Qiao Qi got a firsthand taste of the saying “a blessing in disguise.”
Unlike the smoke-choked chaos of 706, Cheng Yuzhi’s room was bright and clean, and not crowded—besides himself, there were only one man and one woman inside.
The young woman looked to be in her early twenties, dressed in white overalls with a matching beret, giving off a gentle, bookish air.
When Qiao Qi looked at her, she didn’t seem to mind at all—she returned the look with a soft, warm smile instead.
The other man was likely a bodyguard, dressed in a neat suit, sitting off to the side with a serious expression, saying nothing.
Qiao Qi, a bit puzzled, looked to Cheng Yuzhi, who explained with a smile: “This is my daughter, Cheng Yueming. She’s loved writing since she was little—been studying abroad for years, just graduated, actually, and has a piece of work she’s fairly satisfied with.”
Qiao Qi’s heart skipped. She turned sharply toward Cheng Yueming.
“I saw you when you first walked into the hotel.” Cheng Yueming spoke up first, apologetic, holding out her phone toward Qiao Qi. “Sorry, I took a photo of you without asking.”
Qiao Qi looked down and saw it was indeed her on the screen.
The exact moment she’d entered the hotel.
The Tianyi Building lobby had a revolving door. She’d stood on the rotating platform, back straight. As the door paused, she’d lowered her head slightly, hand lightly gathering her skirt hem as she lifted her hip and stepped forward.
The photo had caught that instant.
Judging by the angle, Cheng Yueming must have been on the second floor, off to the right, which was how she’d managed to capture such a clear shot of the red mole at Qiao Qi’s neck.
A flicker of excitement stirred inside Qiao Qi, but since the other woman hadn’t explained herself yet, she kept it hidden.
Her circumstances weren’t good. Ever since entering this line of work, she’d never dared imagine a bright future in broad daylight—only, occasionally, late at night, tossing and turning under the moonlight.
She knew exactly how deep the waters of the entertainment industry ran without ever having to wade in.
She had no dream of being an actress. She just wanted to make money.
And the entertainment industry, admittedly, was a place with plenty of it.
At least more than shooting commercials and print ads.
If this opportunity was real, and she could actually seize it…
“My female lead has one distinguishing feature.” Cheng Yueming said, looking at Qiao Qi. “A red mole on her neck.”
Qiao Qi reflexively touched her own neck.
Cheng Yueming smiled. “It’s just a mole, I know—makeup and styling can fake plenty. But I’m a bit stubborn, and I overthink things. If something like that’s fake, I start to feel like the person is fake too.”
“I mentioned it to my dad in passing, and I never expected he’d actually find you.”
Cheng Yuzhi hurriedly added, “I really didn’t go looking—I just happened to run into her outside the restroom, that’s all.”
In truth, Cheng Yuzhi hadn’t originally thought Qiao Qi was anything special. If pressed, he’d have said she was good-looking, with a striking presence.
She stood there, and with the right lighting, she was captivating enough to steal the breath from anyone watching.
But plenty of people in this industry were good-looking. On camera, what audiences focused on wasn’t just looks.
It was only once he saw the red mole on her snow-white skin that Qiao Qi seemed to come alive in his mind, almost instantly.
He could already picture her, in his mind’s eye, flashing a captivating smile—and, in a qipao, coldly gunning someone down amid the chaos of a fallen era.
So he took out a script from the bag beside him and slid it gently across to Qiao Qi. “This is the script. Take a look.”
Qiao Qi startled. “Director Cheng—”
Cheng Yuzhi cut her off with a smile. “No rush. Read it first, and we’ll set up a time to talk properly another day.”
Cheng Yueming smiled too. “Good luck, Qi Qi!”
Almost at the same moment, something rippled faintly across Qiao Qi’s usually unshakeable heart.
—
Qiao Qi received Liang Yan’s email right as she got home, while she was changing shoes in the entryway. After a moment’s thought, she still sent back a private WeChat message thanking him.
The moment she did, another message popped up.
It was from Director Lu.
Director Lu: Xiao Qi, are you busy?
Just four neat characters, but Qiao Qi could still spot the careful hesitance behind them.
Director Lu was the current head of Mingtian Orphanage, and nearly every matter, big or small, at the orphanage passed through her hands.
Sending a message this late probably meant she’d just finished dealing with something.
Qiao Qi kicked off her shoes, slipped on slippers, and walked further inside while dialing Director Lu.
Director Lu picked up quickly, her tone apologetic. “Sorry to message you so late.”
“It’s not a bother.”
Qiao Qi’s current place was rented—chosen for the cheap rent rather than a good location, and the fixtures weren’t great either. The room was under twenty square meters, furnished simply.
Just a bed, a wardrobe, and a table—nothing else.
Exhausted, she sat down on the edge of the bed, her spine curving, her neck bending at an angle.
The faint outline of bone showed beneath her skin.
She reached up and undid the top button of her collar, asking Director Lu directly, “Did something happen at the orphanage?”
Director Lu sighed, not bothering to hide it.
Though Qiao Qi hadn’t grown up under her care directly, they’d still weathered two or three years together, and Director Lu generally didn’t keep things from her when something came up at the orphanage.
Mostly because she had no one else to consult, either.
“It’s Maiya again,” Director Lu said. “The hospital’s confirmed everything about the surgery. It’s just—”
Director Lu found it hard to say the rest.
She knew how hard Qiao Qi had it—a young girl with nothing, making her own way in the world alone, pouring nearly every cent she earned into the orphanage, when none of it was even her responsibility.
“It’s confirmed already?” Qiao Qi asked, a note of surprise and delight in her voice. “So does that mean once she has the surgery, she’ll definitely recover?”
“That’s the conservative estimate.” Director Lu was pleased too.
Qiao Qi nodded. “I understand. Director Lu, you don’t need to overthink it—whatever comes up, just tell me. When I first said I’d take responsibility for Maiya, I meant to see it through to the end. Send me the surgery costs and paperwork whenever you can—if time allows, I’ll get the payment to the hospital by the end of this month.”
Director Lu sighed again, unable to help herself. “Xiao Qi, honestly, you—”
Knowing Director Lu was about to launch into more self-blame and guilt, Qiao Qi cut her off before she could. “It’s fine, Director Lu. If anything, I should be the one thanking you for staying at the orphanage.”
After all, that place was where she’d grown up—and now, the only place she could still turn to when things got hard.
“Xiao Qi, you really…” Director Lu’s voice grew heavy. “You’ve really had it rough.”
Qiao Qi said nothing, just closed her eyes gently.
The exhaustion of a whole night’s turmoil finally began releasing itself from her chest, unchecked.
—
After hanging up, Qiao Qi didn’t head to wash up or remove her makeup right away. Instead, she flopped lazily onto the bed and flipped open Cheng Yueming’s script.
Titled Mansion of Smoke and Clouds, it was a Republican-era drama.
Set against the backdrop of a chaotic age, it was clearly never going to be a light, easy story.
The main plot centered on a woman named Cheng Yanyun, and the story unfolded at the Paramount Ballroom.
…
Everyone knew Shanghai’s Paramount was famous for its abundance of beauties and men of status—most of the men here were sons of the elite, and the women could sing, dance, and were as stunning as celestial beauties.
And Cheng Yanyun was the biggest star of the Paramount.
Amid glittering lights and swaying music, songs and dance wove through clouds of smoke.
Cheng Yanyun, dressed in an elegant, dignified qipao, held a black rose and performed a song called “Nightingale’s Melody” on stage.
Her face was radiant, but her presence carried a cool detachment—while singing, her eyes never once dropped to the crowd of vile men below.
Until she casually tossed the rose down among the crowd, sparking a scramble, and a single petal suddenly flew back up onto the stage, grazing lightly across her neck.
A thin line of blood instantly appeared on her delicate skin.
Cheng Yanyun turned sharply and, past the sea of men, spotted one man standing not far off.
This man had just returned from studying abroad, and within a single month had already stirred up trouble among countless children of the powerful—the young master of the Ming family.
Young Master Ming, dressed in a fitted vest, dashing and carefree, called out: “Miss Cheng throws roses so precisely—if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a carrier pigeon.”
A ripple crossed Cheng Yanyun’s usually calm, unreadable eyes.
…
Reading this far, Qiao Qi already understood where the story was headed.
Cheng Yanyun was certain to have some organization behind her, and Young Master Ming was surely no mere idle playboy either.
In this chaotic era, the seemingly carefree Paramount Ballroom no doubt concealed countless secrets.
A drama like this…
Qiao Qi rubbed the corner of the script’s paper thoughtfully between her fingers, coolly asking herself: a role like this, a female lead like this—could she really carry it?
Her WeChat suddenly pinged with another message.
Qiao Qi glanced over absently, a smile rising in her eyes.
Liangou: Your Majesty, finished for the night?
Liangou: Will you be gracing this concubine’s chambers tonight?
Liangou: It’s so lonely in this cold, deep palace.
Qiao Qi reached over, closed the script, set it on the nightstand, then propped a pillow behind her lower back and settled in lazily to reply.
She didn’t type—she sent a screenshot instead.
Qi: [Image]
It was the message she’d sent him earlier that evening, about making money to keep him as her kept man.
Liangou: ?
Liangou: What note did you save me under?
His real name was Li’ang; his WeChat nickname had always just been “Liang.” Qiao Qi had added him two years ago and had never given him a proper note—until a few days ago, when the two of them had argued over whether “a hundred pounds counts as fat for a woman,” and Qiao Qi had angrily changed his contact name out of spite.
Qi: Li’ang, dog.
Liangou: ……
Liangou: Baby, your grasp of language is really something.
Qiao Qi’s ears burned at his effortless choice of words.
Qi: Get lost, taking advantage of who exactly?
Liangou: Nope, that’s literally just the note I have for you.
He sent a screenshot to prove it.
Qiao Qi didn’t even need to open it to know what it said—her face reddened as she gritted her teeth.
Qi: Change it!
Liangou: Fine then.
Qiao Qi: ……
Did he really have to listen that obediently?
The next second, another message came through.
Liangou: [Image]
Qiao Qi tapped it open and saw he’d changed her contact name to: “Liangou’s Precious Baby.”
Qi: …………886
Qi: Welcome to the block list.
Author’s Note: Liangou: We can talk about the block list later, but baby, that “886” of yours is so out of style.