangxiang emerged from behind the curtains, sauntering delicately and primly to the foot of the bed, rubbing against Jiang Sisi’s feet.

Jiang Sisi bent down and scooped up Xiangxiang.

She scratched the cat’s neck and cooed, “Awake already, little princess?”

Leng Xiang watched Jiang Sisi play with the cat with a strange, complicated expression. Xiangxiang meowed at Leng Xiang, wriggled free, and burrowed into her arms.

Leng Xiang instinctively reached out and held the cat.

She stroked its fur a couple times. Xiangxiang purred contentedly, nestled in her arms, and drifted off again.

Leng Xiang’s hand paused mid-stroke. She said, “You’re really scary, you know that.”

Jiang Sisi looked up at her and smiled faintly. “Hmm? Why?”

But she clearly knew exactly why.

It was infuriating.

Leng Xiang thought Jiang Sisi knew exactly what was wrong with her but never saw it as a flaw—instead, she viewed it as essential.

Leng Xiang set Xiangxiang on the bed. The cat, nearly asleep in her arms, jolted awake from the abrupt motion but didn’t fuss, just gazed at her with quiet, glassy eyes.

Jiang Sisi watched Leng Xiang quietly too.

Leng Xiang met her gaze and said word by word, “Is it okay to dig up Luo Pi’s trauma for a movie? To rip open her scars and put them on screen just for a role, making her relive losing her parents?”

For one film, you force someone to exhume their pain to fit your character. Is that really right?

Leng Xiang took a deep breath and said, “I can work to empathize with Su Qing for this role—fall for someone, as you say, to truly understand her and act better.”

She paused, then continued, “But what you did to Luo Pi… doesn’t your conscience bother you?”

Jiang Sisi looked at her, eyes deep and unreadable. They stared at each other.

The two scripts lay forgotten on the bed.

Jiang Sisi said, “Xiangxiang, I’m a director. Making films I’m proud of is my life’s goal. Nothing will change that.”

Xiangxiang meowed, tilting its head at its owner, puzzled why she was calling its name now.

Leng Xiang ignored the nickname and kept staring.

She said, “No, you’re a merchant through and through. You’d do anything for your movies.”

With that, Leng Xiang stormed out.

Jiang Sisi held Xiangxiang, watching Leng Xiang leave and slam the door. The vast hotel room fell silent.

Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling window, darkness reigned.

Jiang Sisi stroked Xiangxiang and let out a faint sigh. She smiled and murmured to herself, “Xiangxiang, did I really make her mad?”

Xiangxiang meowed and licked her extended finger.

Jiang Sisi pondered.

·

The next morning, the set buzzed with activity. Lights in place, cinematographer ready. Leng Xiang stood before the camera. Jiang Sisi watched the monitor as usual—no different from yesterday. Yet an inexplicable tension hung over the set.

Wang Linlin stood to the side, rubbing the goosebumps on her arms. She muttered, “Why does it feel chilly in here?”

Pei Shuang, beside her, said, “Yeah, a bit cold.”

Wang Linlin tilted her head, glancing at Leng Xiang in front of the camera, then at Jiang Sisi behind it. Inspiration struck. “Did they have a fight?”

Pei Shuang gave her a surprised look, impressed she’d picked up on the undercurrent between them.

Leng Xiang had seemed off when she came down from upstairs last night.

Pei Shuang recalled the evening but lived by a carefree philosophy—what was it to her? What was it to them? Gossip reached her lips but she swallowed it.

She had no idea what happened between Jiang Sisi and Leng Xiang.

Those two were close enough to make out on laps, so she’d assumed a late-night “script chat” meant she’d be alone that night. Leng Xiang coming back down had surprised her.

Pei Shuang wondered if they’d broken down mid-race on Akina Mountain?