People always have to grow up, spines always have to straighten. This time when Jin Yiken returned to England, all he left her with was “It won’t be that easy.” So even if she went to England, she wouldn’t get anywhere. She understood this man—once he set his mind on something, unless it passed his psychological defense barrier, there was no room for negotiation. Rather than spending time on a thankless effort, better to wait until this storm passed.

Too many people were watching this circle.

Before Wu Jiakui wrapped and left, she gave Long Qi a good look. The two didn’t exchange any greetings. Wu Jiakui cradled her Yorkshire terrier in her arms, her other hand typing on her phone. Her aunt and assistant surrounded her, as did the assistant director and other actors in the production. As she chatted and said goodbye to these people, she cast a glance at Long Qi with an obscure smile that said “never seeing you again.” Then she left.

At the same time, a new follower notification popped up on Long Qi’s Instagram account.

Along with the follow notification came a video direct message from this account. Upon opening it, the footage showed her and Jin Yiken kissing in the men’s restroom at the nightclub last night. But the footage only lasted two seconds before Jin Yiken closed the door, blocking the view. At the same time came the voice of the person holding the camera: “Holy shit…”

The video ended.

The account ID was a string of English letters starting with F. The profile picture showed a girl in an orange-red bikini and exaggerated tribal jewelry, giving the middle finger to the camera with the ocean as backdrop—no face visible. But Long Qi guessed who it was, because this account immediately sent another message: Impressive, you and Gao Ningning are really birds of a feather.

Fang Xuan.

Fang Xuan sent a second message: Stay away from men who are taken, or I’ll tear you apart until you can’t work in this industry.

Long Qi typed.

In less than two seconds, she sent it with a swish: Come tear me apart then.

Fang Xuan replied: Wow.

Then came another: Very cocky, aren’t you.

Followed by: Have you even signed the endorsement contract with Fire&Gun yet and you’re already this arrogant? Do you know who their major clients are? Do you know what consumer class the brand targets? Believe it or not, I’ll arrange zero sales for you as a New Year gift.

Fire&Gun was the luxury women’s clothing brand Long Qi was about to sign with. It specialized in rebellious style, and its target consumers were precisely the kind of prominent socialite class that Fang Xuan represented in the industry.

Long Qi had a dried mango between her lips.

She replied: Great, perfect. Saves me the Hawaii trip, gives me an extra half month to fly to London and say hello to Wu Jiakui for you.

Fang Xuan: Is your brain full of shit?

She: My brain is full of you.

Five minutes passed with no reply from Fang Xuan. She set her phone aside to film. After one scene ended, her assistant said her phone had message notifications. She glanced at it—Fang Xuan had realized and furiously sent: you damned bitch!

Long Qi had her assistant exit Instagram and ignored her.

The day Wu Jiakui flew to London was also the day Long Qi and Zang Xipu’s Frago studio shoot began.

That day she wore a Fire&Gun haute couture outfit with a high ponytail—strapless top, large gauzy sleeves, a velvet choker around her slender neck. Cold and rebellious, with residual defiance and a hint of asceticism. Zang Xipu’s styling followed his consistent style—composed and simple. A navy blue shirt with sleeves half-rolled to expose his tattoo sleeve, yet wearing gold-rimmed glasses—the air of a mafia boss who had abandoned violence for literature. Refined, calm, composed, subtly tempering the viciousness and allure on Long Qi.

The shoot was indeed like this.

The photographer knew where the chemistry of this pairing lay. The lens unabashedly captured Long Qi’s gaze, seizing every bit of that arrogant energy that transcended her clothing, not wanting to miss a single moment. Zang Xipu always faced the camera at an angle. He had no attachment to the lens, leaving the front view entirely to Long Qi—watching her pride, watching her haughtiness, at most offering a light, breezy smile.

The cover theme was: Faith of the Era.

Lao Ping was extremely satisfied with this theme. It practically meant she was the heir apparent. Zang Xipu supporting her—truly reliable.

During a break, the editor-in-chief discussed the shooting results with Zang Xipu. Long Qi ate while scrolling through her phone. Lao Ping hadn’t let her eat since last night to keep her looking slim on camera—she was nearly faint from hunger. Fortunately, Assistant Wang from Zang Xipu’s team had ordered Din Tai Fung delivery from nearby. Their soup dumplings and spicy wontons in red oil were delicious—filling without being heavy. Ultimately it was food Zang Xipu had ordered for her. Lao Ping couldn’t control it, so he let her eat. He was busy booking a restaurant, planning to have dinner with Zang Xipu’s team after the shoot.

While picking up soup dumplings, she looked at what Fang Xuan had sent her on Instagram.

This woman had been unconvinced since being verbally blocked last time and would send a few curse words every so often to provoke her. Long Qi hadn’t responded even once. This time she sent over an edited video. The original video was Rihanna’s “Bitch Better Have My Money” MV, featuring Rihanna and her girl gang “torturing” a debtor. Fang Xuan had pasted her own profile picture onto Rihanna’s face and Long Qi’s picture onto the torture victim’s face, creating a funny yet eerie meme video, as if completing a virtual “beatdown” of her through this thing. It was so amusing that she couldn’t even hold her dumpling, just laughing. She casually pulled a cigarette from someone’s pack on the table. Before she could light it, Zang Xipu’s voice came over: “What are you laughing at?”

Long Qi looked up. Before she could speak, Zang Xipu’s gaze moved from her face to the cigarette between her fingers.

Lao Ping beside her felt her behavior was highly inappropriate and rushed over non-stop, attempting to snatch away the cigarette. Zang Xipu plucked the cigarette from between her hands: “Don’t smoke this kind.”

Then he pulled out a slim cigarette from another pack. The lighter clicked. The cigarette lit at his lips. Long Qi saw his tattoo sleeve covering the lower half of his face. His eyes squinted slightly from the smoke. Zang Xipu held the cigarette between two fingers, reversed the cigarette body with the filter toward Long Qi, and placed it between her two fingers: “Smoke this kind.”

As he spoke, smoke drifted at his shoulder. Without lingering, he smiled and patted her shoulder: “But still smoke less—it’s bad for your skin.”

By the time Lao Ping came over, Zang Xipu had already moved past her to another area, as if he had just come over to check on her, not pursuing the “what are you laughing at” question. Long Qi held between her fingers the cigarette he had just helped her light. She turned to look at him, her long hair bouncing behind her shoulders, then turned back to look at the breathless Lao Ping, asking, “What? Want a puff?”

Lao Ping stood with his hands on his hips, catching his breath on the spot. He looked in Zang Xipu’s direction, then at Long Qi, then waved his hand: “Forget it, forget it. You win.”

Lao Ping’s “you win” carried profound meaning.

But Long Qi called him back and asked, “Do you know anyone talented at making videos?”

Lao Ping quickly found someone for her.

So after an entire afternoon of shooting, the other party’s video was completed according to Long Qi’s requirements. She had them swap all the profile pictures in the parody MV—she became the torturer, Fang Xuan became the victim. The avatars were even animated, changed to several corresponding expressions according to the situation. It was far more refined than what Fang Xuan had sent. When the shoot ended and they went to the restaurant to eat, Long Qi sent this MV to Fang Xuan. While Lao Ping ordered, she watched the MV again. Very satisfied. Fang Xuan’s reaction was as expected—she sent another string of sentences with Fxxk, Sxxt, Bxxxh.

She exited Instagram.

Not long after that meal, Long Qi’s drama wrapped.

She rushed to fly to Hawaii, staying there for half a month to shoot spring-summer advertisements and brand documentaries. Then she flew to Thailand for another half month—there was a food program and a tourism website advertisement to shoot there. Lao Ping had combined these two schedules. Meanwhile, Fire&Gun’s official website announced she had become the new season’s spokesperson. The new advertisement went live, and Fire&Gun’s airport advertising space was replaced with Long Qi’s large poster—so big, so high, illuminated, visible as soon as you exited the airport. The Italian edition Frago cover also launched in rapid succession. Everything converged at a perfect time. News reached domestically, sparking widespread discussion with even bigger ripples in the fashion circle. Runway invitations came one after another. Before mid-year, she had already become a person of the year selected by an authoritative website.

The late April breeze was gentler than previous months, carrying a hint of summer sea. She was currently outside the terminal, leaning against her 28-inch suitcase, sending location messages to Lao Ping for the driver to pick her up.

Lao Ping had returned to the country a day earlier. She had come back alone.

While recording the program in Thailand, she had attracted a clingy admirer—the son of a sponsor’s CEO who particularly liked her. He pursued her so intensely it became local gossip. One moment he’d rent an island to set off fireworks for her, the next he’d book an entire hotel for a “lights flashing” confession. He even found out her flight number and bought all the seats in the same row to “accompany her flight.” If he were handsome it might have been acceptable, but he looked exactly like the fat guy who had bought her bathing video from Long Xinyi back then—not even as tall as her, full of nouveau riche vibes. To avoid this person, she specifically bought a ticket for a day later, using the entourage as cover, tricking him into flying back to the country before she boarded her return flight.

Most of the fans who had checked the flight information in advance had also been fooled by yesterday’s schedule and came up empty. Now at one in the morning, the terminal was quite peaceful. She wore a simple black camisole and jeans with a long knit cardigan reaching her ankles. Her long hair was tied in a loose bun. She carried a Fire&Gun bag, sitting on her suitcase scrolling through Instagram.

Fang Xuan had sent her another video.

This girl Fang Xuan was ridiculously interesting.

Since last time when Long Qi had given her a taste of her own medicine, she sent videos even more diligently—all sorts of strange and bizarre destructive videos from who knows where, like “Twenty-seven Ways to Destroy a Haute Couture Gown” and “Teach You How to Smash a Car in Thirty Seconds.” Those destroyed items were all labeled with Long Qi’s name and emoji faces… Anyway, she was having a blast. Recently she’d become obsessed with kinetic sand videos, claiming to “cure OCD,” sending them most frequently. Long Qi would watch them when she had nothing to do. Later she got addicted and found a compilation online to send back to Fang Xuan. Fang Xuan would curse her while asking for video links.

……

Now whenever Fang Xuan found a new kinetic sand video, she’d shove it her way.

This time she also sent a string of text: You SB, I’ve followed you for so long and you don’t follow me back. Very proud of yourself?

Long Qi replied: I’ll remove you.

Fang Xuan’s message came back instantly: You fucking dare??

Then another: Oh, you’re actually online today, finally free. Come on, stick your face over here, let grandma tear at you.

The night wind was still somewhat cold.

After spending half a month in tropical countries, her body hadn’t adapted to the local chill. She rubbed her arms. Cars passed one by one on the road, but not the one Lao Ping had sent. Her phone rang again. Fang Xuan asked casually: Ran away again? Do you dare tell grandma where you are? Grandma will come tear you apart.

Long Qi sent her a screenshot of her current location.

Fang Xuan’s end went silent for half a minute.

Then sent: You’re at the airport?

She typed: Don’t dare come tear me apart?

Fang Xuan replied: Don’t leave. Wait. Grandma will fly over in fifteen minutes.

After that, no more messages. Long Qi didn’t reply to her. She exited the private message page, then switched to the WeChat page, finding Dou Junyun’s message thread. Jin Yiken’s phone number that he’d sent two months ago still glowed prominently inside. Her finger hovered over the dial button.

Late nights always made one melancholy, lonely, and empty.

Later, after being awakened by the cold wind, she still exited the WeChat page and re-entered Instagram, finding Wu Jiakui’s account.

Wu Jiakui’s Instagram updates over these two months were all personal activities.

While domestic media hyped the news of her and Xi Jing competing for the Asia-America Award, she was completely unaffected. The photos she posted were all of fun—either the beach, the desert, or snowy mountains. Always surrounded by friends, always with a bright smile. Only two photos had no friends.

One was a photo taken in a convertible SUV.

What was captured was half a male wrist controlling the steering wheel. No caption.

The other was from one of her tattoo locations—a conspicuous line of English with a gradient heart, the heart transitioning from light pink to deep rose.

—Just Keen on You.

……

A heart that beats only for you.

The three capitals J, K, Y. Read forward: JK—Jiakui.

Read backward.

YK—Yiken.

……

The moment she understood, her wrist lost some strength. The wind blew and blew, blowing the strands of hair at the back of her neck. The hem of her cardigan at her ankles also swayed. Then she heard a horn honk.

She looked up.

A Land Rover stopped on the road in front of her. The driver’s door opened with a click. Someone got out, but their body was blocked by the Land Rover’s massive frame—almost invisible. She could only see from under the car the other person’s exaggerated boots studded with rivets and spikes. She watched. Then heard another click. The person also dragged something out of the car—steel, quite heavy. She still sat on her suitcase until she saw Fang Xuan come around the front of the car dragging something resembling a spiked club. She wore a designer distressed sweater and leather pants, center-parted hair with heavy smoky makeup. One hand braced on the hood, catching her breath, suppressing it, looking at Long Qi.

The April night breeze was silky cool.

“Shit,” Fang Xuan said. “You really didn’t leave.”

Then added: “Before I allow you to get in my car, confess honestly first. You little bitch, have you ever had a child for Jin Yiken?”