The restroom lights were bright, casting light across her face—fair skin tinged with pink, radiant yet still delicate.

At the same time, the mess on her chest was left with nowhere to hide.

Qiao Qi dabbed at the wine stain on her front with tissue, her expression souring more by the second. When she finally realized wiping was futile and only wrinkling the fabric further, she balled up the tissue and threw it in the trash.

That was when the footsteps behind her approached.

Qiao Qi’s whole body was on guard by now. Alert to the sound, she looked up and saw, through the mirror, Director Zhou swaying his way over.

He’d actually dared to follow her.

The corners of Qiao Qi’s mouth pressed down. Her eyes in the mirror turned even colder.

“Qiao—Qiao what? Qiao Qi, right?” Director Zhou approached, reaching for her wrist with familiar ease. “Look at you, you don’t know how things work at all. Why make things difficult with the producer? One glass or two, it’s not going to kill you—”

Qiao Qi had no interest in hearing another word out of him. She shook off his hand and stepped back, her hip meeting the edge of the sink.

The sink’s coolness seeped through the thin fabric into her skin, and her heart cooled right along with it.

She’d been foolish today, chasing wishful thinking.

Qiao Qi glanced discreetly around the corners of the room.

No cameras.

She frowned faintly, then decided to lay it out plainly. “Director Zhou, I think you might be mistaken about something.”

Director Zhou paused, though he didn’t try anything further—just laughed as if he’d heard a joke, then looked her over from head to toe. “Qiao Qi, right? How old are you this year?”

Qiao Qi didn’t know what he was scheming now, but answered honestly. “Twenty-two.”

“Which school did you graduate from?”

Qiao Qi’s expression darkened. She said nothing.

Director Zhou sneered. “Twenty-two, no formal training, no background, no connections, and you think you’re going to leap up and become the next firebird? Qiao Qi, tell me—who’s really the one mistaken here?”

The words were blunt and ugly, each one striking straight at her spine.

Qiao Qi stood ramrod straight in her heels, though her body temperature dropped several degrees.

Seeing her no longer sharp-tongued in response, Director Zhou smiled, unsurprised.

Every young girl fresh into this circle carried herself with pride—and in the end, reality wore every single one of them down, inch by inch.

So Director Zhou smoothly eased the tension he’d just created, resting a hand on Qiao Qi’s shoulder with practiced ease, his tone coaxing. “You’re already half a foot into this circle yourself. These little rules—aren’t they all within your own control?”

“You really think I’m the one who took a liking to you? Please, I don’t have that kind of pull to just hand out resources. It’s that producer who’s the real deal, you know?”

“Take my advice—go back in, smile a little, soften up. Get through tonight, and I’m not just talking about a female supporting role in a web drama—even a female lead in a TV series is just a word away.”

Qiao Qi listened to him quietly, and only after a long moment did her lips curve faintly. She lifted her eyes to sweep over him. “Is that so.”

In truth, everything Director Zhou said wasn’t wrong. Qiao Qi had no background, no connections—more importantly, she didn’t even have a decent education to show for herself.

The only thing remotely useful to her was this face.

Her complexion was naturally snow-white; under the bright lights, her eyes shimmered with light. When she lifted her thick, dark lashes to look at someone, the air around her seemed to fill instantly with a kind of lingering allure.

Director Zhou, stirred by that single glance, felt an itch he couldn’t resist and reached out to touch the slender curve of her waist—only for his wrist to be caught the next second.

He paused, looked at Qiao Qi.

Qiao Qi smiled. “Sorry, I currently have no interest in becoming a firebird.”

“Qiao Qi, we’re already here—don’t you think—” Director Zhou paused, smiled. “Don’t you think it’s really up to you what you say?”

Qiao Qi’s expression shifted. “Director Zhou, are you actually planning to get physical?”

“I said it already—how things play out, in the end, is entirely up to you.”

Director Zhou had lost patience for banter with her by this point. A ninety-pound woman, however fierce, was still just a kitten compared to a grown man like him.

He seized her wrist hard and pressed her back against the sink. Water on the counter instantly soaked through the fabric at her hip. Goosebumps rose across Qiao Qi’s skin; anger flared across her face, and she fought back with everything she had.

Just as she raised her foot to kick toward his groin, an unhurried voice suddenly drifted over from not far away.

“Hey—”

Qiao Qi looked up at the sound, her gaze sweeping past Director Zhou to land on the entrance of the men’s restroom nearby.

Liang Yan, again.

A half-smoked cigarette hung from his lips, its glowing tip lighting his eyes—a spark of red in otherwise dark pupils.

He leaned lazily against the tiled wall nearby, phone in hand, seemingly filming something.

Director Zhou heard it too—assumed it was some clueless hero trying to play the part—but when he turned and saw it was Liang Yan, his face went pale instantly.

“Y-Young Master Liang?”

Liang Yan gave a vague hum from between his lips, chin lifting lightly, his peach-blossom eyes lowered, dark lashes casting a shadow over his lids.

His presence was casual, understated—yet somehow chilling to the spine.

“Why’d you stop?” His tone was almost conversational as he switched hands with his phone, the camera aimed squarely at Director Zhou’s face. “Go on, keep touching. Touch all you want—it’ll be trending by tonight.”

Director Zhou instantly lost all his bluster, his legs going weak. His voice shook. “N-no, no, Young Master Liang, look, this is just—just some joking around with my little sister here…”

He turned to shoot Qiao Qi a warning glare as he spoke.

At the same time, using the motion as cover to dodge Liang Yan’s camera.

“Dodging?” Liang Yan narrowed his eyes, spoke again.

Director Zhou was nearly in tears, but didn’t dare dodge anymore.

There was no dodging it anyway.

The phone screen steadily captured Director Zhou’s entire face. Satisfied, Liang Yan finally looked toward Qiao Qi, tilting his head slightly, cigarette still between his teeth. “Joking around?”

In one short evening, three encounters, three humiliations, and three rescues.

Qiao Qi laughed bitterly to herself. What kind of fate was this, determined to wreck her.

“I don’t think this was a joke at all.” Qiao Qi ignored Director Zhou’s threatening glare entirely, and while he was still at a disadvantage, quickly stepped away.

She didn’t move to stand beside Liang Yan either—just stepped clear of the camera’s view.

Liang Yan didn’t seem to expect her to stand beside him either. He simply kept filming Director Zhou, adding: “Jokes the other person doesn’t find funny are better left unmade.”

Director Zhou nodded frantically, agreeing to everything.

Once he’d filmed enough, Liang Yan put the phone away, tucking it into his pocket.

He waited a few seconds. Seeing Director Zhou still standing there, he raised an eyebrow. “What? Want me to walk you out?”

Director Zhou didn’t dare wait around and all but scrambled out the door.

—

The restroom fell quiet again.

With the fabric at her hip soaked through, Qiao Qi could only stand against the wall. The fitted qipao traced the graceful line of her figure, her swan-like neck held straight, an air of refined elegance easily masking her disheveled state.

She looked at Liang Yan, pressed her teeth to her lip, and said sincerely: “Thank you.”

“Oh. No problem.”

For someone of Liang Yan’s standing, playing the hero probably counted as barely more than a passing effort.

He didn’t seem to think much of it himself, showed no interest in claiming credit or expecting repayment, and turned to leave.

Qiao Qi called after him. “Young Master Liang.”

Liang Yan turned back. “Something else?”

“That footage…” Qiao Qi hesitated before continuing. “Would it be possible to get a copy?”

Worried he might misread her intentions, she added, “I just want to keep it as evidence.”

And as a safety net for herself.

If she had this in hand, at least she wouldn’t need to fear retaliation from Director Zhou down the line.

Fortunately, Liang Yan understood, and nodded. “Sure.”

Qiao Qi took out her phone. “Then let’s add—”

Before she could finish saying “WeChat,” Liang Yan cut her off with a faint, almost-smile. “Sorry, that’s not really convenient.”

Qiao Qi: ?

Liang Yan’s gaze moved on quickly. “Give me an email, I’ll send it over when I get a chance.”

Qiao Qi: ……

Was this young master misunderstanding something?

She genuinely just wanted the footage.

Before she could explain, however, someone else walked into the restroom area.

Qiao Qi had been through far too much tonight, and now flinched at any noise like a startled bird, instantly on guard.

Liang Yan noticed her reaction and, uncharacteristically, offered reassurance: “It’s fine. Someone I know.”

All the tension drained out of her at once.

Qiao Qi followed Liang Yan’s gaze to the newcomer, and once he’d gotten closer, she recognized him with a start. “Director Cheng?”

Director Cheng.

Cheng Yuzhi.

A top domestic director, responsible for launching countless stars.

Nearly every award-winning actor and actress in the industry today had worked with him at some point.

In his earlier years, Cheng Yuzhi’s career had been in full swing, releasing new work almost every two years—until, at some point no one quite noticed, he’d suddenly gone quiet.

By the time people realized, Director Cheng had already been off work for three or four years.

Running into Director Cheng here was, frankly, even more shocking to Qiao Qi than running into Liang Yan three times in one night.

Director Cheng clearly knew Liang Yan well. He smiled at Qiao Qi first, said “Hello,” then walked over to Liang Yan and ruffled his hair like an elder. “Look at you, out causing trouble again?”

“Come on, can’t I get into anything else?”

“What else would you get into?” Director Cheng asked, smiling.

Liang Yan pretended to think it over. “Prostitutes?”

Director Cheng smacked him on the back without hesitation. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Liang Yan hissed, yelping about the pain.

Director Cheng ignored him entirely, glancing instead at Qiao Qi, looking her over with clear meaning before shooting Liang Yan a look. “Friend?”

Liang Yan instantly dropped his playful air and denied it. “Don’t know her.”

“Is that so.” Director Cheng’s expression clearly didn’t buy it.

Qiao Qi thought about the image Liang Yan usually projected in public and figured Director Cheng’s skepticism was reasonable.

But some things needed clarifying regardless. Qiao Qi spoke up. “We really don’t know each other. I just ran into some trouble earlier, and Young Master Liang helped me out.”

Director Cheng made an “oh” sound, seeming genuinely surprised. “Is that so.”

“What’s with that tone?” Liang Yan protested.

Director Cheng just smiled and glanced at Qiao Qi again.

Just then Qiao Qi’s phone rang. As she looked down to dig through her bag for it, the small red mole at the side of her neck stood out sharply against her snow-white skin under the light.

Like a single drop of blood on snow.

Director Cheng’s eyes narrowed. “Girl, are you in the industry?”

Author’s Note: —Now Young Master Liang: Don’t know her, it’s fine, not adding WeChat. (Survival instinct.) —Later Young Master Liang: ……Damn it! (Survival instinct.)