Qiao Qi ignored Li’ang for a whole week—not because she was upset with him, but because she was extremely busy.

Too busy to even have time to check her phone.

Yanyun Pavilion was, at its core, a female-led drama. The female lead, Cheng Yanyun, went from a mysterious background to becoming the top star of Baile Gate, and then, as a lone woman, transformed Baile Gate into Yanyun Pavilion—every step of the way as precarious as walking on thin ice, every inch of ground covered concealing tangled, complex relationships.

And the more effortlessly Cheng Yanyun handled things within the drama, the harder Qiao Qi had to work outside of it.

She wasn’t professionally trained and hadn’t gone through systematic acting training—even her basic line delivery and physical form weren’t up to standard.

So while other actors were busy merging with their characters, she was still getting extra private coaching from the professional teacher Cheng Yueming had hired.

To stay alert, the air conditioning in the suite was left off, with only the window open for ventilation; the carpet that had originally covered the floor had been removed, leaving nothing but bare, hard flooring.

Qiao Qi, dressed in a fitted training outfit and thin socks, stood on the floor. When she rose onto her toes, the lines of her calves were sharp and clean.

She was reasonably tall and slender, her waist slim enough to encircle with one hand, her limbs slender and long, her back straight, the curve of her swan neck exceptional.

After all her years shooting ads and modeling, the compliment Qiao Qi had heard most often was that her figure was well-proportioned and her poses elegant.

But in the eyes of a professional teacher, all of that was practically worthless.

“Chin up!”

“Lift your hips, tuck in your stomach!”

“Eyes level, look straight ahead… tsk, your knees! Straighten those knees for me!”

A drop of sweat trickled from her forehead, down her temple, to the tip of her chin, trembling there for a few seconds before falling with a plip straight onto the floor.

Qiao Qi felt her vision darken. She clenched her teeth and stood herself up straight, holding herself like a nail driven into the ground even in the darkness.

Just then, a lazy voice suddenly sounded beside her ear.

“Push through the balls of your feet, don’t let your weight fall on your heels.”

Qiao Qi, on the brink of fainting, instinctively followed the advice given to her. Sure enough, within a few seconds her vision gradually cleared. She saw in the mirror a slender figure appearing behind and to the side of her—Liang Yan.

Actors who needed to be on camera were usually thin—even if they lifted weights, their silhouette in clothes tended to lean lean and lanky.

Qiao Qi didn’t know whether Liang Yan worked out, but he didn’t look particularly muscular—if anything, he leaned toward slender.

Probably to get into character early, his hairstyle had been styled by the stylist into a slicked-back look, with the tips dyed a touch of blue. The strands on either side traced along his handsome jawline, adding even more of a spoiled-young-master air.

And yet, this pampered young master was dressed with utmost formality—a white Chinese-style shirt on top, black satin straight-leg trousers below, black cloth shoes on his feet, leaning loosely against the wall, a fan in hand.

He flicked the fan open, revealing four large characters on its face: “Tomorrow’s Star.”

Qiao Qi: “…”

For a moment, she couldn’t tell whether it was Liang Yan being shameless or Ming Yan.

“If you don’t want to suffer so much, stop overthinking so much nonsense.” Young Master Liang spoke again, unhurried.

Only then did Qiao Qi notice the young master was casually chewing gum.

After chewing, he turned his head toward the movement instructor and gave a narrow-eyed smile. “Teacher, doesn’t Cheng Yanyun kill people while wearing high heels?”

Qiao Qi nearly had a heart attack hearing that.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of hard work or exhaustion—it was just that surely the training had to proceed step by step. She was afraid she’d end up in the hospital before filming even started.

Fortunately, the teacher was professional. “No rush.”

Liang Yan, looking unenthused, said “oh,” exchanged an unhurried glance with Qiao Qi through the mirror, then turned and walked off, swinging his fan.

This wasn’t the first time Young Master Liang had done something so baffling—in just one short week, he’d found ways to needle her almost every day, in ways both obvious and subtle.

Qiao Qi, respecting him as a senior in the industry, had always stayed silent as a mouse without arguing back, but today she suddenly felt her temper flare a bit.

When the professional teacher said, “Alright, take a short break,” Qiao Qi immediately spun on her heel and followed Liang Yan outside.

The two of them stopped in the hallway. Qiao Qi called out to stop him. “Young Master Liang.”

Liang Yan went “Hmm?” and turned around slowly, the corners of his eyes touched with a hint of nonchalant amusement. It was midday, and dazzling light poured down over the ring-shaped hotel, falling directly onto the hallway, draping over Liang Yan like a veil of light.

He still had that boneless, languid look, one arm resting lightly on the railing, a smile lifting at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his head slightly at Qiao Qi. “What is it?”

Honestly, Qiao Qi truly disliked this careless, devil-may-care manner of his; though he always had a smile on his lips, it made people inexplicably uneasy. Especially when the light shone into those peach-blossom eyes of his—Qiao Qi felt as if she were staring straight into a pair of snake eyes.

She frowned, and without beating around the bush, got straight to the point. “I won’t tell anyone about that.”

Liang Yan seemed to freeze for a moment. “What?”

Qiao Qi didn’t know if he was playing dumb or what, but she didn’t want to waste more time and energy on this kind of “misunderstanding.”

So she said directly, “Whatever’s going on between you and Cheng Yueming, I won’t think too much of it, and I won’t say anything either. You don’t need to…”

…keep tripping her up all the time.

But she didn’t say that part out loud, because between adults, some things went without saying.

Yet she hadn’t expected that even after she’d made herself so clear, Liang Yan’s reaction would still be one of confusion.

“What Cheng Yueming, she and I are just—” Before he could finish, Liang Yan’s eyes narrowed as he recalled that misunderstanding from a few days ago. After a moment of surprise, he laughed, flicked his wrist to open the fan, waved it lightly a couple times, and said, looking at Qiao Qi, “Cheng Yanyun isn’t a role you can become just by passing your movement and line delivery.”

Qiao Qi froze, and in that instant vaguely understood something.

—

The crew’s table-read and rehearsal period was only a month—the early stage focused on grinding through lines and movement, the later stage was for the action scenes.

Cheng Yanyun had left home at a young age—by seven or eight, she was following beggars, stealing and grabbing to survive; by ten, she was kidnapped by bad men and sold to bandits in the mountains.

As it happened, the young bandit was himself barely more than a boy. He took her climbing trees to raid bird nests, wading into rivers to catch fish, and hunting rabbits with a gun in the forest. The “husband and wife” duo spent two or three years like that—Cheng Yanyun never learned how to be a proper wife and mother, but she picked up plenty of a bandit’s roughness.

She also picked up a smattering of amateur martial arts skills.

The “amateur martial arts” in the show nearly cost Qiao Qi her life offscreen.

“Point your instep straight, kick it right at his jaw, you hear me!” the martial arts instructor bellowed, and after a couple sentences of instruction found Qiao Qi still wasn’t hitting the mark, so he grabbed her thigh directly and forced it toward the stunt partner’s jaw.

The tendon at the root of her leg felt as if it had been yanked painfully taut. Qiao Qi’s face went completely pale from the pain, sweat instantly beading across her forehead.

But she didn’t cry out; she just clenched her jaw even tighter.

Just then, Young Master Liang sauntered over again. Today he’d changed into Ming Yan’s khaki plaid waistcoat, a brown leather flat cap on his head, its brim deliberately tilted at an angle.

Messy strands of hair beneath the brim brushed faintly across his eyelashes; he flicked them aside gently with a slender index finger, and once his view was clear, he curled his lips into a smile, relishing the drama as he called out, “Oh, that must hurt.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you feel it too in a moment.” Qiao Qi shot back sharply.

This reaction from Qiao Qi caught everyone present off guard—after all, on this crew, Liang Yan held the highest status. Joking around was one thing, but not many dared to talk back to him with such a cold expression.

But Liang Yan didn’t seem angry at all. He raised an eyebrow without missing a beat, and after a moment said with glib charm, “I’d much rather it be you making me feel it, personally.”

Everyone else present: “…”

Was this… flirting?

Right? Right?

Of course not.

Others might not have been able to tell, but Cheng Yueming and Xu Lu could see at a glance that these two were simply immersed in character.

Even before the cameras were rolling, they had already turned themselves into their characters—every gesture and mannerism carried the air of their roles, and even their social circles had become their characters’ social circles.

This was simply the most reliable way to get into character.

But Liang Yan had the ability to slip into character just as easily as he could slip back out of it. As for Qiao Qi…

Cheng Yueming glanced toward the corner, where Qiao Qi was being pinned down and drilled by the martial arts instructor, and couldn’t help but feel worried.

“Maybe… give her a heads-up beforehand?” Xu Lu, noticing Cheng Yueming’s worry, suggested.

Cheng Yueming hesitated. As the screenwriter, she naturally had to consider what was best for the script.

If Qiao Qi could fully immerse herself in the role, it would be entirely beneficial to Yanyun Pavilion, with no downside.

But as a friend, she was truly worried Qiao Qi might fall too deep in—falling into Cheng Yanyun’s body, falling into the emotions of Ming Yan as portrayed by Liang Yan.

And if Liang Yan pulled himself out in time when it mattered, how much would Qiao Qi suffer…

As Cheng Yueming thought this over, she lowered her eyes slightly and said, somewhat conflicted, “Let me think about it.”

—

Qiao Qi didn’t dare eat much at dinner, mainly out of fear of bloating; she had to work overtime that night practicing and memorizing her lines. So while everyone else was eating crawfish and barbecue, she sat in a corner holding an iced Americano, staring at her script.

The night air was cooler than the day, with a clear breeze and a bright moon. The white, bright glow of the floodlights fell over Qiao Qi’s head, encircling her in a quiet, well-lit space.

The night breeze lifted her tousled hair, and without noticing, she absently tucked the strands falling across her cheek behind her ear, revealing her clean, smooth face.

The light shone unhindered through her lashes, casting a faint gray shadow across her eyelids.

The scene was strikingly beautiful, the kind one couldn’t bear to interrupt.

Only the line coach occasionally leaned over to tell her which sounds weren’t quite right.

The line coach didn’t need to be on camera and didn’t have to worry about bloating or breakouts, so she wore gloves and ate heartily.

Throughout, Qiao Qi showed no sign of being tempted by the food at all.

A few of the Baile Gate girls nearby couldn’t help but ask, “Sister Yun, aren’t you being too hard on yourself?”

Guo Lingling, sucking on her fingertip, said, “It’s not like it’s the first day Sister Yun’s been this tough on herself.”

Qiao Qi smiled faintly at that, “No, I’m just not hungry.” As she spoke, she waved the script in her hand. “Spiritual nourishment is enough for me.”

Xu Ruou silently gave a thumbs up, while beside her, Wu Shuang chirped a flattering compliment, “Our Sister Yun’s always been the toughest one around!”

Guo Lingling let out an affected “oh dear,” “Little Wu Shuang, who taught you to talk with such foul language?”

“Young Zhou at the pastry shop next door.” Wu Shuang smiled with crescent-moon eyes, looking like a sweet, guileless girl.

Xu Ruou grabbed Wu Shuang’s ear. “You stay far away from that shady little hooligan, you hear me?”

Wu Shuang yelped in pain, and everyone around them burst into laughter.

The night grew deeper, the moonlight spilling forth its calm, pale glow.

An occasional breeze passed by, the crescent moon’s outline blurring into halos of light and shadow.

Qiao Qi sat a while longer, then found an excuse to leave the table and head back to her room. These days, she wished she could split her twenty-four hours into forty-eight—the moment she got back to her room at night, she couldn’t help yawning and feeling drowsy.

After washing up, she was about to make herself another cup of coffee to perk up when Cheng Yueming suddenly knocked on her door.

Qiao Qi’s hair hadn’t been fully dried yet, the half-damp strands falling over one side of her chest. Her milky-white bathrobe cinched at her waist, and as she moved, her long legs showed faint bruises of purplish discoloration.

Though this was normal for an actor in training, the bruises were startling to see. Cheng Yueming frowned and asked, “Did you put medicine on it?”

Qiao Qi hadn’t paid it much mind. When Cheng Yueming asked suddenly, she was momentarily confused about what medicine she meant, until Cheng Yueming tilted her chin toward her legs, and only then did Qiao Qi say, unconcerned, “Oh. It’s fine.”

This kind of injury wasn’t something that would heal just by applying some medicine, and besides, there was still a long stretch of production ahead—she couldn’t afford to be so delicate about it.

She sat on the sofa holding her coffee and asked Cheng Yueming, “Something up?”

The freshly-washed Qiao Qi looked completely different from the Qiao Qi in a qipao during the day. She sipped her coffee in small sips, a warm lamp glowing beside the sofa, softening every line of her.

It was hard to say exactly what was different, but she simply wasn’t the same as her daytime self—or rather, her working self.

Cheng Yueming remained silent, and Qiao Qi didn’t press her. Just then, her phone kept buzzing insistently. She reached over to pick it up and saw a string of “hurry up” stickers from Li’ang, and couldn’t help but curl her lips into a smile.

Her smile and the lamplight seemed to align perfectly, making the whole room feel inexplicably warmer.

In that fleeting moment, Cheng Yueming understood what was different about Qiao Qi.

The Cheng Yanyun of the current storyline bickered with Ming Yan, sure, but their relationship hadn’t progressed an inch—the two were like a pair of bickering rivals with no real feelings for each other yet.

One believed the other to be some agent from Chongqing holding onto secrets; the other believed her to be an idle, good-for-nothing playboy.

Their interest in each other was only surface-deep.

Not enough to make the cold, ruthless Cheng Yanyun show such a gentle, tender smile.

So the one smiling at her phone just now was Qiao Qi herself.

Cheng Yueming couldn’t help but ask, “Boyfriend?”

Qiao Qi startled slightly, flipping her phone face-down. She shook her head, the corner of her mouth flattening a little. “No.”

“Oh, okay.” Cheng Yueming didn’t really care whether it was true or not. The two chatted for a bit more, then Cheng Yueming asked tentatively, “Do you follow celebrities? If you do, I could help you get closer, haha. You know there are a few people on the crew chasing after Liang Yan, always after autographs or photos.”

Qiao Qi shook her head. “I don’t.”

She thought of the few times Li’ang had mentioned Liang Yan before, and paused. “Though…”

“Though what?” Cheng Yueming asked.

Qiao Qi hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing.”

With Qiao Qi being so aloof, Cheng Yueming found it hard to keep the conversation going. Just as she was getting restless and about to leave, she suddenly heard Qiao Qi ask, “I’m a little curious, just curious, nothing else meant by it—but, Liang Yan… what’s there to chase about him?”

It was one thing for women to be fans of his, but was there anything about him that would make a guy chase after him too?

Cheng Yueming: “?”

What about his looks or acting wasn’t worth being a fan of?

“Are you serious?” Cheng Yueming asked.

Qiao Qi nodded.

Cheng Yueming was speechless for a moment, then stood up, and before leaving, gave Qiao Qi’s shoulder a light pat. “Maybe it’s just some subtle fate between people.”

Back in her own room, hearing her come in, Xu Lu hurried over. “How’d it go?”

Cheng Yueming looked utterly deadpan. “Don’t worry, if Qiao Qi ever gets interested in Liang Yan, I’ll livestream myself writing scripts… no, if the two of them end up interested in each other, I’ll livestream myself dancing a girl-group routine!”

As everyone knew, Cheng Yueming was congenitally tone-deaf and hopelessly uncoordinated.

Xu Lu: “…?”

Did she really have to go that far?

Author’s Note: Later—

Cheng Yueming: …Damn it, this actually happened?