Chapter 60

The rehearsal venue was in the TV station’s old building, a structure that had seen better days with infrastructure that left much to be desired.

The restroom was just that—a restroom. No separate areas for men and women, no bright lighting.

But it had a large mirror, and not too many people coming and going. It was the most suitable spot Xu Yueliang could find.

When she entered the station, the producer assigned to her hadn’t shown up. He’d simply instructed security to let her through. The messages she sent went unanswered for ages; she knew he must be swamped right now.

So after arriving, she didn’t bother him further and found the rehearsal backstage on her own.

A crowd of dancers had gathered there, with staff directing everyone according to the schedule.

Xu Yueliang figured it would be fine for her to wait there.

She lingered for quite a while, but the time didn’t feel agonizing.

All around her were novel sights—things she’d never seen, never experienced, things she secretly yearned for.

She watched intently, observing quietly from a corner until her producer suddenly called.

He sounded frantic on the other end. “Where the hell are you? Why aren’t you here yet?”

Xu Yueliang double-checked their chat history. She’d asked where to go upon arrival, but he’d never replied.

A bit flustered, she reported her location. He barked at her, “What are you doing way over there? Haven’t you noticed everyone else is already done with hair and makeup? Get over here now!”

Clutching her big bag, phone still to her ear, Xu Yueliang bolted toward the spot he indicated.

But the building was enormous, its corridors twisting and turning. Even after asking several staff members for directions, she still went the wrong way.

By the time she found the place—the room labeled “Actors’ Makeup Room”—it was packed.

Everyone was in a frenzy. Countless dancers darted back and forth, the few makeup artists wielding their brushes in a blur, with queues of people waiting behind them.

Xu Yueliang had no idea where to line up.

A staffer in a vest spotted her and called out, “Which group are you with?”

She quickly gave her name. He flipped through his clipboard, glanced at her.

That glance came with furrowed brows and an inscrutable look in his eyes.

“Xu Yueliang?” The man eyed her up and down. “The female anchor?”

He wasn’t quiet about it. The words “female anchor” drew stares from everyone in the room.

Xu Yueliang realized this was her producer and responded, “Yes…”

He said, “Why are you so damn slow? The line’s already full.”

She hurried to explain, apologized profusely, and bowed repeatedly, hoping he’d forgive her mistake and slot her in.

The producer eyed her for a long moment, then waved his hand. “Fine, just get in line here.”

She looked where he pointed, but it was vague. Squeezing her fingers, she asked, “Which makeup artist?”

He stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth and chomped on it. “Wherever there’s an opening. You think we’ve got a personal stylist for you with this crowd?”

Xu Yueliang bit her lip and said nothing.

The cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Hurry it up. Half an hour left—if you miss your slot, no stage time.”

She jumped. “Got it.”

He gave her another glance, checked his clipboard, and walked out.

Clutching her bag, Xu Yueliang could no longer afford to wait patiently.

She darted around desperately, hunting for a makeup artist with an opening, but everyone was swamped, chatting efficiently with clients as they worked. She alone stood there, lost and helpless.

Snippets of conversation drifted into her ears, laced with snickers, not bothering to lower their voices around her.

“Which female anchor is this? Didn’t we book the station’s top guy and gal?”

“Not that anchor—the other one. You know, the internet streamer.”

“Oh, even net celebs are on the station’s gala now?”

“Yeah, I heard she blew up from that National Day dance. This year’s all about pushing online trends, keeping up with the times.”

“Is she really that big? Doesn’t look it.”

“Yeah, no assistant or anything, and she’s squeezing into our makeup room.”

“Right? And from what Li Ge said, she might not even get a spot.”

“Talk about treating her like dirt.”

“How do you know they invited her? If they did, Li Ge wouldn’t dare act like that. Probably some sugar daddy pulled strings to sneak her in. These days, any hen with cash can turn into a phoenix.”

“That doesn’t look like someone with money, either…”

“So she’s got nothing. No wonder she can’t even get into rehearsal.”

She couldn’t even get into rehearsal.

Xu Yueliang’s fingers clenched the strap of her bag until her knuckles whitened. She blinked once, and tears welled up uncontrollably in her eyes.

She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t miss out on even the rehearsal.

This opportunity was a stroke of incredible luck, just like everyone said—an internet streamer breaking into B City’s TV station was like a scrappy wild hen transforming into a phoenix.

Even if nothing else came of it, just performing in this gala would gild her resume with gold.

Xu Yueliang needed that gold. She wanted to transition, to land proper performance gigs down the line.

And she really had been invited by one of the station’s directors. Maybe it was just a casual remark on his part, but it had come through legitimate channels.

She couldn’t lose this chance.

Bowing her head, she took a deep breath, forcing the tears back down.

She walked over to the makeup artists, ignoring the crowd watching her, and quietly asked each one, “Teacher, do you have time? I’m going on stage soon—only half an hour left. Could I get in line with you?”

But every answer was the same: no.

“You can see for yourself.” “There’s a line, okay? Look at all these people.” “Why are you in such a rush when no one else is?” “Everyone here’s going on stage.” “If you’re in a hurry, don’t show up late!” “Step aside—you’re blocking the light.”

An elbow nudged her out.

She pressed her lips together. A mental alarm clock ticked away in her head.

She studied the makeup the artists had done, then stopped begging or waiting pointlessly. Clutching her bag, she bolted out.

She reached the bathroom. There was a mirror, and her bag held cosmetics.

She had hands trained from years of doing her own on-camera makeup. It wouldn’t be any worse than what those artists had done.

Xu Yueliang fired off a quick update to Lin Qimian, then unzipped her makeup pouch and got to work.

Someone entered midway, stared at her curiously for a good while.

Xu Yueliang ignored it. Streaming had taught her that: during work hours, tune out what doesn’t matter.

With ten minutes to spare before the producer’s deadline, she finished her makeup and changed into her outfit.

No time for a fancy updo, so she simply twisted her hair into a bun and tied it with a ribbon.

Taking a deep breath, she looked at her reflection. The mirror was grimy, but she still shone through.

You’ve got this, she told herself.

Just like the sticky note on her computer, just like Doctor Lin’s encouragement that morning.

She hurried back to the backstage area. This time, she spotted him—Li Cong, the producer, standing at the corridor entrance, chatting and laughing with someone.

Xu Yueliang ran up, bowed, and interrupted. “Teacher Li, I’m ready.”

Li Cong eyed her up and down, lips twitching. “Just like that?”

Xu Yueliang wasn’t sure what he meant and stayed silent.

The person chatting with Li Cong chuckled. “Where’d this little girl come from? You just love picking on them.”

“She’s not little.” Li Cong flipped through his clipboard. “She’s a streamer. A dancer. Added to give our station some fashion cred.”

He turned to Xu Yueliang. “So, what are you young folks into these days? Stuff like you?”

She pressed her lips together, silent.

When facing attacks, the best response was no response—as long as you wanted to keep working.

Unable to draw her out, Li Cong chatted a bit more with the other man. Xu Yueliang stood quietly. Bored, Li Cong waved her off. “What are you still doing here? Get in there.”

“Oh, right.” She started inside.

Li Cong yanked her back by her bag strap. “What’s in this thing? Your phone’s in there, right?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He frowned. “No phones allowed inside. Didn’t you know?”

“Sorry, I…”

In a rare moment of mercy, he pointed. “Storage lockers over there. Stash it quick.”

“Okay.” Xu Yueliang absorbed the instruction and hurried to the lockers nearby, dumping all her belongings inside.

She paused as she closed the door, remembering she should text Doctor Lin an update.

But Doctor Lin was probably swamped right now. Who knew when she’d get a break? It wasn’t urgent anyway.

She shut the locker and dashed back to backstage.

This time, Li Cong said nothing, just stepped aside to let her squeeze through a narrow gap.

Xu Yueliang pushed in, merging into the bustling crowd.

Lin Qimian’s phone kept ringing without answer.

At the intersection, the car ahead refused to budge even after the light turned green. The drivers queued up behind it leaned on their horns in a frenzy, filling the air with blaring chaos.

Lin Qimian switched away from the call and sent a voice message to Zhenzhen. “I’m skipping the hospital this afternoon. Cover for me with the director and get me a personal day.”

Zhenzhen’s reply popped up, but Lin Qimian ignored it and dialed Xu Yueliang’s number instead.

By the time they reached the intersection, she turned onto the highway leading to the airport.

She knew exactly which channel was airing Xu Yueliang’s performance, and she had the address of her hotel.

Xu Yueliang never bothered hiding those details in her messages. Lin Qimian even knew her room number.

Xu Yueliang trusted her completely, happy to share every little snippet of her daily life.

So if anything went wrong with that information, how could Lin Qimian possibly stay calm? How could she play the part of a casual friend, toss out a few bland reassurances, and wash her hands of it?

Lin Qimian knew the most likely explanation was that Xu Yueliang was swamped.

Rehearsals could consume every waking second, leaving no room to glance at a phone.

But what if it wasn’t? Any “what if” carried consequences Lin Qimian couldn’t stomach.

She had no idea if Xu Yueliang shared those details with anyone else. What she did know was that Youhai could spin on just fine without her—a dime a dozen doctor.

Xu Yueliang without her? Lin Qimian couldn’t bear even the tiniest setback.

En route to the airport, she reached out to contacts in B City. While waiting for her flight to take off, she dug into the details of the gala Xu Yueliang was performing in.

Which station owned it, which production company was hosting, who the chief director was, the deputies, and most crucially, who handled scheduling for performers like Xu Yueliang.

Three hours later, Lin Qimian touched down in B City.

Retracing the route Xu Yueliang had taken, she arrived at the TV station and slipped into the rehearsal hall.

Her friend was deep in conversation with station staff as Lin Qimian’s gaze swept every nook and cranny. No sign of Xu Yueliang.

Her friend sidled up. “They ran through it once at noon. Break time now—most folks are grabbing lunch. Another full run tonight.

“No incidents today, just nonstop hustle. When it’s go-time like this, phones get forgotten.

“I checked with the crew handling performer check-ins. Your friend arrived on schedule and jumped into rehearsals. No clue where she wandered off to now.”

Lin Qimian asked, “Box lunches on-site, or fend for yourselves?”

A staffer answered, “We’ve got boxed meals right here. Take one if you want, or head out—mall’s nearby, food street too. Tons of spots worth trying.”

Lin Qimian glanced at her phone. Still nothing from Xu Yueliang.

If she’d gone out for something tasty, there’d be a photo by now, guaranteed.

“Where do I grab a box?” Suppressing a surge of unease, Lin Qimian added, “Starving over here. Mind if I snag one?”

Her friend had sponsored the station multiple times with hefty sums. A free meal was small potatoes; the staffers were all smiles about it.

Lin Qimian made her way to the performers’ eating area—an open stretch of floor where everyone picked up their boxes and scattered to eat.

She claimed hers, politely turning down the staffer’s invite for her and her friend to hit a private dining room. “You two go on,” she told her friend. “I’ll poke around.”

Box in hand, she drifted toward the biggest cluster of performers, hovering at the edge.

A gaggle of young backup dancers, divided into two groups, all decked out in matching stage outfits.

They ate and chattered away, a lively buzz of giggles and gossip.

No hushed tones here—Lin Qimian caught every word.

They griped about the brutal rehearsal grind, swooned over some young idol’s looks, then pivoted to the director’s temper. One piped up: “Internet celeb’s an internet celeb. No match for real stars.”

Lin Qimian idly jabbed at the rice in her box.

Her friend had handed her a station badge the moment they arrived, smoothing her entry.

Wearing it now, she eased into their circle with a casual, “Which internet celeb? Missed her entirely.”

Instant response: “That female streamer, duh? The dance video that blew up online. Got on stage today and just… froze. Whole show’s flow ground to a halt. Chief director lost his shit.”

Lin Qimian’s brow creased. “Wasn’t around for it. One brain-freeze? Run it back. Happens all the time. What set Director Zhou off today?”

“Not just once,” another cut in. “Full-on statue mode. He held back at first, but Pan Xi’s bit flows right into hers—they had to drill the handoff. Pan Xi’s a legit star; schedule’s packed. Ain’t got time to babysit.”

“Yeah, Director Zhou just said a couple of words, and she burst into tears. Everyone here is exhausted—who isn’t?—but she’s the only one bold enough to cry right in front of the chief director.”

“And that styling of hers? What was up with that? No makeup artist on hand? That was her solo dance segment. If I’d had the chance, I’d have decked myself out in gold from head to toe.”

“Well… there really wasn’t one,” someone murmured. “I was in the dressing room at the time. She showed up late, and no one did her makeup. Li Ge didn’t bother with her either. She asked around, then just went off on her own. I think… she did it herself. That’s probably why her hair was such a mess too.”

“And those clothes? What on earth was she wearing? They looked so tacky.”

Lin Qimian shoved her chopsticks into the lunchbox. “Aren’t the costumes handled uniformly by the styling team? Didn’t they give her anything?”

“Then I wouldn’t know…”

“I reckon Li Ge’s got a grudge against her. Word is, she got shoehorned in at the last minute. We’ve been rehearsing for days now, and her showing up meant changing a bunch of stuff. No wonder it’s annoying whoever’s in charge.”

“Shoehorned in? Her sponsor must not give a damn, then. She came here all by herself—other stars have assistants and managers trailing them. We’ve got the whole group and our teachers. Small wonder Old Li picks on her; she’s an easy mark…”

“Her sponsor doesn’t sound like much. Probably not rolling in cash. She just rode that little burst of fame from National Day to snag this spot. From what I saw of the chief director’s vibe, if she doesn’t pull it off tonight, they’ll yank the whole performance…”

There was nothing left worth hearing.

Lin Qimian snapped the lid shut on her lunchbox and tossed it into the trash can nearby.

“How can they just pull the show on a whim? They’d have to scramble to make changes again,” she said. “There’s no time left. Has anyone seen her? Where is she right now?”

Lin Qimian’s mood was foul as she spoke, her voice icy and her tone unyielding.

It might have sounded like a question, but it came across more like a command.

The group, who had been gossiping away moments before, fell silent in an instant. They stared at her, faces frozen in surprise and a touch of fear.

Someone pointed hesitantly in a direction. “When I came over from the break room earlier, I saw her in the hallway on the north side…”

Lin Qimian: “Which floor?”

“Third floor.” The girl hesitated. “She seemed… to be practicing her dance.”