Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Facts proved that the promises of teenagers—especially those who were underage and financially dependent—no matter how sincere or earnest, didn't amount to much.

The two who had promised to meet at least once a year didn't manage to fulfill that promise even once.

At first, it was because of Chi Tuo's mother, Zhang Rou. After her son was beaten bloody by Chi Dingbang, she completely broke down. Her emotional recovery was slow; even after moving to a new environment, Zhang Rou's reactions were sluggish, and she couldn’t handle external emotions. She couldn't be left alone at all.

Chi Tuo, to take care of Zhang Rou, to adapt to Singapore's entirely new education system, and to help his uncle manage the noodle shop, barely had any time to sleep. Going back home wasn't even an option.

As for An Jiujing, with closed training, filming, and preparing for the film academy entrance exam—not to mention that she hadn’t even gotten a passport yet—it was impossible for her to travel abroad that first year. So, that first year, they both broke the promise.

In the second year, Wang Shanshan, through recommendation from makeup artist Xie Qi, signed An Jiujing with an entertainment company. It wasn't big and didn’t have any famous celebrities. An Jiujing officially adopted the stage name “An Ye.” When chatting with Chi Tuo, she rarely talked about this. She had promised to let him look over the contract before signing, but that never happened either.

So Chi Tuo had no idea what kind of company she signed with. He could only sense that An Jiujing talked much less than before. She used to chatter endlessly with him, but that year, she spent most video calls in silence, thinking negatively. She said she was probably still stuck in her role as Lin Luo and that she’d feel better after some time.

That year, Chi Tuo got into the Faculty of Law at the National University of Singapore. The workload was heavy, and he wanted to compete for scholarships in a place filled with elites. During summer and winter breaks, he was still busy helping run the noodle shop, sleeping only four hours a day.

They didn’t meet that year either.

In the third year, Zhang Rou had recovered a bit and could even help Zhang Chenglin with some light tasks. Chi Tuo had finally adapted to the fast-paced life, and he and An Jiujing agreed to meet during summer break.

But by May, the film Lin Luo’s Amusement Park entered its promotional period. An Jiujing followed the crew around for roadshows across the country. The movie exploded in popularity. From a little-known pretty model, An Jiujing—now An Ye—was nominated for numerous film awards as a promising new actress. During the summer break, her agency booked her on a popular reality show involving heroic challenges, leaving her no time to meet Chi Tuo.

That year, An Jiujing finally got her passport. During winter break, film festivals were in full swing globally. She traveled around the world—but never went to Singapore.

That year, they never video-called again. They each tried calling the other a few times, but none of the calls connected. Later, they settled for a fallback: agreeing to keep in touch through emails as much as possible.

In the fourth year, both of them were so busy that even their once-a-week emails turned into silence. Just like during that first late-night video call after Chi Tuo left Wangcheng, too many stories needed too much context, and it became hard to even know where to begin.

Replies were never instant, and gradually, the messages became fewer and fewer.

That year, An Jiujing was on a film set. Neither of them brought up meeting again.

In the fifth year, An Jiujing disappeared for an entire year—no replies, no answered calls, no email read receipts.

It wasn’t hard to learn about a now-famous celebrity. That year, all of Chi Tuo’s updates on An Jiujing came from Chinese entertainment news.

The news said that An Ye had terminated her contract with her original agency and joined Fantasy Day Entertainment—a top-tier company in the domestic entertainment industry. Her silent contract switch shocked many, and some self-proclaimed insiders speculated in the comments that Fantasy Day paid at least seven figures in penalties just to sign her.

That year, due to contract transitions or maybe for other reasons, An Ye didn’t appear in public. And likewise, An Jiujing didn’t appear in Chi Tuo’s world.

In the sixth year, on September 29, An Jiujing—who had vanished for over a year—suddenly sent Chi Tuo a birthday red envelope via WeChat. Two hundred yuan, with the message: Happy Birthday.

One minute later, Chi Tuo sent a red envelope back, with the message: Happy Birthday.

That year, they had completely exited each other’s lives. They didn’t even know how to begin asking about each other. An Ye had become a star, and Chi Tuo had gone to Canada to pursue a law master's degree.

For the years that followed, their relationship remained one of exchanging red envelopes on holidays and birthdays—close enough to acknowledge, distant enough to avoid.

This year marked An Ye’s tenth year since her debut. At the entrance of Fantasy Day Entertainment stood a massive poster of her, surrounded by flower stands, cakes, plush toys—filling an entire hallway. Dressed to the nines, An Ye stepped out of the car and stood in the center of the flower stands to take a 3x3 photo grid for social media. Her publicity assistant was in charge of editing and posting to Weibo.

As for An Ye herself, she immediately boarded the nanny van without pause. The car sped onto the highway as she sat silently with her eyes closed, letting her assistant remove her makeup and apply a facial mask.

Today, she had a film makeup fitting scheduled in a neighboring city. This was her third collaboration with Director Yang Zhengyi. She took it very seriously. Even though it clashed with the company's tenth-anniversary celebration they had arranged for her, she didn’t ask to reschedule the fitting.

As a result, today’s schedule became bizarre. She woke up at 3 a.m. to do her makeup and hair, rushed to the company to shoot the tenth-anniversary promo photos, then had her makeup removed in the car while rushing to the next city to try on seven sets of costumes and take makeup test photos. In the afternoon, she had to rush back to attend the anniversary party.Today, her face had to go through at least twenty rounds of makeup and removal. She had her assistant, Xiao Lan, apply layer after layer of essence oil, afraid that her skin might get damaged and affect the rest of her work.

She had originally planned to nap a little in the car, but her manager, Yan Wan, called her six times during the three-hour ride.

All the calls were to scold her for not taking the company’s tenth anniversary debut celebration seriously enough—saying her nine-photo grid was too half-hearted, saying she could’ve postponed her schedule by a day but insisted on having everything crammed into the same day, saying she always did things to offend the company, and that she was too impatient.

An Ye just quietly listened, responding now and then with a few uninterested “mm”s. Once Yan Wan finished venting and hung up, she waited ten minutes, took the next call, and quietly got scolded again.

Lan Yifang stole a glance at An Ye. Sometimes she felt like being a celebrity was actually quite miserable. Even someone like An Ye, a triple-award-winning top-tier actress, still had to be micromanaged by her manager—what roles to take, what events to attend, what reality shows to do—all had to follow orders. If she didn’t listen, this was what she got: endless rounds of verbal lashings.

But An Ye was rather strange. Whether it was because of her stable personality or pure indifference, Lan Yifang didn’t know. She’d been by her side for two years and had never once seen her lose her temper. No matter how much Yan Wan jumped up and down yelling to the point of a brain hemorrhage, An Ye always looked calm, like nothing could ruffle her mood.

Lan Yifang had been in this industry ever since graduating from vocational school. Though she had never worked with a celebrity of An Ye’s caliber before, she had assisted two or three second- or third-tier stars. Very few were like An Ye.

After signing with Fantasy Day Entertainment, An Ye’s workload each year became highly consistent: one movie, six variety show guest appearances, one reality show (filmed within fifteen days), and the rest filled with endorsements and year-end award shows, plus promotional tours after her films were released. The movies she took were almost all S-tier and above, with shooting schedules of four to six months. Her calendar was always full—she basically worked year-round without a break.

Usually, in such high-pressure situations, celebrities would have emotional breakdowns or lash out from stress, but An Ye had never once done so. In the two years Xiao Lan had worked with her, she could count on one hand the number of times An Ye even raised her voice.

She always seemed indifferent to everything. She memorized reality show scripts like drama scripts. Whatever kind of image they wanted, she would act accordingly. The rest of her time was fully devoted to her films.

She was a theater fanatic.

As long as it didn’t affect her acting, she was as cooperative as a rookie just entering the industry.

But recently, Fantasy Day had started interfering with her filming. The screen tests she had specially scheduled were often interrupted for quick video shoots or cover photos. Or, like today, a long-scheduled costume fitting had to be squeezed around company promotional shoots.

An Ye really disliked this. Every time she immersed herself in a role, having to break out of it disrupted her emotional continuity. Once or twice was fine, but it had happened nearly every time this past year. The most ridiculous instance was when she was already on set filming, and the company forced her to appear on a variety show as a guest alongside a rookie actor. She had to fly back and forth four or five times in a week. She still fulfilled the company’s demands, but in order to re-immerse herself in her wartime opera singer role afterward, she smoked an entire pack of cigarettes one night, pacing the freezing hotel balcony while singing arias.

There weren’t many visible mood swings, but her expression grew increasingly detached whenever she took Yan Wan’s calls.

Lan Yifang knew An Ye was planning to terminate her contract with Fantasy Day early. After all, the resources the company was providing her now were truly abysmal. Most of her exposure was tied to boosting newcomers, and even the film she was currently working on had come from her own personal connections.

And more importantly, their long-term visions were diverging.

But if An Ye really terminated her contract…

How much compensation would that cost?

“What’s wrong?” An Ye opened her eyes and glanced at Xiao Lan, who was holding a cotton pad and spacing out. “Is something on my face?”

“No, no, no, no,” Xiao Lan stammered, quickly pressing the essence-drenched cotton pad onto An Ye’s cheek and scrambling for an excuse. “Your earring hole is a little red.”

An Ye only had one piercing on her left ear. When not needed for styling, she wore a small black spinel stud—not very delicate, but she said it was the only one that felt comfortable after getting used to it.

That ear piercing would turn red whenever she was in a bad mood, didn’t sleep well, or even when the weather changed. If left alone, it would swell within a few days.

Xiao Lan remembered An Ye once mentioned that the piercing didn’t get inflamed at all when she first got it. But in the past few years, it seemed to react to everything like a barometer—red and swollen at the slightest change in weather.

Actually, it wasn’t just a weather predictor—it was an emotional indicator too.

“I’ll put some medicine on it.” Xiao Lan applied ointment to her ear.

“Not too much,” An Ye reminded her. “It’ll reflect in photos.”

“Got it.” They were almost at the fitting location. Xiao Lan responded briskly and used a tissue to gently wipe away the shiny ointment around the piercing.