Zhao Ping Jin was at his home in Beijing.

He had stayed in Beijing for over a month this time. After spring began, Beijing had several more snowfalls. Going back and forth in his car daily, he had barely gone out. His last trip to Shanghai was to sign a contract for developing a large-scale vehicle dispatch system for an APEC conference. The preliminary software development work for this project was still being done in Beijing. The company had several other major projects running simultaneously. After returning, he was consumed by work and social obligations, keeping him genuinely busy for quite some time. When the intelligent dispatch system they were developing reached the real-time demonstration stage, Zhao Ping Jin worked through several sleepless nights for meetings, until he eventually came down with a fever. He handed his work over to Vice President Li Ming and took more than a week off to rest.

It had been almost two months since he last left Shanghai.

Shen Min, who worked as his special assistant, had added one more task to her duties: regularly forwarding a schedule from Huang Xi Tang’s company to his email. When he was busy, he would just glance at it briefly. There wasn’t much to see anyway—just a single page, rarely exceeding three lines.

That afternoon, Zhao Ping Jin received an IV at the hospital. During these days of illness, his mother, Mrs. Zhou, had forbidden him from staying alone at his Baiyue Residence. He had returned to his parents’ home. In the evening, back at home, he opened his phone and looked through those emails again.

Then he called Shen Min and asked, “What does she do when she’s not filming?”

Shortly after, Shen Min forwarded another document.

This one was also a single page but with two additional lines.

—Artist Huang Xi Tang’s Work Schedule for April 24— 4:00 AM: Wake up 4:30 AM: Depart for early morning extra scenes 5:00 AM: Arrive at makeup room, 1 to 1.5 hours for makeup 7:30 AM: “Rose” set, “Love Across the Jianghu” set, “Dawn Before Daybreak” set, filming for a total of 14 hours Around 10:00 PM: Finish work, have dinner with crew members 11:00 PM: Return to residence in Hengdian

Zhao Ping Jin asked another question: “She films so many dramas in one day?”

A minute later, Shen Min replied that according to the company, she was currently between major roles, with her next film starting in ten days. During this period, most artists would rest, but Miss Huang was taking on extra work herself.

Zhao Ping Jin reviewed all the emails Shen Min had sent him once more from the beginning.

Her life was truly uneventful—living alone, without friends. She got along well with the people on set, but as people came and went, she never initiated social interactions.

Her only recreation was going for a late-night meal with crew members after filming, but even these companions weren’t fixed—usually, just some extras or stunt doubles she had worked with that day. After eating, she would return home alone.

She existed in that small town almost in isolation.

According to her profile provided by the company, she had signed with Xingyi Entertainment and moved to Hengdian just two or three years ago.

But their breakup had happened five years ago.

She loved acting—this was something he knew. But the industry had such extreme ups and downs, with few people finding real success. That was why he hadn’t supported her entering the profession initially. The year Xi Tang graduated, he had hoped she would pursue a master’s degree. However, she was filming “Orange Youth” at the time—her first formal acting role, starring on the big screen, and in Director Lin Yong Chuan’s film, no less. She especially cherished this opportunity, diligently studying the script three months in advance. She had read over twenty books related to the screenplay. Focusing on this caused her to neglect other things, resulting in disappointing scores on her first attempt at the graduate entrance exam. Zhao Ping Jin wanted her to try again, but good scripts and directors were approaching her for discussions. Xi Tang was wholly dedicated to preparing for these roles and had no time. She wanted to postpone her graduate studies, but Zhao Ping Jin forcefully interfered with her work, causing frequent arguments between them.

She left him. All these years she had been silent, and he had forced himself to forget this woman. But he never imagined that Huang Xi Tang, once so spirited and promising at graduation, would willingly accept these small roles without even a single line of dialogue.

The housekeeper knocked on the door and asked from outside, “Young Master Zhou? I’ve heated some milk, would you like some?”

Zhao Ping Jin responded, then turned off his phone.

The car drove into an old Western-style mansion with red bricks and black tiles in the Xuhui District.

The carved iron gates slowly opened. In early summer, lush green branches sprawled across the courtyard, with rose bushes pushing out pale pink buds. In the parking area in front of the house, green grass filled the cracks between the dark red ceramic tiles.

He found this residence uncomfortably large. Over the years, whenever he came to Shanghai, he would stay at his maternal grandparents’ home for family visits. If he came for work purposes and wasn’t staying long, he would simply stay at a hotel.

This Western-style mansion from the Republic era had nearly a hundred years of history. It had been completely renovated after Liberation, and when the government returned it to the Zhou family after the Cultural Revolution, it was renovated once more. This was a gift from his maternal grandparents’ Zhou family for his eighteenth birthday.

Zhao Ping Jin got out of the car, and the driver carried his luggage to the second floor.

The house was kept clean, with arched-colored round windows, old-style large furniture, leather sofas, and long lace curtains. He hadn’t been here for several months.

Everything was the same as before, except for a small box placed in the guest bedroom on the second floor.

It must be Huang Xi Tang’s.

Soon the housekeeper came in and said, “Miss Xi Tang called to say she’ll be back from the set this afternoon, arriving around six o’clock.”

Ni Kai Lun had made many demands, but Zhao Ping Jin couldn’t be bothered to haggle. His only requirement was that whenever he was in Shanghai and wanted to see her, she had to come.

Zhao Ping Jin went to his room and took a short afternoon nap.

He woke up just after three o’clock and handled some business matters in the living room when he heard sounds on the stairs.

Half a minute later, someone gently pushed open the living room door.

Zhao Ping Jin looked up.

After almost two months without seeing her, he felt a bit dazed. Huang Xi Tang stood at the door wearing jeans, a white round-necked cotton shirt, and a brown wide-brimmed hat. Her face was both familiar and strange.

She was wearing makeup and smiling—a sweet, professional smile that was charming.

Zhao Ping Jin glanced at her, then turned back to the contract on his computer and only said, “Take off the hat.”

Xi Tang’s smile remained unchanged as she obediently removed her hat, revealing a completely bald head.

Zhao Ping Jin caught this in his peripheral vision and nearly fell over in anger: “You!”

Xi Tang touched her head somewhat embarrassedly: “The new film requires me to play a Buddhist nun.”

Zhao Ping Jin stood up and roared in anger: “What kind of terrible role did Ni Kai Lun get you!”

Xi Tang smiled cheerfully: “It’s a Hong Kong martial arts director with very high standards. The role is quite good, and few actresses are willing to shave their heads.”

Five years ago, she had been the first woman who could be playful and teasing in front of him, and in the five years since, there had been no other.

Zhao Ping Jin said: “Come here.”

Xi Tang walked over and sat on the sofa beside him.

Zhao Ping Jin couldn’t help but reach out his hand. Xi Tang was quite obedient, lowering her head and moving it closer to him.

Anyone would want to touch it.

The shape of her head was beautiful; even shaved bald, it didn’t look strange. Her soft scalp and slightly prickly hair roots felt good to the touch. She carried a familiar fruity scent he hadn’t encountered in a long time. Zhao Ping Jin suddenly felt a tightness in his nose.

He hated this sudden feeling of softening in himself.

His body suddenly felt a bit restless.

Xi Tang’s head moved slightly.

He pushed her away, frowning impatiently as he said: “Get out, I don’t like women without hair.”

That night, Zhao Ping Jin didn’t eat dinner at home.

Xi Tang was sitting in the courtyard when she saw him coming downstairs. She walked in: “Are you going out tonight?”

Zhao Ping Jin had changed clothes: “I have a business engagement.”

Xi Tang responded with a simple “Oh.”

Zhao Ping Jin looked at her, anger rising from within: “I pay you so much money each month, and you can’t even accompany me to a business function!”

Xi Tang muttered: “What does that have to do with me?”

Zhao Ping Jin looked at her with disdain: “Wouldn’t I lose face taking you out?”

Xi Tang sincerely suggested: “What if I wear a wig?”

Zhao Ping Jin said contemptuously: “That would look terrible.”

He slammed the door and left alone for his dinner engagement.

That night, after finishing his business, he returned home.

The car stopped in front of the house. The lights were dim, and the housekeeper was waiting in the living room: “Mr. Zhao, you’re back.”

Zhao Ping Jin loosened his tie and walked upstairs: “Auntie Mei, make me a bowl of noodles.”

The second-floor living room door was half-closed, but no one was there. The bedroom was also empty.

Zhao Ping Jin walked around, unable to find anyone.

Just as he was about to call someone to ask, he paused in the living room for a few seconds, then headed toward the smallest room.

It was once an accountant’s small study, later converted into a small library. The house had many rooms, most of which went unused.

Zhao Ping Jin pushed open the door. Sure enough, a small figure was curled up in the corner of the sofa, watching videos on a laptop.

Xi Tang turned her head at the sound.

She saw Zhao Ping Jin standing in the doorway, his tie undone, wearing only a crisp white shirt. His neat, glossy black hair, full forehead, and clear features—when relaxed, his lips would have a slightly thin smile.

His face, as white as pure ivory glaze, seemed to Xi Tang to emit a certain glow in the dim light.

Xi Tang had always thought he was handsome. Among all the good-looking boys in the Film Academy’s Acting Department, none compared to Zhao Ping Jin. She later gradually realized that when he smiled openly, showing his white teeth, there was a moment when you could see a dangerous aura, like that of a noble yet cruel beast.

But love makes one blind.

Xi Tang liked his face. Long ago, when they were dating, just seeing his face would make her feel enchanted.

So many years had passed, and she thought she would never see him again in her lifetime.

Zhao Ping Jin silently looked at her for a long while, but in the end, merely knocked on the door and said casually: “Hiding in this little room late at night, aren’t you afraid of ghosts?”

Xi Tang immediately regained her composure in that instant, though she hadn’t had time to adjust her expression. Her face was bare, her eyes still beautiful but appearing childish and somewhat haggard, with obvious dark circles beneath them.

She rubbed her hands and stood up.

“Get me some water,” Zhao Ping Jin sat down on the sofa and glanced at her screen. She was watching a TV drama, an old Hong Kong series with a name like “If Heaven Had Feelings” or something similar.

Xi Tang went to get water.

She wore small checkered pajamas, was barefoot, and had a completely bald head. Thin and frail, she looked pitifully strange.

Xi Tang handed him the water, then sat across from him, tucking her feet onto the sofa. Unable to find words, she politely asked: “Just got back?”

Zhao Ping Jin responded casually, staring at the corner of her left eye for a long time before suddenly asking: “Why did you get plastic surgery?”