Qiao Qi never got the chance to let Li’ang “deal with” her, because for two straight weeks she’d been rushing through back-to-back night shoots.

Daytime filming covered the tense storyline of Cheng Yanyun moving between various underground operatives to deliver intelligence; nighttime covered the more adult storyline of her accompanying various tycoons around the Baile Gate—including all sorts of witty sparring and bickering with Young Master Ming, plus scenes of him coercing and bribing her by turns into accompanying him to evening parties.

In just half a month, a great deal of the plot had been shot, and Qiao Qi found herself sinking further and further into Cheng Yanyun’s world.

At the same time, her bickering with Liang Yan grew increasingly confident and unrestrained.

Nearby, Wu Shuang wrestled daily with herself: should I keep shipping this? This “brotherly affection” seems pretty shippable too, doesn’t it?

Just as she was thinking this, she suddenly noticed Liang Yan in the corner tilting his head, staring at Qiao Qi with a very blatant look. Once Qiao Qi noticed, he crooked a finger at her, apparently gesturing for her to come over.

Qiao Qi, puzzled, leaned her head over—only for Liang Yan to inexplicably flick her forehead with his index finger. Qiao Qi visibly froze; a moment later, Liang Yan said something she couldn’t make out, and Qiao Qi, mortified and furious, raised a hand and smacked the back of his hand. Liang Yan just smiled it off, unbothered, while Qiao Qi, ears half-red, got up and walked away.

“…!”

Wu Shuang, who had been teetering on the edge of abandoning this ship, instantly decided to climb back in and lie down in it for good. Real or fake, whatever—bottom line was, she was shipping it!!

In reality, though, this scene that looked so full of pink romantic bubbles was actually this:

Qiao Qi had just finished a major scene: Cheng Yanyun had caught the eye of a man of some standing, who, using his drunkenness as an excuse, was being obnoxious and insisting that Cheng Yanyun personally escort him home.

Cheng Yanyun was a pillar performer of the Baile Gate—who would dare let her go? If she got hurt, would the establishment even be able to keep doing business?

So a group of the other girls rushed to volunteer to escort the big shot home in Cheng Yanyun’s place, but she turned them all down.

Cheng Yanyun had just come down from the stage. Today, unlike usual, she wasn’t wearing her neat, fitted qipao, but a small pink sequined dress with a fishtail hem, paired with small silver high heels that struck the floor with a crisp sound, as though striking directly at people’s hearts.

A pink feather was pinned in her hair, a bit of mesh netting veiling her face, her eyes—accentuated by color—alluring and half-hidden.

She reached up and gently looped her arm through the big shot’s, lips curving into a smile. “It’s fine, I’ll take you.”

The big shot happily leaned into Cheng Yanyun’s arms, his large, thick palm reaching brazenly for her waist—her slender waist, easily encircled beneath the thin fabric, soft to an almost absurd degree.

The two of them left the Baile Gate. Without a word, Cheng Yanyun shoved the big shot aside and pinned him against a wall. He assumed this shameless woman wanted to try something exciting, and was nearly instantly aroused.

Impatient, he reached to touch her; Cheng Yanyun laughed, her whole body trembling with the motion, deliberately grinding her shoulder against his chest, until his eyes and neck flushed entirely red.

“Ah, my little Yunyun, stop teasing, come on, let me take you home!”

Cheng Yanyun shook her head. “I’m not going home with you—everyone in Shanghai knows you’ve got a tigress waiting for you there.”

The big shot laughed. “Then where do you suggest we go?”

Cheng Yanyun raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the pitch-black alley nearby.

The big shot’s eyes lit up instantly, and he dragged Cheng Yanyun in with him.

The two of them, laughing and chatting, disappeared into the darkness; less than five minutes later, Cheng Yanyun alone emerged, unhurried, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

The moonlight was cool; a single weak lamp glowed at the mouth of the alley, the wind making its light flicker even more fragile. Suddenly a bank of dark clouds rolled in, blotting out what little moonlight remained.

From that corner, the scent of blood began to spread.

Cheng Yanyun, as though nothing at all had happened, turned and walked away in her small heels. She didn’t head back to the Baile Gate, but instead passed by the district full of music and revelry, heading toward somewhere far quieter.

Only, unseen by her, the moment she’d left, a tall, slender figure stepped out from the dark corner behind her.

Ming Yan leaned against the streetlamp, one hand cupped to block the wind, a cigarette between his lips. The indigo flame of his lighter caught in his eyes, illuminating his pupils.

…

Once this scene wrapped, Qiao Qi and Liang Yan rested off to the side. Qiao Qi still had one more, not-too-demanding fight scene later, and the director told her to rest first and, ideally, run through it once with the martial arts choreographer.

Just as Qiao Qi was about to get up to find the choreographer, Liang Yan suddenly spoke up beside her. “Hey, wait, come here.”

Qiao Qi turned her head at the sound, saw Liang Yan crooking his finger at her, and paused before leaning slightly closer. “What is it?”

Liang Yan, with no sense whatsoever of gender boundaries, noticed Qiao Qi looking a bit guarded, clicked his tongue in displeasure, and leaned in even closer on his own.

In an instant the distance between them had shrunk to almost nothing. Qiao Qi, mildly uncomfortable, frowned and was about to step back when Liang Yan suddenly reached out and pressed a finger against her forehead.

Qiao Qi froze, all motion stopping. She blinked, thick dark lashes fluttering twice, her eyes dark and bright, filled with bewilderment.

“What?”

No sooner had she spoken than she saw Liang Yan narrow his eyes, scrutinizing her carefully for a few seconds, before delivering his verdict: “That pimple of yours is seriously hurting Cheng Yanyun’s looks.”

Qiao Qi: “…”

After three or five seconds of silence, Qiao Qi slapped Liang Yan’s hand away and shot to her feet.

Her neck and ears burned red with fury; before storming off she flung back: “None of your business!”

Liang Yan clicked his tongue. “Wasn’t I telling you so you could go get the makeup artist to fix it?”

Qiao Qi forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks so much.”

Hearing this, Liang Yan lifted his face, smiling with an air of pure innocence. “You’re welcome~”

Qiao Qi’s mouth twitched, and she turned and walked away completely.

Tch.

What a temper.

With nothing else to do, Liang Yan pulled out his phone to chat with a certain someone.

Liang: Young people these days are really hard to deal with.

No reply from the other side.

He kept typing.

Liang: Why is it young people never dare face their own flaws head-on?

Still no reply.

He kept going.

Liang: Sigh, Daddy is very disappointed in these young people.

Still no reply.

Liang Yan held his phone and waited a while, and once he was sure there’d be no reply, clicked his tongue lightly and tossed the phone aside, sprawling lazily back onto the rest chair.

Catching a glimmer of phone light out of the corner of his eye, Liang Yan tilted his head and saw it was Qiao Qi’s phone, sitting inside a plastic bag—someone must be messaging her, since the screen kept lighting up.

Liang Yan considered this, squinting to look closer, but the plastic bag was of decent quality and he couldn’t make anything out, only vaguely able to tell that someone was sending her WeChat messages.

Since he couldn’t make anything out, there wasn’t much point in continuing to look.

Liang Yan lazily withdrew his gaze, and idly waited for Qiao Qi to finish her coaching session.

—

Qiao Qi finished her last scene of the day at nine at night; hardly any actors remained on set, just staff.

Yawning, she walked toward her rest chair, only to find, upon arriving, that young master Liang had somehow fallen asleep in it.

Qiao Qi paused, and while bending down to gather her things, called out casually: “Young Master Ming, wake up.”

Without even opening his eyes, Liang Yan said, “Someone’s been messaging you—your phone’s been lighting up nonstop.”

Qiao Qi’s head snapped toward him at once; only then did Liang Yan slowly open his eyes.

Liang Yan had also filmed several demanding scenes these past few days. Once a production schedule got tight, it stopped caring about the actors’ rest time. As the lead, under heavy pressure, he probably hadn’t slept much lately either—he’d only just lain down for a bit, and already deep creases had pressed into his eyelids.

Usually his peach-blossom eyes were arched and playful; today, with that crease pressed into his lids, his eyes looked deep and dark instead.

“What are you looking at? I was just being nice giving you a heads-up—I have no interest in peeking at other people’s phones.” Liang Yan yawned lazily, slowly getting up from the reclining chair.

Qiao Qi pressed her lips together and said “thanks.” She was just about to pull out her phone to check whether Li’ang had messaged her—but before she could even get it out, the ringtone shrieked to life like some kind of doom knell—

The sound was genuinely piercing, drawing even Liang Yan’s gaze her way. Qiao Qi, feeling a bit apologetic, fumbled the phone out and saw the caller was Director Lu.

She answered immediately. “Director Lu.”

Director Lu’s voice was thick with panic, on the verge of tears. “Qiao Qi… Qiao Qi, Maiya’s missing! Maiya suddenly went missing!”

Qiao Qi’s voice shot up. “What? Maiya’s missing? What do you mean, Maiya’s missing?”

Director Lu was about to explain when Qiao Qi cut in. “Where are you right now?”

Director Lu, who had been just barely holding herself together, lost it completely the instant she heard Qiao Qi’s voice, and said through sobs: “At… at the hospital.”

“Okay. I’m coming right now.” She pressed on. “Have you called the police?”

“I have,” Director Lu said. “The moment I noticed she was missing I pulled the security footage right away. It shows her running out of the hospital alone and getting into a taxi. Dr. Tong has already called the police.”

Hearing that there was security footage and that the police were already involved, Qiao Qi felt half her worry ease at once.

She knew she couldn’t afford to panic right now—she had to stay calm. She said soothingly: “Okay, I understand. Don’t worry too much. Maiya is such a good, smart girl, nothing will happen to her.”

She was comforting Director Lu.

She was also comforting herself.

Of course Director Lu knew perfectly well how good and smart Maiya was—but that was exactly the problem…

Director Lu cried even harder, hiccupping through her words: “That’s exactly it—she’s too good, too smart!”

Qiao Qi fell silent.

She was still crouched in the position she’d been in, one hand gripping the armrest of the rest chair, tightening without her even realizing it.

On set, staff were busy wrapping up—someone was on the phone making plans with friends for late-night snacks, someone else was shouting something unintelligible.

But Qiao Qi couldn’t hear any of it anymore.

She stood there, suspended between heaven and earth, with nowhere to hide.

As if only the wind were real.

It was already August.

Deep summer had arrived.

The wind carried heat.

Yet Qiao Qi felt her hands and feet had gone ice cold.

Not until a large hand closed around her wrist did Qiao Qi come back to herself slightly, looking up—her clear eyes looking lost and fragile in the night.

Standing over her, looking down, Liang Yan’s voice was, for once, genuinely serious. “Don’t tear up Cheng Yanyun’s manicure.”

Qiao Qi snapped back to reality, tugging her lips into a bitter smile.

Liang Yan let go of her wrist, hands going back into his pockets, eyes lowered to look at her, and spoke casually. “Where to? Want me to take you?”

“On the big motorcycle.”

—

Qiao Qi and Liang Yan arrived at the hospital together forty minutes later. Liang Yan had already ridden fast; compared to the endless line of taxis stuck in traffic, he’d threaded through the alleys like a Shanghai local, getting them to the hospital in record time.

This was the first time Qiao Qi felt grateful she’d chosen a hospital in Shanghai for Maiya, and grateful too that the production of House of Smoke and Mist was based in Shanghai.

Getting off the motorcycle, she passed an elderly woman and a young man—grandmother and grandson, most likely—the older woman patting the young man’s hand as she said: “Don’t hold up this young lady’s future. However free love is these days, marriage still ought to be a matter of equal standing. Even if it’s not perfectly equal, it should at least be close, not worlds apart. Our family’s had one person after another fall sick—if she marries in, is she signing up for good fortune or for suffering?”

Qiao Qi turned her head toward the voice, seeing an old woman with a kindly face, the sort anyone would want to call grandma on sight. Her voice was slow and gentle, like a soft but scalding evening breeze against the ear.

The wind slipped along the curve of the ear and reached inward, catching hold of a heart already lurching up and down.

Qiao Qi drifted for a moment, standing rooted in place, suddenly unable to move her feet.

It was Liang Yan who finally prompted her: “Aren’t we going?”

Qiao Qi snapped back. “Oh,” she said, “coming.”

She broke into a run, quickly leaving the grandmother and grandson behind.

And leaving behind, too, that fleeting moment of drift in her heart.

—

By the time Qiao Qi reached Dr. Tong’s office, Director Lu’s eyes were swollen from crying. Two uniformed police officers stood nearby—one reviewing security footage just pulled from the guard station with Dr. Tong, the other patiently trying to calm Director Lu’s turbulent emotions.

Director Lu had been holding it together, but the moment she looked up and saw Qiao Qi arrive, her composure broke entirely. She rushed to Qiao Qi’s side, gripping her arm, apologizing over and over: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Xiao Qi, I didn’t watch Maiya closely enough.”

She sobbed. “She said she suddenly wanted to eat walnut cookies, so I went to buy some for her—who would’ve known, who would’ve known she’d…”

Guilt-stricken, Director Lu couldn’t finish.

Qiao Qi wasn’t one for empty words. She gripped Director Lu’s arm back, squeezing twice to comfort her, then looked up at the police officers nearby. “Hello, thank you for your trouble.”

One of the officers waved a hand. “Just serving the people.”

Director Lu was about to say more when she suddenly looked up and noticed someone leaning against the office doorframe, a helmet tucked under one arm.

Dressed in “eccentric attire,” still wearing stage makeup, hair medium-length, looking quite dashing.

Director Lu looked him over carefully, feeling he seemed familiar but unable to place the name. In the end it was he who spoke first: “Hello, I’m…” He paused, tipping his chin toward Qiao Qi. “Qiao Qi’s coworker.”

Qiao Qi nodded without elaborating. She got Director Lu settled in a nearby seat, then walked over behind Dr. Tong.

Dr. Tong was Maiya’s attending physician, and also her favorite big brother figure. Ordinarily, Maiya would tug on his white coat and sing him all sorts of silly little songs she’d made up herself, and would sometimes cup her face, pitching her voice up, and ask: “Big Brother Tonghua, when are you going to marry our seventh princess?”

Probably every child in the world hopes the people who are kind to them will become family—especially a child like Maiya, who didn’t have much family to begin with.

So as not to discourage her, Dr. Tong always tilted his head, a refined smile at his lips, and said: “That depends on when our seventh princess is willing to marry me.”

Then Maiya would turn and start pestering Qiao Qi instead, and Qiao Qi would deflect deftly: “That depends on when your Big Brother Tonghua is willing to marry me.”

Maiya, like a little rubber ball, got batted back and forth between the two of them, but thoroughly enjoyed it every time.

Now that Maiya had gone missing, besides Director Lu and Qiao Qi, Dr. Tong was likely the most worried of all.

“You’re here.” Tong Shuqu glanced at Qiao Qi with a bitter half-smile. “Sorry, I wasn’t able to look after her properly.”

“It’s not your fault.” There was no way Qiao Qi would blame this on him—that would be far too heartless. Her gaze fixed on the security footage on the screen. “Any leads?”

“Yes, we got in touch with the taxi driver. He said Maiya got out near Qianjiang,” Tong Shuqu said.

Hearing this, Qiao Qi froze. “Qianjiang?”

“What is it?” Tong Shuqu asked. “Is something wrong with Qianjiang?”

Qianjiang.

That was where Qiao Qi had first met Maiya.

Back then, Maiya wasn’t even four years old yet—not too young an age, but her speech and reactions had clearly lagged behind children her age.

Qiao Qi remembered it had been a warm-breezed late July, the river’s waves gentle, fresh green branches drooping along the riverbank.

Qiao Qi had been taking photos nearby that day, and after wrapping up, thinking it was still early, she’d taken a stroll along the river.

That was when she’d found Maiya, tucked beneath an arched bridge.

The little girl had been wearing shabby but reasonably clean overalls, her hair in twin pigtails, her eyes like a pair of black grapes.

Though clearly terrified out of her mind, she’d refused, absolutely, to budge an inch.

It had taken Qiao Qi a long time to piece together that Maiya had been abandoned—because of her congenital heart defect and sepsis.

When Qiao Qi tried to convince Maiya to come with her, Maiya had tilted her small face up and said: “I can’t. My mommy said we’re playing hide-and-seek and I can’t leave until it’s over.”

Qiao Qi said: “Mommy might not be coming today.”

Maiya let out an “ah,” looking terribly disappointed, but a moment later gave an “oh!” instead. “I know! It’s because Mommy’s having my baby brother!”

Qiao Qi had smiled and said: “Then let’s go stay somewhere else for tonight first.”

Perhaps another child at the orphanage had quietly told Maiya something, or perhaps Maiya had realized it herself—by the second and third day, she hadn’t brought up finding her mother again, nor asked to go home.

Qiao Qi had privately gone to the police, but it was clearly a premeditated abandonment, and with Maiya having no household registration—not even a legal name—the matter had ultimately gone nowhere.

Just then, one of the officers suddenly spoke up: “Someone spotted Maiya in the Qianjiang area.”

Qiao Qi snapped back to attention, belatedly realizing why Maiya had chosen today of all days to go to the riverside.

Because today was the exact same date, two years later, as the day she’d been found.

And Maiya’s surgery was scheduled for tomorrow.

The child was waiting on her last hope.

A sharp ache hit the bridge of Qiao Qi’s nose. She hurried after the officer. “I know where she is.”

As she left the office, she grabbed Liang Yan’s arm on the way. “Let’s go!”

Liang Yan stumbled a step from the pull; only then did Qiao Qi realize how frantic she’d been, pressing her lips together, feeling a bit apologetic.

Liang Yan, catching the intent behind her look, reached up and clapped the helmet from under his arm onto Qiao Qi’s head, tapping it once on the forehead. “Remember to settle the fare another day.”

—

At night, the wind along the riverbank was even fiercer; the river’s surface swallowed the entire canopy of the sky, an endless black roiling in the darkness.

The roar of the engine cut off abruptly. Liang Yan planted one leg on the ground, released the handlebars, straightened his upper body, and turned back. “Here?”

A muffled affirmative came from inside Qiao Qi’s helmet. She was wearing a dress and small heels, which should have made moving around very inconvenient, but her anxious, urgent state of mind left her no room to worry about such details—the moment she got off the bike, she pulled the helmet off first thing.

Liang Yan swung his long legs off the bike just as Qiao Qi removed her helmet. Her once-neat hair had already been pressed out of shape by the helmet, and her eye makeup had smudged, dark streaks bleeding across her eyelids.

These traces of disarray broke through her usual hard exterior, like a stone worn smooth by wind and rain suddenly cracking open, revealing, in the crack, a fragility that had never seen the light of day.

Liang Yan glanced at her briefly, indifferently, then withdrew his gaze, pretending not to notice her disheveled state. He took the helmet and hung it carelessly on the handlebars. “Do you know where she is?”

Qiao Qi gave an “mm,” and turned first to walk toward the riverbank. Liang Yan said nothing, following behind her.

They stopped at the mouth of an arched bridge tunnel.

The night sky was pitch dark; the closer to the water, the clearer the sound of it became, the surface churning in a way that set the heart racing with unease.

Though anxious, Qiao Qi, hampered by her heels, could only tread as carefully as possible, keeping her steps light.

Almost silent.

Afraid that her sudden appearance might startle Maiya, she called out softly: “Maiya?”

Inside the bridge tunnel, Maiya was nearly asleep. She sat crouched on the ground, face and body covered in grime, her face buried in her knees. Just as drowsiness was overtaking her, she suddenly heard someone calling her name.

“Maiya?”

Maiya’s head shot up, her eyes flying wide open—it was the seventh princess!

“Seventh Princess!!” Maiya scrambled to her feet, and because she moved too fast, her vision went dark for a second; unable to keep her balance, she started to drop straight down onto the ground—

But just as she was about to hit the ground, a strong hand suddenly caught her, and the next instant she found herself falling into a remarkably secure embrace.

Once her vision cleared, she finally saw…

“Wow, are you a prince?” Maiya tilted her small face up, her grape-like eyes shining, reaching out to touch the face of the “prince” holding her.

Liang Yan looked down at the little girl in his arms and repeated, “Seventh princess?”

He glanced at Qiao Qi, his tone teasing.

Qiao Qi had no energy left to explain this obviously overly dramatic nickname. She focused her attention on Maiya instead, taking in the child’s disheveled state after her “long journey.”

Before finding Maiya, Qiao Qi’s emotions had swung through what felt like an entire century’s worth of turmoil; now, with Maiya safely in her grasp, her heart finally settled solidly back into place.

Looking into the child’s round black eyes, all the comforting words and lecturing words she’d prepared suddenly deserted her entirely. In the end, her throat worked once, and she said, hoarsely: “Maiya, I’m here to take you home.”

Aware that she’d done something wrong, Maiya, hearing that Qiao Qi wasn’t scolding her—acting as though nothing had happened at all—immediately began struggling to get down from Liang Yan’s arms.

Liang Yan still had it in him to tease. “What, now that you’ve seen the princess, you don’t want this prince anymore?”

Maiya mumbled something quietly under her breath. Liang Yan set her down; the little girl stretched out her thin, pale arms, wanting to hug Qiao Qi, hesitated for several seconds, then silently took a step back instead, standing off to the side.

There was something almost of self-reflective punishment about it.

Ignoring the fact that she was in a dress, Qiao Qi gently knelt on one knee, meeting Maiya’s eyes at her level. “What’s wrong?”

Only at eye level did she see the tears that had welled up and spilled across Maiya’s face in an instant.

Maiya was biting her lip hard, forcing back any sound of crying.

The sight sent a sharp pang through Qiao Qi’s chest. Not wanting to push the child too hard, she asked again, gently: “What’s wrong? Don’t you want to go home?”

Maiya wiped her small face with a dirty hand, hiccupping through her words. “Mommy… hic… why doesn’t… hic… why doesn’t Mommy come get me?”

Tears clung to the child’s thick, dark lashes; she looked up at Qiao Qi, her lashes wet in fine strands, blinking in a way that tugged painfully at the heart.

“I… I don’t want to spend the seventh princess’s money,” Maiya hiccupped. “Seventh… Seventh Princess already works so hard.”

“They said, having the surgery costs so, so much money.”

Qiao Qi didn’t ask who “they” were, just looked into Maiya’s eyes, endlessly patient. “But money can always be earned again. If you don’t have the surgery, though, you won’t be here anymore.”

“If you’re gone, everyone will be so sad.”

She was still just a child after all—her emotions couldn’t help but be swayed by a few words from an adult. Maiya was visibly moved, but a few seconds later stubbornly turned her head away, refusing to meet Qiao Qi’s eyes.

She bit her baby teeth into her lip. “Anyway… I don’t want you spending money on me.”

Her voice dropped lower. “I don’t want you working so hard anymore either.”

“Then what should we do?” Qiao Qi tossed the question back to her. “Whose money would you want to spend, then?”

Maiya picked at her fingers for a long moment, then said, guilty yet resolute: “I’ll earn it myself.”

“Pfft.”

A laugh, entirely out of place.

Qiao Qi paused, looking up.

The eyes rimmed in peach-toned eyeshadow were full of displeasure.

Uh…

Liang Yan gave a light cough, a bit sheepishly swiping a finger across the tip of his nose, and changed the subject. “This isn’t your daughter, is it?”

Qiao Qi didn’t even need to step in and deny it—Maiya answered directly herself: “Nope. This is my seventh princess.”

Liang Yan laughed. “Then are you a dwarf?”

Maiya pouted, hands on her hips, a bit annoyed. “Am not!”

Liang Yan kept teasing her. “Then why do you call her seventh princess?”

“Because there’s a seven in her name, silly big brother!”

Liang Yan feigned an “ohh” of understanding. “Then why princess?”

Maiya explained with utmost seriousness: “Because she’s pretty! She’s kind! She’s the best, best, best, best person in the whole world! So she’s a princess!”

“I see.” Liang Yan nodded. “Well, as far as I know, a princess has to be home before midnight, or bad people will come and bully her.”

Hearing this, Qiao Qi paused, turning to look at Liang Yan again.

Liang Yan, clearly aware of her gaze, avoided meeting her eyes, instead smiling down at Maiya, waiting for her reaction.

Sure enough, Maiya frowned upon hearing this. She looked at Qiao Qi, her small hand grabbing hold of Qiao Qi’s. “Really?”

For a moment, Qiao Qi couldn’t tell which was more absurdly dramatic—the “seventh princess” nickname or the “home before midnight” claim—but she nodded along anyway, thoroughly cooperative. “That’s right.”

“Then no, no, that won’t do, we have to get home right away! Hurry, hurry!”

Only then did Liang Yan curve his lips into a smile and turn to follow.

Going uphill was never as easy as going down. Qiao Qi, in her dress and heels, wasn’t really in a position to carry Maiya, but the child was clearly exhausted. Just as Qiao Qi was steeling herself to pick her up anyway, Liang Yan suddenly crouched down and scooped Maiya up himself.

Maiya asked, “Didn’t you say you came out for some fresh air, big brother? Are you going home too?”

Liang Yan nodded. “I need to hurry home too.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a prince,” Liang Yan said, utterly shameless.

Qiao Qi, walking ahead: “…”

He sure knew how to run with a bit.”

—

Maiya had rarely warmed up to men easily since she was little; even Tong Shuqu had had to win her over gradually with treats and toys and fun outings.

Qiao Qi couldn’t help but glance over at Liang Yan standing there in the night.

Maybe it was from having ridden back and forth so much in the middle of the night, but tonight, though Liang Yan was still dressed in his young master’s fine period costume, complete with stage makeup and hairstyling, he didn’t look nearly as polished as he did on camera—instead he came across more careless and easygoing.

Along with that innate, unshakable confidence of someone born into wealth.

The thin fabric, caught by the river wind, effortlessly traced out the clean lines of the man’s limbs, shoulders, and neck.

His soft hair was tousled by the wind too—not messy, but carrying a few extra shades of languid ease.

His striking features were fully on display, drawing plenty of attention.

The police officers had already glanced over several times, even whispering to each other about it.

Worried this incident might bring unnecessary trouble down on Liang Yan, Qiao Qi stepped forward, trying to coax Maiya down out of his arms.

“Maiya, big brother needs to go home.”

Maiya blinked her round black eyes, glancing carefully at Liang Yan, hesitantly loosening her arms a little—but unwilling to let go entirely, her small hand patting his nape over and over, pouting unhappily.

She was unhappy, but she wouldn’t ask him to stay.

Truly a very considerate child.

Liang Yan had grown rather fond of Maiya; the little girl’s big eyes always sparkled with a lively, quick-witted glimmer.

Since she wouldn’t let go, he didn’t push to set her down either, asking with a smile: “Want big brother to take you home?”

Maiya looked at him searchingly. “Can you?”

Liang Yan raised an eyebrow. “Why not? I’m the one who delivered your seventh princess here, after all.”

Maiya grinned, eyes crinkling, breaking into a sweet, silly smile.

Softened even further by her smile, Liang Yan simply swung his long leg up onto the motorcycle’s footrest, tilting his head to shoot Qiao Qi a silent, questioning look.

The meaning was obvious.

Qiao Qi sighed. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

She already felt bad enough—she’d been putting him out all night. If this incident caused him any negative fallout on top of everything, she’d genuinely feel terrible.

“Of course I’m fine with it,” Liang Yan said, thoroughly cocky. “I already told you, nobody dares photograph me.”

…Well then, fine.

“If they really do get a shot, we’ll just say Maiya’s my illegitimate daughter,” Liang Yan said flippantly. “Save me from my dad nagging me about marriage every day.”

Qiao Qi: “…”

Genuinely at a loss for what to say, she could only change the subject. “It’s almost midnight, we should get going.”

Choked by the words “almost midnight,” Liang Yan lifted an eyelid, none too pleased. “Am I supposed to change my name to some kind of immortal now?”

Qiao Qi caught his meaning and, rare for her, tugged her lips into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Liang Yan was clearly not happy, but sparring further with a woman felt beneath him, so he swung his long legs onto the bike, fitted the helmet over Maiya’s head, and sent a message to the person pinned at the top of his chat list.

Liangou: I got bitten by a dog.

Before getting on, Qiao Qi dug through her bag for her phone too, mainly wanting to call Director Lu and tell her to head back to the orphanage first—the place couldn’t be left unattended all night.

But once she opened her bag, it was her personal phone that lit up first.

She casually pulled it out to check, and found it was a message from Li’ang.

Assuming he was just teasing her about something, she replied offhandedly.

Xiao Qi: So bite it back?

The very next second, she heard Liang Yan, who had just swung onto the motorcycle, suck in a sharp breath. Qiao Qi blurted out: “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His tone carried more than a hint of gritted teeth.

Qiao Qi pressed her lips together, glancing at the back seat of the motorcycle, hesitating over whether she really should get on this driver’s bike given his unpredictable mood swings.

After all, she’d only just landed a major project—dying young probably wasn’t a great career move.

—

Probably owing to living in a time of peace, Qiao Qi made it back to the hospital, courtesy of Liang Yan, safe and sound without incident.

Tong Shuqu had already changed into his white coat and was waiting outside the hospital entrance. The moment he heard the motorcycle’s engine, he rushed forward to meet them.

Liang Yan pulled the bike to a stop just an inch ahead of Tong Shuqu, who gave him a polite smile before reaching in to scoop up Maiya, who had long since fallen fast asleep slumped against the gas tank.

Tong Shuqu, eager to check Maiya over, didn’t linger to chat with Liang Yan and turned to leave right away.

Qiao Qi hurried after him too, but remembered to thank Liang Yan first. “Thank you.”

Liang Yan didn’t get off the bike, one leg planted on the ground supporting the several-hundred-pound weight of the motorcycle, helmet cradled in his arms. With his other hand, he ran his fingers carelessly through his hair, revealing his sharply defined features, and asked: “Not going back to set tonight?”

Qiao Qi said, “No, I won’t be. Could you let the director know I need time off—Maiya, she… might have surgery tomorrow.”

“Alright then, get the surgery sorted first, we’ll deal with the rest later.” Liang Yan didn’t specify what exactly “the rest” meant.

Qiao Qi wasn’t usually someone who dealt with things by putting them off for “later”—too many things around her already felt beyond her control, so she preferred keeping matters organized and orderly, trying to keep the pace firmly in her own hands.

But just then, a gust of wind swept past, carrying Liang Yan’s light, offhand voice past her ear, and Qiao Qi suddenly felt the bones throughout her body weren’t quite so rigid anymore.

Once certain things softened, the heart tended to follow suit.

She looked at Liang Yan, still wrapped in that same careless, indifferent air, and after a long moment finally gave a soft “mm.” “Okay.”

As Liang Yan was starting up the bike again to leave, Qiao Qi called out to stop him. “Liang Yan, thank you for today.”

Liang Yan pulled the helmet over his own head, thoroughly nonchalant. “No trouble at all.”

—

In the hospital room, Tong Shuqu ran a full round of tests on Maiya. Once finished, his expression wasn’t good; hearing about Maiya’s reason for going to Qianjiang tonight only made it worse, and he said flatly: “People like that simply don’t deserve to be parents!”

Qiao Qi remembered that a long time ago, she too used to get genuinely angry over things like this. But after enough experience, she’d stopped really knowing how to feel angry anymore.

Anger always drifted past like wind, brushing lightly across her vision, sometimes leaving a hint of red at the corners of her eyes, sometimes leaving no outward reaction at all.

Her focus always landed, in the end, on the future.

Back when she’d first brought Maiya home, she’d been thinking about what to do going forward.

Now, on the way to find Maiya again, she was thinking about what to do going forward too.

—No, perhaps more precisely, what to do about tomorrow.

Though Maiya’s reactions always ran half a beat slow, the things she came to realize belatedly often ran deeper than what children her age typically grasped.

Someone who has been abandoned finds it hard to ever feel truly settled for the rest of their life; a gust of wind, a fall of rain, could send her emotions into upheaval.

Maiya was introverted by nature, and had grown sensitive through experience; if today’s hope failed to arrive, tomorrow’s life would carry no expectation either.

While drawing up Maiya’s surgical plan, Tong Shuqu had once told Qiao Qi that the single most important factor in the entire procedure was this: the patient herself needed to hold onto a sufficient will to live.

Thinking of this, Qiao Qi rubbed her chilled fingertips together and turned to ask Tong Shuqu, “You told me before, that during surgery, the patient herself needs a sufficient will to live.”

Perhaps from years spent dealing with fragile people, Tong Shuqu always gave off an air that put people at ease.

Qiao Qi’s face still carried her cool, aloof stage makeup, but when she turned to look at Tong Shuqu, her eyes carried a soft glimmer.

That glimmer reflected in Tong Shuqu’s eyes; he looked back into hers, nodding. “That’s right.”

“Then… what counts as sufficient?” What degree did that vague measure need to reach.

Tong Shuqu answered without holding anything back: “At the moment, it’s not enough.” He said: “Qiao Qi, the surgery can’t happen right now. It has to be postponed.”

With the doctor having spoken, what more was there for Qiao Qi to say? She could only give a low, soft “mm.”

—

Outside the hospital room, Tong Shuqu and Qiao Qi sat together on the waiting bench. Tong Shuqu, always even-tempered, spoke without any rush, reassuring her: “Don’t worry too much. I told you before I’d take good care of Maiya, and I certainly will.”

Qiao Qi hadn’t been sleeping well lately to begin with, and after all this upheaval tonight, she was thoroughly exhausted. She’d known Tong Shuqu a long time; around him, she could relax a little, willing to let her guard down and show her most helpless side.

She hunched forward, head lowered, gaze somewhat dazed as it fixed on the floor, and after a long while let out a long sigh, murmuring: “That scared me half to death.”

Tong Shuqu, understanding, patted her shoulder. Thinking of Liang Yan, he asked: “That… was Liang Yan, wasn’t it?”

It made perfect sense that Director Lu hadn’t recognized Liang Yan; Tong Shuqu, on the other hand, was only twenty-seven or twenty-eight, right in the demographic that would certainly know a celebrity like Liang Yan.

Qiao Qi gave an “mm.” “That’s him.”

Tong Shuqu had known Qiao Qi was doing ad shoots and print work, but the fact that she was working with Liang Yan genuinely surprised him. “Have you started acting in dramas now?”

Qiao Qi nodded. “A TV series.”

Tong Shuqu said, half-joking, “A big star in the making, then.”

Qiao Qi tugged her lips. “Don’t tease me.”

Tong Shuqu smiled again before asking, “Don’t you want that, though?”

A big star?

Qiao Qi’s eyelids drooped for a moment; it took her a good while before she straightened her back up, as though only then daring to let out a breath, slowly leaning the back of her head against the wall behind her.

After a long pause, she finally said: “I don’t think about it that much. As long as I can make money, that’s enough.”

Hearing this, Tong Shuqu frowned slightly, seemingly wanting to say more, but Qiao Qi let out another breath and slowly stood up instead. “Since the surgery can’t happen, I should head back to set. The schedule’s really tight—if I take time off, I’ll probably end up dragging the whole production down.”

Tong Shuqu knew Qiao Qi’s stubborn, competitive nature well enough to know she’d never want to hold everyone else back, so he nodded without a second thought. “Okay.”

“Want me to drop you off?” he asked.

“No need, I’ll just call a cab.”

“Right, I suppose you’re basically a celebrity now too,” Tong Shuqu said with a smile.

“You know that’s not the reason,” Qiao Qi said.

Tong Shuqu laughed. “I know, just teasing.”

“Alright, you should head back too, it’s so late.”

Qiao Qi nodded, and just as she turned to go, Tong Shuqu, after a moment’s thought, called out to stop her and asked: “Given how famous Liang Yan is, will tonight’s incident… cause him any trouble?”

Qiao Qi repeated Liang Yan’s cocky line word for word. “They don’t dare photograph him.”

“Hm? Why’s that?”

Qiao Qi gave a soft “hmm,” tilting her head, allowing herself a rare bit of playfulness. “Maybe because he’s rich and powerful? He is a big young master, after all.”

Tong Shuqu laughed. “Alright, get home safe.”

Qiao Qi said she would.

—

On the ride back, Qiao Qi leaned in her seat without sleeping, watching the world blur past outside the window, her mind a chaotic jumble of everything that had happened lately.

Stumbling by chance into the entertainment industry, chance meeting a major director, landing a good script and role, working alongside an actor who could practically be called top-tier A-list…

This was a life she’d never even dared imagine before.

Her life seemed to be improving bit by bit—but some things, too, were slowly slipping out of her control.

She was starting to lose her grip on certain things, and starting to find herself dwelling on others.

And on one person, in particular.

When the gap between you and someone is too vast, you don’t tend to dwell on them much.

Because you know, deep down, that the distance between you stretches on with no end in sight.

But once you catch sight of a breakthrough—even if that person still feels impossibly out of reach—it becomes very hard to suppress a restless, stirring heart.

In a daze, Qiao Qi found herself recalling the grandmother and grandson she’d passed earlier that night arriving at the hospital, the old woman’s gentle, kindly voice drifting faintly back to her ear.

Unconsciously, she twisted her fingers together, lowering her gaze, lashes veiling whatever emotion stirred in her eyes.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught her phone lighting up in her bag. She pulled it out to check—a message from Li’ang.

Liangou: [image]

Liangou: Up before the rooster, asleep after the dog—that’s me, basically.

Qiao Qi opened the image and saw it was a photo of the moon.

Qiao Qi thought for a moment, then held up her own phone to snap a photo of the sky above her too.

No matter how far apart they were, at least they were looking at the same moon.

Xiao Qi: [image]

Xiao Qi: I’m probably up even later than you.

Liangou: Who are you calling a dog?

Xiao Qi: Hahahahahaha.

Liangou: Hmph.

Liangou: Someone’s popular—I messaged you all afternoon and you ignored me completely.

Xiao Qi: Hm?

Xiao Qi: What did you send this afternoon?

Liangou: [image]

Liangou: See for yourself!

Qiao Qi opened it, and found it was the chat log of what he’d sent her that afternoon.

But…

Qiao Qi narrowed her eyes, noticing that the top of this screenshot had also captured a bit of a breaking entertainment news push notification above it.

[Liang Yan Allegedly Spotted Speeding Through Late-Night Streets in Romantic Ride with Wife and Illegitimate Daughter]

The instant she made it out clearly, a system notification appeared: Liangou recalled a message.

Liangou: …

Qiao Qi suddenly recalled the “illegitimate daughter” line Liang Yan had tossed out earlier that night, feeling more than a little exasperated: “………..”

Was this man’s mouth cursed or something?!

Author’s Note: Liang Yan: They don’t dare photograph me.

The media: We dare.

Liang Yan: …

The moment the news broke, both of them, at the same time—

Liangou: Let me explain!

Xiao Qi: Let me explain!

No update tomorrow. Updates resume the night after next.