Chapter 66

Chapter Sixty-Six

An Ye felt that Chi Tuo’s question was actually pretty easy to guess.

The reason he went to Wangcheng to see Wang Shanshan wasn’t really because Zhang Rou had something for her—it was because that day, when she went to the hospital to observe and get into character, her emotions were far too unstable. It was basically only thanks to his constant interruptions that she managed to stay grounded.

And just when she had barely calmed down, she got a call from Wang Shanshan. That was when he suddenly brought up the idea of going to Wangcheng to see Wang Shanshan on New Year’s Eve.

The timing made it seem like he was just trying to distract her again to stop her emotional downward spiral.

He even phrased it as, “I might go over for a bit.”

At the time, she just found it awkward and didn’t think too much of it.

They’d been reunited for quite a while now. She had shown him everything—from her bank records to all the paper and electronic contracts she’d signed over the past ten years. They had also broken the ice and talked through a lot about those ten years.

The only thing he never pushed about was her family.

On New Year’s Eve, he took medication in front of her for the first time. That was just after he came back from Wangcheng. At the time, she had felt vaguely unsettled without knowing why—probably because her instincts had picked up on something, even if her mind hadn’t yet made the connection.

Today, after finishing his call with Wang Shanshan, he gave her just a simple answer when she asked: “There won’t be any problems for now.”

And that was it—he didn’t go on.

That wasn’t like Chi Tuo at all—neither his personality nor the way Lawyer Chi usually handled things.

And yet, after she answered his question about specific anxiety, Chi Tuo didn’t say yes or no. He just closed his eyes and leaned there for a long time.

His complexion didn’t seem any worse, though his temples were still damp, his lips still pale—but his expression looked much more relaxed than before their conversation.

“Hey.” An Ye nudged him.

Chi Tuo swayed slightly to the side from her push, then swayed back with the momentum, resting his head on her shoulder.

An Ye froze for a second.

Chi Tuo had never done that before. While there had always been some physical contact between them, it was usually for comfort or play—not like this.

This was a little vulnerable, a little clingy.

Not quite used to it, An Ye reached up and gently touched his hair.

“Does it happen just by thinking about it, or only when you actually go through it?” she asked in a low voice.

“Only after going through it.” Chi Tuo’s arm slipped around her waist too—this time, finally, not like ten years ago when his brute strength almost crushed her in his arms.

“Then… can I handle things with my mom myself from now on?” she asked.

“No,” Chi Tuo said. “It’s not that bad. I’ve got meds anyway.”

An Ye: “…”

She ruffled his hair.

“Jiujiu…” Chi Tuo rubbed his face gently against her shoulder.

“Mm?” An Ye was still a little stiff, her mood complicated, and her voice involuntarily softened.

“It’s nothing,” Chi Tuo murmured. “Just feels… really nice like this right now.”

An Ye: “……”She didn’t refute it.

Today, when Qi Wei asked her what would happen between her and Chi Tuo going forward, that question suddenly popped into her head again.

She still didn’t know the answer.

But being with Chi Tuo felt… quite strange in a good way.

At first, she thought it was probably just a familial feeling—Chi Tuo was kind of like a twin born on the exact same day, month, and year as her. They had been inseparable growing up, with no secrets between them. Even after reuniting, the awkwardness only lasted a short while before they went right back to the kind of relationship where neither of them even bothered pretending with the other.

She had originally thought Chi Tuo hadn’t really changed much.

But his attitude toward anxiety really surprised her.

The reason he didn’t want to talk about it was simply because he found it hard to know where to start.

An Ye could tell that Chi Tuo didn’t actually reject the topic. He wasn’t deliberately hiding it, nor did he seem particularly concerned. It was like he had calmly accepted this condition—which, to outsiders, might seem like a mental issue—as just another life experience.

That was very different from how she saw things.

Before, she hadn’t even had the courage to ask him why he had insomnia, or why he’d go pale and break out in a cold sweat. She was afraid the truth would be too heavy, and that she wouldn’t be able to handle it.

But today, she really did ask. Chi Tuo answered.

And she didn’t feel burdened at all.

On the contrary—she felt a little relieved.

It really was quite strange.

And there had been so much physical contact between them recently—clingy, sticky moments—and she hadn’t rejected it even once. Even when she noticed Chi Tuo sometimes had an obvious physical reaction while standing right there, she just thought it was amusing. Not offensive.

She rested her chin on Chi Tuo’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist just like he had done.

She felt like the two of them were kind of like stray cats, huddling together for warmth.

“Did you schedule an appointment with Dr. Yang yet?” he suddenly asked.

An Ye: “...Yeah, Thursday this week.”

“Don’t feel pressured. Dr. Yang isn’t aggressive at all. You don’t have to worry about steering the conversation—he’ll lead it.”

“And don’t think you have to be completely honest. Just express how you feel in the moment, truthfully.”

“Just treat it like talking to a tree hole. You’ll feel a lot lighter afterward.”

He leaned on her shoulder, rambling on.

He usually talked more when his emotions were stirred. Now that they were this close, An Ye couldn’t quite figure out why he was emotionally stirred at this moment. But his rare vulnerability left her heart feeling soft and sore. She gently patted his back again and again, listening to him ramble, replying from time to time.

That tugging feeling in her chest that had been happening a lot lately welled up again. An Ye frowned slightly, still not used to it.

“What are you doing with all those boxes?” Chi Tuo’s rambling eventually circled back to an earlier topic.

“I’m packing up all the trophies in the study to move them to the studio,” An Ye replied. “Oh right… did I not tell you the studio space is already rented? Qi Wei took care of it—I haven’t even been there yet, just saw a few photos.”

Chi Tuo: “……”

He finally sat upright, and his expression suddenly became very complicated.

Just when he’d started to feel like she really did take him seriously, a couple of sentences from her knocked that feeling right back down.

“The studio you rented—it’s a property owned by one of my clients,” he said, expressionless. “Qi Wei couldn’t find anything suitable and asked me, so I made the connection.”An Ye blinked: “...Oh, thank you.”

Qi Wei probably had mentioned it in passing, but in her head she had only remembered the result.

The strange atmosphere between the two of them from moments ago had completely vanished. Chi Tuo stood up and started helping An Ye pack the trophies: “You’re just taking the trophies?”

“There’re other things that need sorting too,” An Ye stood up as well. “Tonight’s the only time I have. I’ll pack up my personal stuff myself—everything else Xiao Lan will take care of.”

Chi Tuo paused mid-motion: “Take care of what?”

“I’m putting this place up for sale,” An Ye said as if it were perfectly natural. “Otherwise, where would I get that much cash to pay the breach of contract fee and set up the studio?”

Chi Tuo: “...If you sell it, where will you live? Don’t you still have some investments?”

“...Some of that’s with my mom...” An Ye glanced at Chi Tuo’s expression after saying this. “I bought this place early—it’s probably the most profitable investment I’ve made, so selling it won’t be a loss.”

Chi Tuo didn’t react much when An Ye mentioned Wang Shanshan. He had always assumed her liquid funds would come from those investments—he’d even made spreadsheets for it.

“Then where will you live?” he frowned.

She didn’t have any other property in Baigang City, and in a city like this, finding another place in a neighborhood with decent security wouldn’t be cheap.

With her approach of cashing out real estate as an investment strategy, buying a new home later would definitely come at a loss.

“I’ve got a business partnership with a hotel. They’ve got a suite I can stay in long-term. Once I start making money, I’ll find another place with good security to buy,” An Ye clearly hadn’t thought that deeply. “Anyway, Lao Bai—you’ll keep an eye on things for me.”

This time, Chi Tuo didn’t hesitate at all: “Just live at my place.”

An Ye: “Huh?”

“It’s only half the size of this place, but the location is great, the security’s good too, and you need a keycard for the elevator,” Chi Tuo said. “What else do you need to move? Pack it up now. Once you head to the film set, I’ll move it all.”

An Ye: “...Huh?”

“You’re gonna sleep in a hotel when your hypersomnia kicks in too?” Chi Tuo asked her.

An Ye: “...Back before I bought this place, that’s exactly what I did.”

She’d always joined film crews for at least five months at a time and traveled constantly. She barely stayed in Baigang City for more than four months out of the year—staying in hotels had always been the cost-effective choice.

That’s what Wang Shanshan had said.

And there wasn’t much of a risk falling asleep in a hotel anyway—at least there was room service, so she wouldn’t die in there or anything.

“That was before,” Chi Tuo had already finished packing one box and brought over an empty one. “Now you have me.”

An Ye: “……”

That was…

She honestly didn’t know how to respond to that for a moment, and could only resort to the most cliché, reflexive reply: “Wouldn’t it be inconvenient if your friends come over?”

Chi Tuo paused and looked at her.

“...What?” An Ye felt a little guilty for no reason.

Chi Tuo finished wrapping one of her massive golden trophies in velvet cloth, then slowly said, “I don’t have any other friends.”

An Ye: “……”Chi Tuo continued slowly, “I’m very withdrawn. I’ve worked at the firm for a year, and there are still people who don’t know my full name.”

An Ye: “...Oh.”

Chi Tuo added in conclusion, “Even Lin Hao didn’t know where I lived at first. I only gave him the address when he came to your place to pick something up last time.”

An Ye: “……”

She rolled her eyes and carried off an empty box.

“What time are you heading back to the set tomorrow?” Chi Tuo asked her.

An Ye had taken time off to come handle the contract termination today. Xiao Lan said the post-holiday scenes would all be tough. Starting from the seventh day of the new year, An Ye would be in full lockdown mode—no phone calls, no going out.

“Before eight,” An Ye replied. “Why?”

“I’ll drive you to the set. On the way, we can swing by my place so you can get familiar with it, and register your car with the building management,” Chi Tuo said. “The door lock code is your birthday—eight digits.”

An Ye was surprised: “You just set it now, or have you always used my birthday as your door code?”

Wait, isn’t our birthday the same…

Chi Tuo remained expressionless: “I’m a mid-level officer in your fan club.”

An Ye: “……”

On the City of the Rising Sun set.

The “difficult post-holiday scenes” that Lan Yifang mentioned were mostly emotional scenes for A Jiao. Unlike An Ye’s past roles that always required her to dive into deep, heavy emotions, this time she had to portray hope and warmth.

It was genuinely hard for her.

Even though her emotional state had improved significantly compared to before, and the contract termination had gone relatively smoothly—the legal team from Huanzhou Entertainment had begun to show their aggressive side during settlement—Chi Tuo had warned her in advance: in the worst-case scenario, she might have to pay sixty percent of the agreed penalty fee.

To An Ye, this outcome was already unexpectedly good, so she didn’t dwell much on the contract issue.

She’d also had two online sessions with the therapist that Chi Tuo strongly recommended, Dr. Yang—indeed, someone whose smile felt genuinely kind and contagious. An Ye had never tried therapy before and found it wasn’t as intimidating as she had imagined. It started with a few basic questions about her physical and mental health, then just turned into casual chatting. She would say whatever came to mind, and if Dr. Yang noticed a problem, he’d interject. When something deep came up, she’d zone out, and Dr. Yang would guide her to reflect on her current emotional state.

Both sessions went like that. Afterward, she’d feel a faint emotional heaviness, but nothing overwhelming. Still, just saying things out loud helped lighten the load, so An Ye had genuinely started treating Dr. Yang like a tree hollow—a place to pour her thoughts into.

Chi Tuo hadn’t asked about her therapy again. He’d been insanely busy lately. Besides her case, he had two financing deals going on. Oddly enough, negotiating a contract termination with Huanzhou had landed him a lawsuit related to their equity stakes. Chi Tuo had laughed and told her her “career luck” was strong.

He’d been complimenting her a lot lately—even praising things like good fortune at work. That guy’s mouth really had no filters anymore.

Wang Shanshan, too, hadn’t called to scold her again. Over the past couple of weeks, one of her favorite jewelry brands had launched a new line. An Ye picked out a few pieces she thought Shanshan would like and had them sent to Wangcheng. Shanshan posted pictures of them to her Moments feed.

She didn’t call An Ye, and An Ye hadn’t called her either.

Yan Wan had seemingly vanished from the public eye. Qi Wei had managed to socially “kill” him online—completely. Even if Huanzhou didn’t press charges, his career in the industry was finished. After he called twice to curse An Ye out, she simply blocked him. And that was the end of it.

This had been the smoothest stretch in An Ye’s life over the past ten years. Every problem now had a solution. But she still felt distant from that idea of "rising toward the sun."

Love was the path A Lin chose to move toward the light.

So in the final scene, A Lin rushed unhesitatingly into the flames in her hallucination.

But when An Ye performed that scene, she couldn’t quite convey the yearning or the release. There was always a trace of hesitation in her eyes.For an entire day, An Ye was cut from beginning to end by Yang Zhengyi. A single shot NGed forty-five times solely because of her, setting the record for her most retakes on a non-action scene.

By the end, An Ye realized that even Yang Zhengyi himself didn’t quite grasp A Lin’s emotions in that moment—he was simply relying on instinct, feeling that the way she acted in that shot wasn’t moving enough.

So the two of them treated it like an exam, going through every emotion An Ye could think of, performing them all. Then they tried all the possible combinations and permutations. Another seventy-some takes NGed.

And so, under the green screen, An Ye kept running again and again.

It wasn’t a long distance—barely more than a dozen steps—but after an entire day of wear and tear, everyone was numb.

In the end, it was Assistant Director Qian who couldn’t take it anymore. He told Yang Zhengyi that they should call it for the day. The earlier scenes had gone smoothly, and even if they spent another week on this one, they’d still be on schedule. There was no need to drive everyone insane.

Yang Zhengyi clenched his teeth and called wrap.

An Ye didn’t move. She kept running, over and over. She’d already tried countless running postures, countless combinations of facial expressions. With no markers and no director’s calls, she could perform the scene with her eyes closed.

Many crew members knew what An Ye was like, so they just went about dismantling the set and moving props. In the midst of the chaotic wrap-up, only An Ye remained in her own world, running stubbornly.

It was obstinate.

But watching her slim figure persist like that, many people couldn’t help but soften their movements.