Wen Tingli secretly made a face at Deng Tianxing in front of camera three.

They’d agreed that at three o’clock the Sands of Time crew would give up the soundstage to them, but no one expected the lead actor Deng Tianxing to keep running into trouble—arriving nearly an hour late, and after he did show up, he kept forgetting his lines, so much so that they still hadn’t gotten a single scene right.

If this kept up, she’d definitely have no way to make it to the Sichuan restaurant on time for her appointment.

Wait—had Lu Shicheng really understood that disjointed sentence of hers? She hadn’t even asked if he was free before hurriedly hanging up the phone.

She cradled her face in frustration. The best option right now was to go to the Sichuan restaurant herself and leave word with the owner, so that even if Lu Shicheng couldn’t find her later, he wouldn’t be left confused.

But the Sichuan restaurant was some distance from the soundstage—a round trip would take at least half an hour. If it came to be their turn to shoot and she, the female lead, wasn’t there, it would inevitably invite criticism.

What’s more, she was still in full makeup. She looked down at herself—ruined makeup could be redone, but a damaged costume would be a real problem.

Actually, today wasn’t the official start of filming at all, but a rehearsal inside the studio that Huang Yuanshan had specially arranged for her. For this reason, Huang Yuanshan had long since told the crew to cooperate with her.

“Shooting a film isn’t like performing a stage play in your daily life—film stock is expensive. Today we’ll go through the process in the studio in advance, so when we officially start shooting later, there’ll be fewer mistakes.” That was what Huang Yuanshan had told Wen Tingli.

Someone was going out of her way to look out for her—how could Wen Tingli bring herself to sneak off for her own personal business, even for just half an hour, without feeling guilty about it?

What made it even more infuriating was that it wasn’t only Deng Tianxing having repeated problems—the Sands of Time crew, upon hearing that the slot coming up was to be vacated for a newcomer like Wen Tingli to test a scene, seemed to be dragging their feet on purpose too. A scene that could clearly have wrapped by two or three o’clock was dragged out until past five.

The moment the set was free, the assistant director immediately called Wen Tingli over—but just then, Nightingale‘s director Guan Lin arrived with his own crew, saying he needed to reshoot a shot from the morning that hadn’t come out well.

The assistant director pulled Wen Tingli along and put on a placating smile for Guan Lin. “Director Guan, could we discuss this? Miss Wen here has been waiting all day—”

Before he could finish, Guan Lin had already had his people shoo them aside.

Wen Tingli had seen plenty of this kind of thing lately and knew perfectly well that a newcomer like her had no say whatsoever on set. But today was different, and in her urgency she began asking around for the Sichuan restaurant’s phone number. Quite a few people had eaten there before, but no one had ever specifically kept the number.

Suddenly she spotted a senior colleague named Yin Ming passing by with a makeup case, and inspiration struck. She hurried over. “Sister Yin.”

As luck would have it, Yin Ming was just heading back to the company, and her route happened to pass right by that restaurant. Wen Tingli quickly wrote a note and asked Yin Ming to pass it along to the restaurant owner.

Director Guan’s reshoot dragged on until seven o’clock. Had she not sent that note ahead of time, Wen Tingli would have been anxious to the point of pacing in circles. Now at least she knew that even if Lu Shicheng really did come, he’d see the note and leave early—so it no longer mattered how late she ran on her end.

She could hear Guan Lin scolding someone again in the distance.

“Where are the tears? Where’s the anguish? Your eyes aren’t even red—what are you doing, dry-heaving over there? Right now you’re a father who’s lost his child, not some junkie having withdrawal!”

Wen Tingli’s scalp prickled listening to this. She got up wanting to go get some air, and only then discovered her legs had gone a little weak. According to the original plan, their group was supposed to wrap by six at the latest, so to save on a meal expense the assistant director hadn’t ordered dinner. Now, hearing everyone complaining of hunger, he was hastily sending someone out to buy a late-night snack—Wen Tingli estimated it would be another hour before she got to eat.

She was starving beyond endurance, so she told the assistant director, “I’m going to the makeup room to get some water.”

When she reached the makeup room, she found actors from another crew rushing to prepare for their scene, doing their makeup—there wasn’t even a spot to stand in the room. Wen Tingli quickly retreated.

Fortunately, beside the makeup room was a stairwell used to store the crew’s odds and ends. Right now it was piled with a few fake maple trees, but the steps below were spacious enough. Wen Tingli, already dizzy with hunger, sat down in front of the pile of fake trees, dug out the cookies she’d hidden in her bag, and ate while looking over her script.

The spot wasn’t especially hidden—when the assistant director came looking for her later, he’d surely spot her at a glance.

As she ate, Wen Tingli couldn’t help but think of Lu Shicheng.

If he really did make it tonight, this would be their first proper date together. The food at the Sichuan restaurant was delicious, the timing wasn’t too early or too late—everything would have been perfect. Who knew so many things would go wrong all at once? By now he’d probably already gone home, Wen Tingli thought dejectedly.

Suddenly someone was walking toward her.

“Is it our turn?” Wen Tingli lowered her head to put her food away in her bag. “I’ll be right there.”

But when she looked up, the person in front of her wasn’t the assistant director—it was another familiar face.

Wen Tingli stared blankly, looking him up and down. His complexion was like fine jade, his brows and eyes clear and bright, dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit, with a matching waistcoat underneath, a tie at his collar, and at his cuffs a pair of elegant cufflinks that caught the light with a dim, shifting glow.

This outfit was unusually fine and formal, and yet he walked over and crouched down in front of her without the slightest concern for it.

He was even carrying a box.

“When did you get here?!” Wen Tingli’s face lit up with surprise.

Lu Shicheng looked at the cramped little corner she’d curled herself into, then at the handkerchief beside her, and finally let his gaze settle back on her face, studying her silently.

Under the light, there was something odd in his eyes.

Wen Tingli felt a bit mortified—of all things, to be caught by him in such a disheveled state. She hastily began stuffing the cookies away and reached up to fix her hair, murmuring as she did, “When did you get here?”

Lu Shicheng said nothing, only bent down to help wrap up her handkerchief and hand it back to her, then gestured at the space beside her, signaling for her to move over.

Wen Tingli laughed. “It’s really small here.” Even as she said it, she immediately scooted to the side—but Lu Shicheng only set the box down beside her, without sitting down himself.

He helped her open the lid. Inside were three dishes and a box of rice—looking at the food, it was exactly the signature dishes from that Sichuan restaurant.

Wen Tingli stared, stunned. Lu Shicheng laid the dishes out one by one in front of her, then pointed at her book bag. Wen Tingli was still dazed, but out of habit took out her notepad and handed it to him.

[I figured you still hadn’t eaten, so I came to check on you.]

A fine, quiet light welled up in Wen Tingli’s eyes; she only gazed at him silently.

[Is it enough?] Lu Shicheng asked again.

Wen Tingli let out a snort of laughter. “With this much food, how could it not be enough? I’m not some bottomless pit…”

But Lu Shicheng couldn’t manage to laugh. He looked at the script in her hand, one she wouldn’t even part with when sleeping, the thick stack of pages already worn soft from being flipped through so much.

He glanced up again at the pile of junk behind her, the several tall fake trees making her look especially small and thin by comparison.

Then he checked the time on his watch—she’d been so busy she hadn’t managed a single hot meal all this time.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out toward the top of her head.

Wen Tingli’s heart pounded like a drum; she lowered her eyes halfway and let him touch her.

But Lu Shicheng only reached once and withdrew his hand. Looking again, she saw he was holding a fake maple leaf between his fingers—clearly it had stuck to her hair when she sat down earlier without her noticing.

Wen Tingli’s face flushed bright red, and she refused to look at him again, occupying herself instead with a box of steaming hot rice. Used to eating cold food, the heat rising off the rice was especially inviting.

“Smells so good.” She took a sweet, deep breath.

Lu Shicheng watched her, smiling, then stood up.

“You’re leaving already?” Wen Tingli was taken aback. “Wait a moment.”

She set down the lunchbox and turned to rummage through her book bag. “This morning while I was out running errands, I passed by the Grand Theatre, and there’s a new film that looks pretty good. Tomorrow’s Sunday and I don’t have anything on, so I bought two tickets for tomorrow.”

“Want to go together?”

Lu Shicheng held out his open palm without any hesitation.

Wen Tingli pressed her lips together, delighted. Worried that Xiao Taozi would go rifling through her bag once she got home, she’d tucked the tickets deep in the innermost layer of her wallet. The light in the stairwell wasn’t bright enough now, so she had to search by feel—finally digging them out, but in the process she accidentally pulled out a few business cards along with them, two of which happened to fall right at Lu Shicheng’s feet.

He bent to pick them up for her, his movements suddenly stopping.

Wen Tingli had found the two tickets by then, and casually followed Lu Shicheng’s line of sight—

Even though the light wasn’t very clear, she could still make out the gold-embossed characters “Meng Qiguang” printed on the card.

A chill ran down her spine.

This was the card Meng Qiguang had left behind that time he’d come to pay respects for her father’s passing. Afterward, since she’d never once thought to ask Meng Qiguang for help, she hadn’t given the card any thought, and with everything else that happened afterward, she’d completely forgotten it was still in her wallet.

Lu Shicheng’s gaze paused only briefly on the name “Meng Qiguang” before he quite naturally handed the card back to Wen Tingli.

Wen Tingli’s conscience was perfectly clear, and yet a suspicious silence descended now—after all, that was the only man’s business card in her whole stack.

“I—” After a moment’s thought, she said, calmly.

Just then she heard people approaching, laughing and chatting: “Why did Young Master Lu only show his face and then leave, we didn’t even get a chance to properly meet him. By the way, this one’s usually a dragon who shows his head but not his tail—why would he turn up at the soundstage today?”

“Obviously for that Miss Wen. Didn’t you hear Deng Tianxing say it? That Miss Wen is quite something—not long ago her boyfriend was none other than the famous Meng Qiguang.”

“Meng Qiguang? How does Tianxing know that?”

“Tianxing and Meng Qiguang are connected somehow—when he first joined the company to film, it was Meng Qiguang who recommended him to Director Huang. He said a couple of months back, one night, he personally saw Mr. Meng talking with Miss Wen near Fengyunli. Think about it, if they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, why would they be huddled together so late at night? Not long after, this Miss Wen joined the company, and right off the bat got cast as the female lead. Tianxing assumed Miss Wen had been recommended by Mr. Meng too, and asked her several times to pass along his regards to Mr. Meng—but this Wen girl just played dumb, and turned right around and hooked up with Young Master Lu instead. A woman like that just latches onto whichever man is more capable.”

“No wonder Tianxing’s always looked down on Miss Wen. Today, he probably wasn’t dragging his feet by accident. Does Young Master Lu not know any of this? Then isn’t he just—”

The two men’s snickering cut off abruptly, because they’d just come face to face with Lu Shicheng and Wen Tingli.

Wen Tingli’s gaze was already sharp as a blade, while the two men could only stare timidly at Lu Shicheng. They’d met him a few times before, but this was the first time seeing this Young Master Lu look so ice-cold. The two of them hastily changed course down another corridor.

Then someone else came running over, calling out: “Have you seen Wen Tingli? It’s her turn to shoot!”

The two men didn’t dare say a word. The assistant director looked up, saw Wen Tingli and Lu Shicheng, and quickly called out, “Tingli, come on, quick.”

Wen Tingli’s scene didn’t wrap until past ten.

After finishing, she wasn’t in a hurry to leave—she went first to the shower room behind the makeup room to wash up.

She needed to calm herself down properly.

She asked herself honestly: she had never once offended those people, and had no idea where such deep-seated malice came from. Those filthy words were like basins of dirty water splashed over her head, and the most infuriating part was that unlike real dirty water, this couldn’t simply be washed clean.

No wonder Huang Yuanshan always said the first trial a starlet had to face was gossip. “If you’re pretty, they’ll say you sleep around. If you don’t marry, they’ll say you’re an unwanted spinster. If you’re strong-willed, they’ll call you a jinx. In short, the moment a woman steps out to do something in society, all kinds of nonsense rumors will inevitably be pinned on her—and it’s even worse for actresses, who have to endure countless times more gossip than anyone else.”

Wen Tingli still remembered how contemptuous, helpless, and mocking Huang Yuanshan’s tone had been when she’d said this.

Hmph, she sneered inwardly—the more they acted like this, the more she’d become a star, right in front of their faces!

On the other hand, she trusted that Lu Shicheng would never take such nonsense to heart—but she didn’t believe he’d felt no doubt at all upon seeing Meng Qiguang’s card in her wallet.

She came out carrying a heart full of worries. The night was deep, not a soul on the street. Tired, she looked around, preparing to hail a rickshaw home.

Suddenly she spotted a car parked in the shade of a tree up ahead.

She looked closer, and her face lit up with delight.

Lu Shicheng drove the car right up beside her.

“You’re still here waiting for me?” Wen Tingli peered happily into the window. “I thought you’d have left long ago.”

Lu Shicheng met her sparkling eyes and got out to open the car door for her.

[It’s too late—I’ll take you home.]

Wen Tingli hummed in agreement.

Once she was seated, she turned to look at Lu Shicheng, not sure what to say, and so kept silent.

But silence, too, could be a kind of smiling silence.

The car drove on for a while, and she’d finally arranged her thoughts, breaking the silence herself: “That business card—it’s from the time Meng Qiguang came to pay respects for my father—”

Lu Shicheng, just about to turn the wheel, paused at her words.

Wen Tingli hurried to speak first: “I know you’d never go asking about this on your own, but even if you didn’t ask, I’d still want to tell you. Back then Qiu Dapeng and the Bailong Gang tried every way they could to smear me in the papers to make me lose the competition, and Meng Qiguang came to find me…”

She spilled out, all in one breath, everything about how she and Meng Qiguang had come to know each other.

During this time, the car passed through seven or eight streets.

Every time they passed a neon sign, light would flash briefly across the window, like a shooting star—short and bright. Wen Tingli’s heart felt as if it were being thoroughly lit up by that glow, and she just kept talking, and talking.

From Meng Qiguang, to how she’d handled her father’s funeral all on her own.

From her father’s death, to how she’d nearly been assaulted by Qiu Lingyun.

As she talked, she began to cry.

These words had been pressing on her heart for far too long. Ever since her mother died, she’d never poured out her grievances to anyone—not to Zhou Sao, and not to her father either.

She’d long since forgotten what it felt like to confide her wrongs to someone.

Every day, she’d only tried her hardest to live, tried her hardest to face whatever came.

But now, she urgently wanted to pour out all the grievance in her belly to him.

She guessed Lu Shicheng would be at a loss with her like this—after all, in front of others she was always cheerful and lively—but she couldn’t help it anymore. Her heart was so bitter, so sour.

She wasn’t even sure when Lu Shicheng had stopped the car.

She saw him lean over and use a handkerchief to wipe her tears—the very handkerchief she’d given him. His movements wiping away her tears were very light, very gentle.

He was that respectful and considerate of her; his gaze was that full of tenderness and understanding.

Her heart grew even more tender and aching. She couldn’t help but lean her head against his shoulder, sobbing, and the tears that kept falling soon soaked the handkerchief through.