Chapter 60: Someone Like Jiang Qi, After Acting Together For A Long Time, Would Inevitably Develop Feelings…

The next day, as soon as Zhi Qi returned to her dorm after class, she was cornered by Meng Chunyu.  

“Spill it.” Pinned against the door by the girl in a mock “kabe-don,” Zhi Qi blinked in surprise as Meng Chunyu asked with a stern face, “That girlfriend Jiang Qi officially announced yesterday—was it you?”  

The words hit like a thunderbolt.  

After returning home last night, Jiang Qi had pulled her into bed, and by the time she fell asleep from exhaustion, she hadn’t even touched her phone. She had no idea Jiang Qi had “publicly announced their relationship.”  

The genuine confusion on her face was impossible to fake. Seeing this, Meng Chunyu frowned and muttered, “You didn’t know?”  

As she spoke, she pulled out her phone and showed Zhi Qi the hashtag #JiangQiOfficiallyAnnouncesGirlfriend sitting at the top of the trending list. Clicking into it revealed Jiang Qi’s audacious post—already breaking records for reposts and comments, though not so much for likes.  

The comments were split evenly between blessings and curses.  

“Qiqi, tell me the truth—I’ve seen you wear that dress before, and the figure in the photo looks just like you.” Meng Chunyu raised an eyebrow, her bright eyes sparkling with gossip. “I always suspected there was something between you and your so-called ‘old classmate’ Jiang Qi. Remember when he mentioned ‘Qiqi’ at the awards ceremony? That was you, wasn’t it?! And you denied it when I asked before!”  

Meng Chunyu laid out her detective-like analysis, pointing out all the “clues” from before. Zhi Qi’s face grew hotter with each word, grateful she didn’t have the habit of wearing the same outfit two days in a row—otherwise, with so many people seeing Jiang Qi’s post, she might’ve really become “famous.”

Zhi Qi didn’t want fame, nor did she want to draw attention to herself and Jiang Qi in this way, inviting gossip. That was why she had kept it from Meng Chunyu until now.

Because Meng Chunyu was her best friend—and yet, past experiences with “friends and Jiang Qi” had left Zhi Qi with bitter memories. Like Zhi Shuang in elementary school, or Tang Jiao in high school.

They were the types who looked down on Jiang Qi and drifted away from her because of it. But Zhi Qi believed Meng Chunyu was different.  

So she met her gaze and admitted, “Yes.”  

“Holy sh*t!” Meng Chunyu reacted just like the online gossipers—even though she’d suspected it, hearing the confirmation still stunned her for a second. Then she grabbed Zhi Qi’s arm and squealed excitedly, “Aaaaaah! Our little princess is dating a top celebrity?! Tell me everything about this epic love story! And no lying this time!”  

Zhi Qi let out a relieved laugh.  

She had known—people were different. And she was glad that this time, Meng Chunyu wasn’t Zhi Shuang or Tang Jiao.  

Over lunch in the cafeteria, Zhi Qi gave her a simplified version of her history with Jiang Qi.  

Even the abridged version took nearly half an hour of hushed storytelling. As she listened, Meng Chunyu’s eyes grew wider and wider, her gasps of shock uncontainable.  

“Wow, so that’s why Jiang—uh, I mean, Jiang Qi—ended up in prison.” Meng Chunyu was stunned after hearing the truth. “He really did have mental health issues, not like those online trolls who made up that ‘hospital records were faked’ nonsense. But why did he never explain?”  

Zhi Qi was silent for a long moment before shaking her head.  

Explanations were for people who cared. If others didn’t, there was no point.  

Besides, when people wanted to hate someone, they wouldn’t bother with clarifications anyway. That was just how things were now.  

But in the end, Zhi Qi smiled and gave the most “believable” reason for outsiders: “He doesn’t have a company backing him.”  

Jiang Qi had no “support” behind him. So why bother explaining?

As a level-10 veteran fangirl, Meng Chunyu naturally understood the underlying reasoning. After a brief daze, she nodded blankly.

But the next second, she snapped out of her reflective mood, clenched her fists, and stared at Zhi Qi excitedly. “I hereby declare that from today onward, I am officially a shipper of you two!”

……

Meng Chunyu declared that after years of shipping fake celebrity couples…

She could finally ship a real one!

After “Jiao Si” resumed filming, Qu Heng reflected that the previous incident—aside from triggering Jiang Qi’s emotions when returning to Chenkong Alley—was also partly due to his own relentless pursuit of progress, which had pushed the crew to work around the clock, leaving everyone exhausted and irritable.

In today’s fast-paced filming industry, it was common to churn out a TV series in three months or a movie in one. Actors had grown accustomed to this grueling schedule for the sake of profit… but ultimately, this wasn’t right.

So after the restart, Qu Heng doubled the original filming schedule. Unless it was a scene specifically requiring nighttime shots, actors no longer had to pull all-nighters.

Admittedly, this new approach worked much better. With the actors well-rested, their performances on camera were vibrant and free of that “exhausted” look, making Qu Heng marvel at his own wise decision.

Additionally, there were now longer breaks during daytime shoots.

That morning, they were filming a scene where Chen Si accidentally falls into the water and struggles. Jiang Qi actually knew how to swim, but to portray the script’s demand for the male lead’s utter panic and despair, he deliberately tied his legs before jumping in to prevent any instinctive survival reflexes. The result was so convincing that Qu Heng was thoroughly impressed.

The only catch was that after yelling “Cut!”, Jiang Qi had to be dragged out of the pool by professional medics.

The pool water was freezing. By the time he was pulled onto the deck, the young man’s face was pale, his dark hair plastered to his skin in wet strands, his thin chest rising and falling weakly as he lay on the ground.

This scene also involved the female lead, Xue Ling. In the script, her character, Meng Su, notices Jiang Qi’s fall and dives in to save him. Xue Ling had suffered just as much from the cold during filming. After being hauled out, she wrapped herself in a large towel, shivering as she sipped the ginger tea her assistant handed her.

“I nearly froze to death after less than three minutes in the water—Jiang Qi was submerged for over ten,” Xue Ling mused, clicking her tongue as she glanced at Jiang Qi, who still looked ghostly pale. Her beautiful eyes flickered with thought before she tilted her chin toward her assistant, Xiao Chen. “This tea helps with the cold. Bring him a cup too.”

Jiang Qi’s assistant was a young guy who seemed rough around the edges and not particularly attentive. Plus, after over a month of working together on set, Xue Ling couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for him.

Xiao Chen blinked in surprise but obediently went to deliver the tea.

However, a moment later, she returned with the cup untouched.

“Ling-jie,” Xiao Chen said glumly, pursing her lips, “he refused.”

Xue Ling froze, then let out an awkward chuckle. Truthfully, she and Jiang Qi were polar opposites. Xue Ling was currently one of the industry’s most popular rising stars—a rare blend of talent and charm, which was why Qu Heng had cast her as the female lead.

As someone accustomed to being fawned over, she wasn’t quite used to Jiang Qi’s blunt, icy demeanor.

“Ling-jie, just leave him be,” Xiao Chen whispered, sneaking a glance at Jiang Qi before leaning in. “Haven’t you noticed how everyone on set avoids him? You two already have so many scenes together—I know you’re kindhearted, but it’s better not to get too close to someone like him.”

By now, the entire Jiao Si crew knew that director Qu Heng favored Jiang Qi and relied on him heavily. But that didn’t stop them from steering clear of him. After all, their careers depended on fan support, and no one wanted to be associated with the internet’s current “public enemy.”

But as the female lead, Xue Ling inevitably had numerous scenes with Jiang Qi, along with off-screen interviews and promotions. She had hoped to establish some rapport with him beforehand… but it seemed he wasn’t interested.

Xue Ling’s eyes flickered thoughtfully as she gazed in Jiang Qi’s direction.

The boy had already changed out of his soaked clothes and was now wearing a loose white T-shirt with black pants, looking lean and delicate as he sat against the wall, elbows resting on his knees while he stared down at his phone.

A white towel draped over his head, the edges revealing damp black strands of hair that hadn’t been fully dried. Droplets gathered at the tips, occasionally sliding down the sharp, refined contours of his face.

After a while, as if sensing her gaze, Jiang Qi suddenly looked up.

Xue Ling’s heart skipped a beat. Flustered, she lowered her head and bit the rim of her paper cup, pretending nothing had happened.

Truthfully, acting opposite someone like Jiang Qi for so long—even in non-romantic scenes—made it hard not to be drawn to him.

The only problem was that while he was compelling in character, off-screen, Jiang Qi’s expression was always icy. Those pale, indifferent eyes held not a trace of warmth… She wondered if he was the same way with his girlfriend.

Xue Ling thought back to the news of Jiang Qi publicly admitting he had a girlfriend, and for some reason, her heart churned with mixed emotions.

“Ling-jie,” her assistant called out just then, “time to change.”

Her next costume had just been ironed, and the current damp outfit clinging to her skin was unbearably uncomfortable.

Xue Ling got up and left.

The crisp click of her high heels against the studio tiles was sharp and distinct. Jiang Qi frowned slightly at the sound, though his eyes remained fixed on his phone.

He had noticed the girl’s ambiguous gaze earlier—he just didn’t care to decipher its meaning. His irritation now was purely because of the noise.

Or perhaps… it was the message from Zhi Qi that was bothering him.

[Qi Qi: Why aren’t you saying anything? I’m not leaving for Sakura City until next week!]

That university of hers—with her major—seemed to require constant travel. But now that he’d grown used to living with her, her absences left him feeling unbearably lonely.

His eyes drooped slightly, a hint of grievance in them. Seeing no one around, he pressed the voice message button and muttered sullenly, “I know.”

His voice, still slightly hoarse from the cold water, carried a low, magnetic resonance through the phone line, making it sound even more captivating.

On the other end, Zhi Qi could definitely hear the reluctance in those three words. The girl couldn’t help but laugh, her eyes crinkling above her mask as she glanced up at the ascending elevator numbers.

Jiang Qi had mentioned earlier that the crew was filming indoor scenes today—on the 28th floor of this entertainment building, specifically designed for set constructions.

Zhi Qi had coordinated with Qiu Mi beforehand but deliberately kept Jiang Qi in the dark—she wanted to surprise him.

Qiu Mi had slipped her an internal staff pass, so once she reached the 28th floor, a quick flash to the personnel at the entrance would grant her access.

At a little past one in the afternoon, foot traffic was light. The elevator ride had been smooth and mostly empty—until it stopped at the 19th floor.

Zhi Qi, fiddling with her phone, glanced up absentmindedly as a tall, slender girl stepped in.

Dressed in a classic Dior ensemble, oversized sunglasses obscured half her face, revealing only a delicate jawline. Her Valentino heels were impossible to miss, and the short skirt showcased her fair, perfectly straight legs.

The entire aura she gave off screamed “keep your distance”.

Zhi Qi scanned her briefly, recalling Qiu Mi’s words—this building housed multiple indoor sets, and without a staff pass, no one could enter. After all, celebrities practically roamed the halls.

So this striking beauty was undoubtedly a star?

The only problem was that Zhi Qi lived under a rock when it came to pop culture. Aside from Jiang Qi-related news, she was practically stuck in the 2G era. No matter how hard she wracked her brain, the girl in the elevator didn’t look familiar at all.

But one thing caught her attention—the beauty hadn’t pressed any elevator buttons after entering. So… was she also heading to the 28th floor?

Zhi Qi frowned slightly in confusion.

Sure enough, when the elevator stopped and opened at the 28th floor, the woman stepped out first. It took Zhi Qi a second to snap out of her daze and follow.

The 28th floor was bustling with activity. As they walked, Zhi Qi noticed many people lighting up at the sight of the woman, stopping to greet her respectfully with a “Sister Yuan.”

The girl nodded, her voice light and melodious. “I’m here to see Director Qu. Is he around?”

The staff member she spoke to was visibly thrilled, nodding eagerly. “Yes, Sister Yuan! He’s on set—you’ll see him as soon as you walk in.”

At this point, Zhi Qi was certain—this woman was definitely a celebrity.

Once “Sister Yuan” left, the staff member turned his attention to Zhi Qi, his tone much cooler. “And you are?”

“Also staff,” Zhi Qi lied smoothly behind her mask, pulling out the pre-prepared work pass from her bag and handing it over. “Here you go.”

The staff member barely glanced at it before waving her through.

Truthfully, he had a hunch this girl wasn’t actually “staff.” He worked in this building every day and had never seen her before, not to mention the conspicuous mask. His guess? Probably some reporter trying to sneak in.

But as long as someone had a work pass—no matter how they got it—the gatekeepers tended to turn a blind eye. After all, some media and journalists were secretly invited by the production team, and the pass was essentially a coded “signal.”

The indoor set wasn’t particularly large, but with dozens of crew members moving about, it still felt crowded. As soon as she entered, Zhi Qi instinctively scanned the room for Jiang Qi. It didn’t take long—his striking presence made him easy to spot. He was lounging on a sofa in the far left corner, head bowed over his phone.

Zhi Qi was about to walk over when she noticed the woman from the elevator—her slender, graceful figure moving with eerie synchronicity, heading toward the exact same spot as her.

…

Since when did Jiang Qi know this gorgeous woman?

Hesitating for a moment, Zhi Qi tiptoed closer anyway, though her grip on her phone tightened unconsciously.

As she neared, she heard the sharp click of heels stopping in front of Jiang Qi. The boy looked up.

“Jiang Qi, hello.” The woman’s voice faltered slightly under the cold scrutiny of Jiang Qi’s pale eyes. She forced a smile, maintaining her usual gentle tone. “Do you remember me? I’m Yue Yuan. We met briefly on Director Wang’s set last time.”

That chance encounter during the audition had stuck with Yue Yuan like a recurring dream—flashing back in her mind at random moments, haunting her like a spell.

Since then, she couldn’t help but follow Jiang Qi’s news obsessively—his scandals, his withdrawal from the industry, his recent comeback, and then, just days ago, his public admission of having a girlfriend. For some reason, that last detail had finally pushed her to visit the set unannounced.

But Jiang Qi’s expression was blank, utterly devoid of recognition. He studied Yue Yuan’s meticulously made-up face for two seconds before answering honestly:

“No, I don’t.”

Then he immediately lowered his head again, checking his phone to see if Zhi Qi had replied.

—

**Kabe don (壁ドン) —  is a Japanese term that refers to a dramatic or romantic gesture where one person pins another against a wall by placing their hand on the wall beside them.

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