Wu Man was placed near the end. The people ahead went into the room individually to audition—no one knew how the others performed.

She hadn’t auditioned in this industry for a long time. Production companies usually begged her to take roles—it was rare to have an opportunity to fight desperately for a part.

She sat in a chair watching people come and go, like sitting on that bench eleven years ago.

Back then was her first audition, on a snowy winter day, but the scene required was set in summer.

Everyone was bundled in down jackets and military coats—only she had come wearing a camisole and shorts. The taxi driver kept eyeing her through the rearview mirror, suspecting he’d picked up a mental patient.

At the time she only wanted to do her best. Even for a throwaway extra role with two lines of dialogue, she tried every way to immerse herself as that person, to place herself in that summer.

In the end Wu Man got the role. The price was being hospitalized that night with pneumonia.

She’d always been willing to be ruthless with herself.

Wu Man pulled herself from the memory, adjusted her state, and walked into the audition room. Four people were inside—the cameraman, screenwriter, director, and Zhui Ye.

Wang Cheng asked: “Can we start directly?”

Wu Man took a deep breath facing the large floor mirror, nodded, and Zhui Ye stood and walked toward her.

The young man’s tall frame stopped in front of Wu Man, almost able to envelop her completely.

Wu Man looked up, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes: “First meeting—I’ve heard so much about you, Best Actor Zhui.”

Zhui Ye blanked out for a second or two, as if only then hearing what Wu Man was saying. That negligent manner made one’s heart burn with anger.

“Then should I call you Best Actress Wu?”

The deliberately uncertain tone sounded especially sarcastic.

Just two sentences of greeting, a brief engagement, and Wu Man already felt completely suppressed.

Unpleasant. Too unpleasant. But she still had to swallow her anger to compete for the role.

“Let’s begin.”

As soon as Wang Cheng urged them on, Wu Man felt the person standing before her had changed.

The features were still those features, but they’d lost that sharp edge belonging to Zhui Ye himself, gaining instead an unripe innocence and wariness, along with a restless curiosity hidden deepest of all.

At this point in the scene, the husband had made brief introductions then gone to the bathroom, leaving the two of them alone. Wu Man felt awkward, tucked her hair behind her ear, and made small talk while looking out the window: “The rain outside seems to have stopped.”

Zhui Ye hummed softly in acknowledgment.

He was clearly wearing a normal thin sweatshirt, but his voice sounded like water had dripped on it—as if he really were that eighteen-year-old boy who had just walked through a drenching spring rain to stand before the woman, residual rainwater sliding from his hair into a white shirt, winding along lean, slender muscles.

Wu Man’s gaze never once made contact with Zhui Ye’s, her tone even cold, completely lacking the warmth of hospitality.

“When my husband comes out, you can go in and take a hot shower. I’ll go prepare your room.”

She turned her back and walked in the opposite direction, hearing Wang Cheng call out to stop behind her.

The scene wasn’t finished, yet he’d called a halt. Wu Man instinctively thought she’d messed up, rigidly freezing in place.

But Wang Cheng was frowning at Zhui Ye: “Have you done too many takes? Are you feeling tired?”

It was actually Zhui Ye who had the problem? Wu Man couldn’t help her astonishment.

He seemed somewhat distracted: “Maybe. I’ll go rest.” He immediately stuck his hands in his pockets and pushed out the door.

Through all those people Zhui Ye hadn’t slipped up, but when it came to her he’d lost his focus.

Wu Man’s expression wasn’t great. This time the awkwardness was far more genuine than what she’d performed earlier.

Wang Cheng smiled reassuringly: “I’m very curious about your performance just now. You’re the first among all these people to show indifference. The previous performers even cast very naked gazes at the physical body—don’t forget she’s a woman who hasn’t had sex in eight years. There would be stirrings in her heart.”

“There would indeed be stirrings, but I happen to think she would instinctively suppress those stirrings. Otherwise how could she endure eight long, boring years?” Wu Man explained her understanding of the character. “She’s not someone honest with herself. She would even suggest to herself that this young person’s appearance is unwelcome—he’s a disruptor who will derail her.”

Wang Cheng exchanged a glance with the screenwriter. The screenwriter nodded, and Wang Cheng said: “Thank you for your performance.”

Wu Man walked out of the rehearsal room and saw from a distance a cluster of chattering women gathered in the corridor. The person who’d just said he needed to rest was surrounded in their midst, like a butterfly encircled by flowers and bees. They laughed and flirted with him animatedly, and he accepted all comers, his lips hooked in a lazy smile, when he suddenly glanced toward the rehearsal room.

Wu Man was caught directly in his line of sight.

This scene seemed to overlap with the trailer for “Sinful Son.” He’d also leaned against the woman in the qipao like that, exhaling smoke, disinterested, then suddenly became spirited and looked toward the camera—looked toward you who were gazing at him.

Wu Man didn’t avoid his gaze, her eyes revealing undisguised mockery. This was the great Best Actor’s so-called rest?

She turned her head and immediately left the area, heading to a bathroom stall, pulling out a Su cigarette to bite on, messaging Wei Wei to come pick her up. When enough time had passed, she spat it out and went outside, running into He Huiyu just coming in.

He Huiyu was eager to watch the drama unfold: “How did it go? I heard Zhui Ye came out halfway through just now. Among all these people, you’re the only one who got this special treatment.”

Wu Man turned on the faucet, washing her hands meticulously, saying unhurriedly: “Instead of worrying about me, why not worry about your little boyfriend? I saw those women were about to eat him alive.”

“What right do I have to worry about him?” He Huiyu scoffed. “Did you actually believe that marketing account and think we’re involved? He spoke up for me just because he was telling the truth, not at all because he was helping me. What, you can’t handle the truth?”

“Then I’ll also tell the truth—you lost quite ungracefully.”

He Huiyu choked.

She said indignantly: “I really don’t care that you took the Golden Image Award, but this role is different—there’s no rigging. Who wins and who loses, this time we’ll see the real deal.”

Wu Man turned off the faucet, turning around to cross her arms and look at her: “What if you don’t get this role?”

He Huiyu sneered: “If I can’t get it, you think you can?”

After all the auditioners left, Wang Cheng projected the footage the cameraman had just shot onto the big screen for everyone to watch again. Many details became clearer. Some people displayed a rekindled vitality, some displayed restrained stirrings, some displayed naked desire.

He already had his assessment, but still looked toward Zhui Ye.

“Who did you feel the most chemistry with?”

Zhui Ye played with the pen cap on the table, not answering immediately.

“Never mind, never mind. I can tell from your performance. That’s the most honest thing—it won’t lie.”

He looked back at the big screen, flipping through one by one, finally stopping on a particular segment and watching this clip repeatedly back and forth—it was precisely Wu Man auditioning, the segments before and after the call to stop.

“Kid, I thought here you were just not in good form. But now looking carefully, you were clearly in too good a form.” Wang Cheng tapped his finger on the table. “Your reactions performing with everyone before were all cookie-cutter—when you got to this one, it was completely different. You almost fooled me.”

He paused the image on Zhui Ye’s gaze looking at Wu Man.

Kilig. Wang Cheng thought of this Tagalog word—it was that feeling when seeing someone, thousands upon thousands of butterflies would surge fluttering from your stomach, eyes, and heart, flying chaotically, throwing your composure into delighted disarray.

He was surprised that Zhui Ye could perform this kind of youthful heart-flutter just in an audition… He truly was a born actor. He’d really struck gold.

But outwardly he still found fault: “When we shoot, rein that intensity in a bit—the effect will be even better.”

He didn’t even know if Zhui Ye had listened, because he was just propping up his face, tilting his head to look at the big screen.

After getting in the car, Wu Man habitually put on an eye mask to rest. When she opened her eyes again, she discovered the car wasn’t heading home—it had actually driven to Jincheng Hotel.

Wei Wei stammered: “Mr. Yu instructed it. He also said we couldn’t tell you in advance.”

Wu Man’s heart seized. She knew that once she auditioned, the news couldn’t be hidden—what had to come would still come.

The long-awaited “punishment.”

Every time she’d done anything to defy him, she received corresponding punishment. Each time was different, like drawing from a mystery box—last time it was snakes, maybe this time it would be spiders instead. In any case, none of them would be pleasant.

Wu Man’s hand trembled slightly as she accepted the room card. She barely controlled herself and went upstairs.

The presidential suite on the top floor was empty. On the table was a small card, the handwriting seemingly carved, but actually written by Yu Jiaze’s own hand.

“Put it on. Wait for me here.”

On the clothes rack beside it hung a conspicuous champagne-colored cocktail dress, this spring’s top luxury piece—however, someone had mercilessly cut it open from the hem upward, the cut reaching all the way to the thigh root.