This scene was Su Qing’s wedding. Not long after Jiang Chuan got married, Su Qing wed the man she had met at that blind date.
She still remembered the morning of the blind date, when Jiang Chuan had done her makeup.
That morning, they had chatted. She had been utterly reluctant about the blind date, looking listless. She had said to Jiang Chuan, “If this blind date fails too, let’s just make do together. We’ve already made do for eight years—what difference would a few more make?”
Jiang Chuan had looked into her eyes, lowered her head to outline her brows with gentle tenderness, yet a faint, barely perceptible sadness had seeped through.
She had clearly seen it back then but hadn’t understood why Jiang Chuan was sad.
Now, she completely understood.
But it was too late.
Jiang Chuan hadn’t attended her wedding.
At the wedding, Su Qing had forced a smile as she linked arms with her new husband and entered the hall of matrimony, exchanging vows under the priest’s guidance.
It wasn’t revenge, nor resentment or self-blame—nothing that dramatic. It was simply that after their fight at Jiang Chuan’s wedding, she had accepted this outcome.
She seemed somewhat absent-minded, smiling at the guests while constantly searching for the figure that should have been by her side—but it never appeared.
Even her ex-boyfriends had shown up, causing a farce, but the one person who should have been there most never once appeared.
That became their final ending.
Love itself is a luxury good. Once I missed it, I had no chance to get it back.
Leng Xiang wore a pure white, sacred wedding dress. Under the camera’s lens, it was obvious she was distracted and lost in thought.
Normally, such wandering during filming shouldn’t happen.
But this scene called for exactly that expression. Jiang Sisi quickly cut to a close-up, focusing on Leng Xiang’s face.
The guests arrived, greeting the bride and groom at the church entrance with congratulations. Leng Xiang nodded, offering perfunctory smiles, her mind nowhere on the wedding.
Li Guchuan tugged at her sleeve, his voice laced with perfectly measured concern as he whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Leng Xiang shook her head. “Nothing.”
A proper smile played on Li Guchuan’s lips as he patted Leng Xiang’s back.
It was like comfort—or like probing.
Both in the scene and out.
This part of the script originally had no dialogue, but Li Guchuan spoke casually, and Leng Xiang responded in kind. It fit the scene perfectly, without any conflict.
In that instant, Leng Xiang even forgot she was acting. Her mind fixated on one thing.
Jiang Sisi had someone she liked—whether it was in the past or ongoing, she didn’t know.
It shouldn’t have anything to do with me, she thought, but my heart feels so cluttered, just like that night when we rehearsed opposite each other.
Something felt off.
This shouldn’t be happening—not in the scene, not in reality.
But Su Qing in the story had to accept it, and she… had no standing to care about it.
What did it matter to her if Jiang Sisi had liked someone?
On what grounds could I even ask her?
To Jiang Sisi, she was probably just someone fun to tease—maybe that’s why Jiang Sisi bothered teaching her.
She couldn’t help turning to look at Jiang Sisi.
No camera faced Jiang Sisi’s direction. In the feed from the camera, Jiang Sisi only saw Leng Xiang suddenly turn her head, gazing into the distance.
She seemed lost in a daze, pondering something. In that moment, the guests and her new husband vanished from her eyes. She stood alone at the church entrance, staring off into the unknown.
The assistant director couldn’t resist poking his head out from behind the camera to see what had Leng Xiang so entranced.
As soon as he did, he sucked in a sharp breath.
Leng Xiang was clearly looking their way—and he swore it wasn’t at him.
Holy hell, why was Leng Xiang looking at Jiang Sisi with such a resentful gaze?
He glanced at Jiang Sisi, who was intently watching the monitor, oblivious.
The assistant director silently crammed his bulky frame back behind the camera, screaming internally.
This person is too dense! How could she not see it when it’s this obvious?!
Jiang Sisi watched the feed, a bit puzzled. She turned to say something to the assistant director but found him staring at her in disbelief.
Jiang Sisi blinked in confusion. “Do I have something on my face?”
The assistant director froze for a moment before snapping back. “No, nothing.”
Jiang Sisi shot him a look. “If there’s nothing, focus on the scene. Slacking off like this, I might dock your pay.”
The assistant director: “…”
No wonder Jiang the Skinflint couldn’t see it—she deserved to be single!
Jiang Sisi pointed at the screen. “Why did she suddenly get it? This take is good—we can use it.”
Of course it was usable. Leng Xiang had poured real emotion into it, capturing Su Qing’s sense of loss from the script perfectly.
Jiang Sisi called over the script supervisor and said a few words.
The script supervisor nodded and held up a slate: “Look up at the sky.”
Leng Xiang withdrew her gaze and looked up at the sky.
One camera followed her line of sight at an angle, while the other captured her profile.
It was fine weather—blue skies, white clouds, warm sunlight spilling down.
The guests followed the bride’s gaze upward.
A white trail streaked across the sky: migratory birds heading home, while rotten wood found no perch.
In that instant, she suddenly thought of Luo Pi and what Tan Ya had told her that day.
By sheer coincidence, Jiang Sisi had learned of Luo Pi’s situation, helped her find a legal team, fought her lawsuit—even the female lead in Youth Tour was inspired by Luo Pi.
Perhaps out of curiosity, or some subtle pity.
And she and Luo Pi had sparked Jiang Sisi’s inspiration for films like Youth Tour and Luxury Goods.
Essentially, to Jiang Sisi, she and Luo Pi were the same.
Leng Xiang withdrew her gaze. Forget it.
Even if she truly felt lost because of whoever Jiang Sisi liked.
Even if she harbored other feelings toward Jiang Sisi.
Even if, maybe, she liked Jiang Sisi just a little.
Even so, forget it.
She never held expectations for the impossible anyway.
…
Jiang Sisi called cut. The scene was done.
This time, she didn’t ask Leng Xiang and Li Guchuan for another take. She sent them off to rest first.
After reviewing the full playback, the assistant director said, “It’s solid. A little editing, and it’s good.”
He hesitated, coughed twice, then said, “By the way, what do you think of Leng Xiang?”
Jiang Sisi replied, “She’s great—really hardworking.”
The assistant director was exasperated. “That’s not what I meant!”
Jiang Sisi glanced at him. “Then what do you mean?”
The assistant director stammered, “I-I…”
Jiang Sisi raised her eyes, looking at him incredulously. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for Leng Xiang?”
The assistant director: “…”
Jiang Sisi said firmly, “No way, I don’t approve. You’re, what, twenty years older?”
She glanced toward Leng Xiang, who stood with Li Guchuan, waiting for the directors’ decision on whether to reshoot.
Leng Xiang was looking at her.
Jiang Sisi smiled at Leng Xiang.
She was always like that.
The assistant director grew anxious. “I-I’m not… I don’t have a thing for her!”
Jiang Sisi’s gaze returned to the monitor. She rewatched from the start, bantering habitually. “You don’t like her?”
The assistant director: “…”
You devil. Fine, I’ll shut up.
Jiang Sisi looked up from the monitor. “Tell them we’re done with this scene—no reshoots. Wrap it.”
She had reviewed it three times. Leng Xiang seemed immersed yet detached.
It didn’t affect the quality.
But why had that upward gaze at the sky looked so lonely?
.
This was the first time since filming Luxury Goods* began that Leng Xiang nailed a scene in one take.
Leng Xiang was surprised to hear they wouldn’t reshoot but showed no other reaction.
Wang Linlin handed her a down jacket. Leng Xiang wrapped up her exposed skin, said nothing, and headed to the changing room.
Watching Leng Xiang’s back, Wang Linlin muttered to herself, “Why do I feel like something’s off?”
Li Guchuan changed back into his own clothes and went to find Jiang Sisi for food.
Jiang Sisi was packing up equipment. Li Guchuan grinned beside her.
Jiang Sisi spared him a glance. “What? Lurking around like that.”
Li Guchuan said, “Just a reminder: it’s the twenty-seventh of the twelfth lunar month already.”
Jiang Sisi raised an eyebrow. “So?”
Li Guchuan: “So, per national holiday rules, the crew should get time off.”
Jiang Sisi: “We haven’t finished filming. No holiday.”
Listen to her.
Jiang the Skinflint lived up to her name.
Li Guchuan didn’t mind; crew life meant flipped days and nights, no holidays—they were used to it.
He added, “Also, I just chatted with your little friend about some of your gossip.”
Jiang Sisi finished packing and straightened up. “Heaven and earth as witness, I’m grinding nonstop on set, one film after another, slaving away for cinema. What gossip could I have?”
Li Guchuan: “…”
Though they’d known each other for years, he still couldn’t fathom how she said such things so shamelessly.
Jiang Sisi eyed him. “Which ‘little friend’ of ours?”
Li Guchuan hinted, “Who else? Stop pretending.”
Jiang Sisi: “So, how did you slander me to her?”
Li Guchuan: “Slander? It was all facts.”
He paused. “I told her about… your old thing.”
Jiang Sisi was puzzled. “What old thing?”
Li Guchuan: “You know… Xiao Yue.”
Jiang Sisi fell silent.
Xiao Yue.
That was so many years ago, so distant she’d nearly forgotten.
She hadn’t seen Xiao Yue in years, couldn’t even recall her face.
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