Having finished discussing business matters, it was time for settling scores after autumn.

Taking advantage of Shen Qianzhan’s relaxed guard, Ji Qinghe scooped her up and headed straight for the bedroom.

Shen Qianzhan’s palms were still tingling, and she couldn’t react in time. Only when Ji Qinghe tossed her onto the bed did she truly understand what it meant—a gentleman’s revenge is never too late, even after ten years.

Her heart trembled with anticipation, and she couldn’t help swallowing nervously. Seeing that he had already removed his suit jacket, she hurriedly pointed at the half-centimeter of dawn light seeping through the curtains, reminding him: “It’s almost daybreak.”

Ji Qinghe gazed at her with slightly deepened eyes, dismissively: “Afraid I won’t have enough time to fully enjoy myself?”

Shen Qianzhan: “…” She couldn’t find words to refute him for a moment.

Ji Qinghe hung his suit jacket on the chair back. After loosening up his entire body, he knelt on one knee at the bedside, pressing her beneath him: “Where’s your phone?”

Not understanding his intention, Shen Qianzhan still handed over the phone that was resting on the nightstand.

Supporting himself on one elbow, he unlocked it with one hand and opened the “Recent Calls” list, showing her the missed calls—in the bright red missed call records, Ji Qinghe’s name was neatly arranged in five rows, each separated by mere seconds.

Shen Qianzhan felt guilty: “I didn’t have my phone with me.”

When Su Lanyi appeared suddenly and suggested going to the barbecue stall downstairs to chat, she had spent all her time changing clothes wondering about Su Lanyi’s intentions, completely forgetting that she’d left her phone in the room.

Ji Qinghe looked down at her for several seconds: “This isn’t the first time.”

Shen Qianzhan: “…”

She wasn’t a phone addict. On set, everyone preferred face-to-face communication, so there was no need for phone contact. Besides, in such a small place, if you needed to find someone, just shout once and the entire building could hear you.

But defending herself at this moment would be very unwise.

Adults handle matters by solving them directly.

Immediately, Shen Qianzhan efficiently offered a solution: “Then tie me to your belt and carry me around at all times.”

Ji Qinghe couldn’t help but laugh: “Being such a rogue—who did you learn that from?”

He handed the phone to Shen Qianzhan: “Hold it yourself.”

Shen Qianzhan dawdled and just wouldn’t take it.

“Not taking it is fine too.” Ji Qinghe pressed his full body weight down, fitting tightly and seamlessly against her.

The fabric of his suit pants was somewhat thin, and through his shirt, his lean, firm muscles and the full, taut bulge pressed like a drawn bow, silently threatening.

Shen Qianzhan felt like she was a poor, weak, innocent little peony beneath him, deeply humiliated and thoroughly tormented.

She tremblingly took the phone, silently condemning him with her eyes.

Ji Qinghe remained unmoved. His voice was low and magnetically charged: “Read it aloud.”

He was too close, his voice carrying a three-dimensional, surround-sound floating effect as if it had built-in audio enhancement.

Shen Qianzhan instinctively looked at the phone. The screen had somehow been switched to WeChat, displaying all the messages she had sent an hour ago.

She felt slightly embarrassed.

Finally understanding where Ji Qinghe’s explosive mood tonight had come from.

Seeing her hesitation, Ji Qinghe tilted his head slightly, leisurely studying her: “Bold enough to send them, but not bold enough to read them aloud?”

His tone carried hidden storms, seeming to contain thunderous momentum.

Shen Qianzhan shuddered and looked up at him.

Ji Qinghe’s shirt buttons had somehow come loose, his collar slightly open. From her viewing angle, she could look right through the open collar, taking in everything unobstructed.

She paused slightly, first explaining: “I didn’t want to break up.”

Ji Qinghe’s eyes narrowed at the word “break up.” He pinched Shen Qianzhan’s chin, carefully scrutinizing her: “You wouldn’t dare.”

Most of the time, Ji Qinghe was gentle.

Like his deceptively mild appearance, his nature was cool and distant, rarely exposing his emotions completely at any given moment. Only when they were alone together would his eyes reveal hints of joy, anger, desire, or passion—his cards always visible, so she never had to guess wildly.

It was the same now.

Though his tone was cold, the eyes that met hers held no real coldness. Instead, his palms were burning hot, caressing her waist like flames ready to consume at any moment.

Seeing this, Shen Qianzhan struck while the iron was hot: “You were the first to say we were like young children just adapting to a romantic relationship, learning how to love.”

Ji Qinghe curved the corner of his lips, waiting for her to justify herself.

“I thought you had expectations of me, but I hadn’t met your expected standards, so I overthought things.” She tossed aside the phone and reached out to embrace him first: “I’ve been busy building my career all these years, sneering at the whole concept of romance. Before meeting you, I felt that dating would both delay work and waste time. Living freely alone, doing whatever I wanted—why waste time coaxing a boyfriend?”

Now spending time “coaxing” her boyfriend, Shen Zhenxiang sighed deeply: “Now that I’ve caught the last train of romance, I regret knowing too little and lacking practical experience.”

She secretly glanced at him from the corner of her eye, muttering: “I should have confessed this early so you’d have lower expectations of me. What did you think I meant?”

Dawn was approaching.

She hadn’t slept all night, her eyelids slightly swollen. Without makeup, her usually overly striking features became tenderly refined. Now, as she looked up slightly with a soft, questioning tone, she resembled a bird kept in a deep cage—delicate and beautiful.

As if bewitched, Ji Qinghe lowered his head to kiss her eyes.

Every place within reach, he wanted to linger and caress intimately.

He held Shen Qianzhan and rolled over, leaning against her half-upright pillow, half-lying and half-reclining, holding her in his arms: “I heard Suihuan mention ‘relationship adjustment period’—apparently girls who’ve been single for a long time become uncomfortable with sudden romantic relationships, developing resistance to their partner’s sudden involvement in their life right after starting to date, leading to breakups.”

After processing this, Shen Qianzhan suddenly felt they were even…

She felt unsuited for romance, unable to find the balance point in their relationship transformation. Meanwhile, this man who remained so calm he could face world collapse without changing expression was also overthinking that she might have adjustment period issues and want to break up.

She suddenly wanted to laugh, and indeed couldn’t suppress her amusement, laughing aloud: “I’m used to independence, don’t know how to depend on another person, and don’t know what to do during a relationship. I was afraid you’d have expectations of me and then be disappointed when I failed to meet them.”

But all these unnecessary worries had vanished completely during their earlier conversation about the future.

At their age, with their life experiences, she and Ji Qinghe were no longer suited for the young lovers’ mode of being attached every minute, constantly professing their feelings.

Their affection was restrained, gentle—the tenderness and strength to embrace all of each other.

They didn’t need to prove their love like young couples in passionate romance through “you’re my only WeChat pinned contact,” “exchanging love tokens,” or “I deleted all opposite-sex friends’ contacts for you.”

Their relationship was too straightforward, so straightforward that they hadn’t made any superfluous promises, like a blank sheet of paper just unfolded with nothing yet written or drawn.

“Overthinking.” Ji Qinghe pinched and played with her earlobe, his voice husky: “Instead of wasting time on such thoughts, better to get some sleep.”

Shen Qianzhan turned to look at him, not understanding whether this “sleep” meant literally sleeping or what she thought it meant.

His chin pressed against the crown of her head, against her hair whorl. His slender fingertips still pinched her ear, stroking her earlobe and inner ear sporadically like petting a kitten: “How deep feelings run depends on how long they last.”

“Want to measure yourself?” As soon as he finished speaking, he laughed first, the muffled laughter instantly burning her ears red.

“Rogue.”

“Improper.”

Shen Qianzhan opened her mouth to bite him.

Just as she leaned forward, he turned his head, perfectly catching her lips in a kiss.

Her chin rubbed against his unshaven stubble from the night, slightly prickly yet slightly ticklish.

The light seeping through the curtain gaps gradually brightened, and voices began to echo in the hotel corridor.

He rolled over, pressing her back onto the bed, kissing deeply and intensely.

After being forced to measure “how deep their feelings were,” Shen Qianzhan’s mind was completely muddled with just one thought—did this count as morning exercise?

The news of Shen Qianzhan leaving Qiandeng remained limited to that night’s conversation with Su Lanyi and hadn’t spread.

Whether Su Lanyi was worried that news of her departure would shake morale, or was keeping it quiet out of consideration for winning her back, everything that happened that night hadn’t leaked even a hint.

Life continued as normal.

Only a few perceptive people sensed the changing weather, the approaching storm.

This day.

The crew was working a night shift.

Shen Qianzhan was waiting for Shao Chouxie to finish work so they could have a meeting.

After Su Zan finished scheduling, he grabbed a small folding stool and quietly sat beside her.

“Sister Zhan.”

Shen Qianzhan glanced sideways, responding with a light nasal hum.

“Did you and my sister have a fight?”

Shen Qianzhan had just drawn a winning hand in her elderly mahjong game. Without looking up, she asked: “Who told you that?”

Su Zan rubbed his little hands together, asking: “Then what’s going on between you two?”

He glanced at her newly drawn hand, seeing her luck was good tonight, and boldly brought up Xiao Sheng: “Is it because Xiao Sheng is still at the company and you’re unhappy about it?”

Shen Qianzhan paused and turned to look at him.

Her sharp gaze made Su Zan’s heart flutter nervously. Before she could ask, he spilled everything he knew: “I thought Xiao Sheng was too despicable, so I reported him. My sister clearly agreed initially, saying she’d fire Xiao Sheng to help you vent. But the next day, she acted like nothing happened and completely denied the whole thing.”

This news had greatly surprised Su Zan at the time, making him secretly angry with Su Lanyi for several days. Even now, the two hadn’t reconciled.

Shen Qianzhan wasn’t surprised that Xiao Sheng hadn’t left Qiandeng as Su Lanyi had promised that night.

Since she had already broken with Su Lanyi, whether Xiao Sheng left or not was irrelevant. Su Lanyi, being so considerate of the big picture, naturally wouldn’t want to lose Xiao Sheng too when Shen Qianzhan was already determined to leave.

After that night, Su Lanyi had never sent her another private message.

Their years-long friendship had completely reached freezing point, beginning a prolonged cold war.

Su Zan knew nothing about what had happened between them, but he keenly sensed things were gradually derailing. This abnormal change kept him awake at night, always feeling like something bad would happen.

According to Shen Qianzhan’s usual pattern, once a production was halfway through, she would start preparing the next project. Whether creating original content or adapting for film and television, she should have started scouting by now. But so far, Shen Qianzhan hadn’t presented a single project for meetings. All of Qiandeng’s current projects seemed to have received some tacit approval and were entirely assigned to Xiao Sheng’s team.

“Moreover, you’re now teaching me everything hands-on… just like an employee training a replacement before leaving the company.” Su Zan’s brow furrowed slightly, puzzled: “You’re not completely disappointed in my sister and really planning to leave, are you?”

When Su Zan needed to be clever, he wasn’t confused. Though he hadn’t guessed the full story, his summary was quite accurate.

Shen Qianzhan stared at her phone, completely unaffected: “Getting promoted isn’t good for you? Being a producer has much more authority than a supervisor.”

Su Zan couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious, his face drooping like a bitter melon: “I quite like running errands for you, don’t want to be promoted.” Then he blindly guessed: “If it’s not about fighting with my sister, then you’re preparing to marry President Ji?”

“President Ji comes from a substantial family background, wedding preparations are quite complicated.” The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became: “After marriage you’ll need a honeymoon, and you two aren’t young anymore—time to start trying for children. Once pregnant, strenuous work isn’t advisable, and being a producer is too exhausting. President Ji definitely wouldn’t agree to you continuing to work on sets.”

Shen Qianzhan played a tile and flicked his forehead: “If you have this much free time, hurry up and reconcile those accounts for me.”

Su Zan covered his forehead without speaking. His heart was uneasy, getting no answers left him restless for days. Seeing June nearly over, his anxiety burned stronger each day.

After dismissing Su Zan, Shen Qianzhan lost interest in her elderly wellness game.

She locked the screen and propped her chin on her hand, watching the brightly lit studio in the distance.

One and a half months remained before “Key of Time” would wrap.

And she needed to seriously consider what path to take next.