Chapter 28

Passing through the hotel lobby on the first floor, with its classical garden-style design, Zhao Pingjin entered the exclusive elevator in the central tower. A few seconds later, the elevator dinged, arriving on the 52nd floor. As he stepped out and walked toward his apartment, the thought of the lights being on at home and a “magical snail girl” waiting inside made his steps feel noticeably lighter. 

He unlocked the door and entered the living room. 

Huang Xitang, with freshly washed hair draped over her shoulders, was barefoot and standing next to the washing machine in the bathroom. The TV in the living room was on, playing the music channel from CCTV. 

It was already November, and the nighttime air carried a slight chill. 

Standing in the living room, Zhao Pingjin said, “Come in and put on your shoes.” 

Huang Xitang poked her head out of the bathroom. “I forgot to bring my slippers.” 

Zhao Pingjin bent down to look for a pair of shoes in the cabinet. “You couldn’t find them yourself?” 

Huang Xitang came in and put on the shoes. “Didn’t have fun? Why are you back so early?” 

Zhao Pingjin replied, annoyed, “This is my house. Were you hoping I wouldn’t come back?” 

Huang Xitang stuck out her tongue playfully and slipped back into the bathroom. 

Zhao Pingjin’s mood finally lifted. He took off his jacket and sat down on the sofa. 

Huang Xitang returned from the balcony after hanging up some clothes and pulled the curtains closed. She saw Zhao Pingjin sitting on the sofa, wearing a gray pinstriped shirt, his body relaxed as he leaned against the backrest. His right hand rested on the armrest, his long, elegant fingers slightly curved, tapping lightly to a rhythm. On the TV screen, a concert was playing, and a soprano singer’s rich and powerful voice echoed: 

“The billowing smoke sings of heroes; the green mountains on all sides listen closely, listen closely—” 

At that moment, his face was calm, carrying a trace of relaxed contentment.

Xitang secretly observed that face. Fair-skinned, lean, and handsome, with a perfectly straight nose. From the side, his jawline was cold and sharp like tempered steel, yet when relaxed, his entire face took on a jade-like radiance that softened his expression slightly. His whole being exuded a kind of inherent nobility and arrogance—an arrogance that no amount of good manners or upbringing could conceal.

A wave of sorrow rose in Xitang’s heart. She didn’t know why, but it seemed her life was destined to be like this. No matter how many nights of bloodshed and anguish she had endured, she could never tire of looking at this face.

Zhao Pingjin turned to look for her.

Xitang quickly averted her gaze and walked over nonchalantly. She sat cross-legged on the sofa. Over the years, as she had grown older, she had slowly become softer and more forgiving. Only later did Xitang begin to truly understand him, gradually realizing how rare and precious it is to possess a pure heart. Zhao Pingjin was a descendant of the Red Revolution. Even though he later attended the best universities abroad and lived in the finest cities overseas, he had always felt that China was the best. His favorite cuisine was always Chinese food, and his favorite city was always Beijing. She knew these songs; Zhao Pingjin knew them too. But the difference between them was that Xitang had received her national education through TV and classrooms, while Zhao Pingjin had been steeped in the culture of military family compounds and the teachings of his forebears since childhood. Xitang had learned to understand and respect these things—they were his childhood memories and the proud legacy of his family.

Xitang hadn’t always thought this way. When she was younger, she liked Hong Kong and Taiwanese pop music. In middle school, her desk mate lent her a cassette tape of Come Back, and from that green-covered cassette, she became a fan of Jeff Chang. Later, in college, she fell in love with Western pop music. Zhao Pingjin, for his part, occasionally listened to rock music. He had once gifted her tickets to a concert and even accompanied her a few times, but in the end, his only comment on her musical tastes was a dismissive remark: “Sentimental drivel.”

Out of a vague mix of inferiority and pride, Xitang had always carried a natural rebelliousness toward his social class. She loved reading and prided herself on her knowledge of Republican-era history during her university years. She often critiqued the merits and faults of both political parties, believing that Zhao Pingjin, as a beneficiary of privilege, was incapable of discerning the nuances of historical truth.

The most memorable time was when they had gone to see a star-studded blockbuster together. Afterward, late at night, they ended up arguing incessantly outside the theater about the film’s historical context. Zhao Pingjin, with his sharp tongue, clear logic, and well-supported arguments, had been unusually insistent on debating with her that day. Xitang, exasperated, had accused him of being shamelessly biased and deliberately distorting historical facts. In her frustration, she ran nearly half a block in anger, forcing Zhao Pingjin to chase after her. Their quarrel ended with both of them tossing the egg-filled pancake they had just bought onto the ground in a fit of anger.

Now, years later, she no longer spoke about politics or commented on history. On a cool autumn evening in Beijing, she looked at the man she had once loved so deeply, now in his thirties, tapping rhythmically to revolutionary songs on the sofa. Inside, she felt nothing but a barren calm.

Zhao Pingjin glanced at her. “You haven’t lived in Beijing for a long time. Be mindful of the climate.”

Xitang nodded. “Mm, it’s quite dry.”

After a full day of work, Zhao Pingjin was visibly tired, his voice lower than usual. “The air quality is bad. Don’t go out too much, especially in the morning and evening.”

She turned to see him leaning back on the sofa, his hand raised to gently press against his temple.

Xitang stood up. “Did you drink tonight? I’ll heat up some milk for you.”

When Zhao Pingjin came out of the shower, a cup of warm milk was on the coffee table. He drank half of it before heading to the study.

Xitang, who was tidying clothes in the room, saw him pass by and said, “Go to bed early.”

Having someone around to remind him made life feel more orderly.

Zhao Pingjin turned back, finished the milk, and went to bed.

He slept exceptionally well that night. When he woke up in the morning, the sunlight was bright, filtering through the faint mist. A figure stood on the balcony, making a phone call.

Huang Xitang was standing in the morning mist, wearing a loose white long-sleeved dress. Her hands rested on the railing, the wind lifting her hair and the hem of her dress. Her voice was soft, carried away by the breeze. “Mom, I have nothing to say.”

This apartment had one of the most expensive balconies in all of Beijing, overlooking the entire length of Chang’an South Street. Zhao Pingjin had never once stepped out onto it.

Xitang’s voice rose and fell faintly. “My heart is already filled with bitterness and sorrow. It’s a miracle I can keep quiet about it. At my age, you still want me to act like some innocent little girl?”

Ni Kairun, catching an early flight and running on little sleep, was irritable. “No one wants to hear about your life’s woes. Just be friendly and interact with the fans. The company’s branding for you is sweet and approachable.”

Xitang scoffed. “Ugh, how unoriginal. The road from Ma Mountain to Bayi Village is already lined with people playing that role.”

Ni Kairun’s anger was practically tangible through the phone. “Stop with the sarcasm! You’re not in a position to act out anymore. This is important. In most cases, you can decide for yourself, but if it concerns the company’s interests, draft it and let me approve it first. It needs to be positive, upbeat, and interesting—share some thoughts about filming, for example.”

Xitang chuckled softly. “Fans shouldn’t be so naive. The people they see passionately in love on screen might not even exchange a word in real life after the cameras stop rolling.”

Ni Kairun took a deep breath, trying not to lose his temper. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Xitang almost laughed out loud. “What, the most genuine feelings can’t be written about?”

Ni Kairun suddenly remembered something. “Zheng Youtong has replied to you several times, but you’ve never responded. Even his fans are starting to complain.”

Xitang paused for a moment. “He’s an old classmate. He doesn’t care about these superficial things.”

Ni Kairun reminded her sternly, “Then respond with some of those ‘superficial’ things.”

Xitang rolled her eyes. “I already told PR to handle it. How would anyone know?”

Ni Kairun, having held in his frustration all morning, finally snapped and roared, “You’re absolutely insufferable!”

Successfully defeating Ni Kailun, Xi Tang couldn’t help but laugh out loud: “Hey, I just noticed, when did your Mandarin improve so much?”

Switching the phone to her other hand, she turned around and caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure standing behind the window.

Zhao Pingjin was in the living room, standing three steps away from the window. His hair was tousled, and he wore a black velvet sweater. He had always been that thin. Standing outside the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at her, he looked like a silent shadow, his eyes carrying a depth she could not fathom.

She froze for a moment, her smile fading. “Alright, I’m hanging up. Lord Zhao is awake.”

Ni Kailun continued shouting, “Did you remember what I told you?”

Xi Tang replied softly, “Bye-bye, darling.”

Zhao Pingjin watched as the bright, smiling face turned calm in front of him. He ran a hand through his hair, his low, nasal voice heavy with fatigue: “Come inside, Lord Zhao is hungry. Make breakfast.”

Xi Tang lifted the rice cooker lid and served congee for Zhao Pingjin. She herself ate whole wheat bread, low-fat milk, and a small vegetable salad.

Zhao Pingjin slowly sipped his congee. “Who were you talking to so early in the morning?”

While peeling an egg, Xi Tang replied, “Ni Kailun, scolding me for not updating my Weibo.”

Zhao Pingjin looked up at her. “You have a Weibo?”

Pushing a soft-boiled egg in front of him, Xi Tang said, “Work-related.”

Zhao Pingjin frowned at the boiled egg. He didn’t like them.

“Eat it,” Xi Tang said. “Don’t drink too much congee, or you’ll get a stomach ache.”

Reluctantly, Zhao Pingjin picked up the egg.

Xi Tang went to the kitchen and brought back a thermos. “Drink some warm vegetable and fruit juice in twenty minutes.”

Zhao Pingjin smiled faintly. “You’re getting more and more virtuous.”

Xi Tang smiled back even more politely. “How could I dare slack off? You spend 300,000 yuan a month.”

Zhao Pingjin’s smile disappeared instantly. “It is pretty expensive.”

Xi Tang said nothing more and walked out of the kitchen.

After breakfast, Zhao Pingjin came out and asked, “Want to go out?”

“Where to?” Xi Tang asked.

“It’s the weekend. Maybe go for a walk?” Zhao Pingjin suggested.

“Do you want to go out?” she asked.

“I usually work on weekends. If I’m not working, I sleep,” Zhao Pingjin admitted honestly.

He must have been exhausted from work.

Xi Tang, whose lead role required her to memorize heavy scripts daily, rarely had any free time. She clenched her teeth and said, “I’ll study my script first.”

“Up to you,” Zhao Pingjin replied, not pressing the issue.

At nine o’clock sharp, Zhao Pingjin’s phone rang. From his side of the call, Xi Tang could hear it was his grandmother. She asked if he’d had breakfast and why he hadn’t gone home for dinner last night. It turned out his mother was out of town, and she was worried he might not be eating properly or taking care of himself. She even asked why he didn’t visit his grandparents.

Xi Tang, sitting in the living room, heard him patiently responding to his grandmother, one question at a time.

He had grown up surrounded by the overflowing love of his elders. Even though he was already over thirty, he was still the most cherished child of the Zhao and Zhou families—pampered to the core. When Xi Tang first met him, Zhao Pingjin was younger, more arrogant and unruly, with a domineering personality.

Xi Tang knew that his family background was a chasm she could never cross.

Zhao Pingjin emerged from the dining room and saw her sitting on the floor, staring blankly at her script.

“What’s wrong?”

Xi Tang looked up and smiled weakly before burying her head in her script again.

Zhao Pingjin sat on the sofa for a while. Then he picked up her phone, which was on the coffee table, and started fiddling with it, snapping a few photos.

Xi Tang, legs crossed on the floor, remained engrossed in her lines, unaware of what he was doing.

Hearing her muttering the lines under her breath, Zhao Pingjin couldn’t help but correct her, “That line in old Beijing dialect is pronounced ‘ying lian’r hao.’”

“Ying lian hao’r.”

“Ying lian’r hao.”

“Stop correcting me!”

Zhao Pingjin laughed heartily.

Xi Tang glared at him and rolled her eyes before resuming her studies.

On the sofa, Zhao Pingjin noticed her makeup bag on the table. Opening it, he found it filled with an assortment of items—eyebrow powder, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, facial mist. He laid everything out, examining them with great interest. Xi Tang ignored him; she thought he must have a screw loose to be so fascinated by women’s stuff.

An hour later, Xi Tang got up to pack her things, only to freeze in shock.

Zhao Pingjin had used a marker to draw pigs on every single item in her makeup bag—even her eyeliner. Each pig had tiny eyes, a round snout, and a plump, rotund body.

This childish, ridiculous man!