STYL - 12

After returning home, Jiang Chengyu took a shower and changed into clean clothes. He didn’t do anything else but sat quietly on the couch for a while, reflecting deeply on Grandpa’s earlier words.

To put it bluntly, Shen Tang had only been drawn to his looks.

How shallow of her.

As evening approached, Shen Tang sneaked back home.

As compensation, she brought him some local snacks from Haitang Village along with a box of fruit.

“Must have been boring being home alone, right?”

Jiang Chengyu closed the script. “It was fine.”

Shen Tang kicked off her slippers and walked barefoot toward him, nudging his leg with her knee.

This was her subtle way of hinting that she wanted to sit on his lap.

Jiang Chengyu spread his legs, and she settled herself onto him. With one arm loosely wrapped around her, he brought up the incident at the beach earlier. “Was that hand gesture meant for me?”

“You’re asking as if you don’t already know.” Shen Tang tugged at his collar to check on the hickey she’d left on his neck—it was now a faint purple, much lighter than it had been in the morning.

He smelled faintly of crisp shower gel.

Jiang Chengyu looked down at her. “That gesture seemed to mean ‘I like you.’” Following the thread of conversation, he asked, “What do you like about me?”

Shen Tang tilted her face upward, her eyes filled with sincerity. “I like your soul.”

Jiang Chengyu gave her a skeptical smirk.

His expression seemed to say: You’re lying so blatantly—aren’t you afraid of ghosts knocking on your door in the middle of the night?

Both of them burst into laughter at the absurdity.

Shen Tang reiterated her feelings. “I truly admire your inner qualities.”

Jiang Chengyu kissed the corner of her lips. “Even if it’s fake, I’ll believe it.”

Shen Tang gestured toward the snacks she had brought back. “Eat something—it won’t taste good when it’s cold.” She slid off his lap and onto the couch.

Jiang Chengyu set aside the script for That Early Summer and went to wash his hands.

Shen Tang picked up the script absentmindedly, continuing where she had left off.

When Jiang Chengyu emerged from the bathroom, he noticed her distracted demeanor. “Such a great script—why aren’t you taking this role?”

She hadn’t yet told him that she had decided to take the project. Shen Tang looked up. “Are you even qualified to judge whether a script is good or not?”

The last time he had read the script for Sheng Xiao , he skimmed through it quickly, only searching for keywords related to kissing scenes. This time, however, he had thoroughly gone through the entire script.

Jiang Chengyu sat beside her. “With over thirty years of Shenzhen’s development as the backdrop, the plot twists and turns dramatically. The emotional storyline is captivating, and the characters are compelling. Isn’t this considered a good script?”

“Who’s the director?” he asked next.

“Zhou Mingqian.”

“Take the role—it’ll improve your acting skills, and you might even win an award. If you want to sustain a long-term career as an actress, you need standout works in your portfolio.”

Shen Tang leaned back into the couch. Jiang Chengyu had never offered her advice about work before—this was a first.

She hadn’t finished reading the entire script yet, but Zhou Mingqian’s dramas were known for their nuanced portrayal of emotions. She preemptively informed him: “There will definitely be quite a few kissing scenes, some even in slow motion.”

Jiang Chengyu popped a piece of fruit into his mouth, chewing slowly, using the momentary silence as an excuse.

It was true—he disliked her filming kissing scenes.

Shen Tang rested her forehead against her palm, fanning herself idly with the script.

Finally, Jiang Chengyu spoke. “Go ahead and take the role—the kissing scenes aren’t a big deal. Just think of me while you’re filming.”

Shen Tang stared at him intently. Jiang Chengyu fed her a small piece of mango. She set the script aside, wrapping her arms around his waist. Playfully, she began undoing his belt.

Jiang Chengyu grabbed her hand to stop her. “Don’t move too much—I’ll give you what you want later.”

Shen Tang was fully aware. “We don’t have protection.”

“I bought some in the city.” Jiang Chengyu nodded toward his bag. “Ten boxes.”

“... Why did you buy so many?”

“We’ll definitely use them.” Jiang Chengyu replied casually. “If there’s any left, we can always put in some overtime.”

Shen Tang: “….”

________________________________________

By the time they reached the seventh box, their vacation came to an abrupt end. Shen Tang received a call from Sister Li, instructing her to return to Beijing for an audition. She had scheduled a meeting with Zhou Mingqian for the following afternoon.

She had no intention of actually auditioning—there was something else she needed to discuss with Zhou Mingqian face-to-face.

It was already early November. After the audition, she would fly to Hengdian. Filming for Sheng Xiao was about to begin.

This had been the longest stretch of time she had ever spent with Jiang Chengyu—he had stayed with her for eleven days in Haitang Village.

At their parting, Grandpa assumed Jiang Chengyu hadn’t yet won over his granddaughter. Trying to comfort him, he said confidently, “You’ll definitely succeed. Look, Shen Tang even bought you snacks.”

Unable to reveal the truth, Jiang Chengyu could only smile.

During those days, he had spent more time with Grandpa than Shen Tang. Most of her time was spent at home reading the script, while he accompanied Grandpa on walks outside.

He had explored every nook and cranny of Haitang Village. Grandpa remembered every place Shen Tang had visited as a child and took him to see them all.

In the evenings, Shen Tang would bundle herself up and wander through the narrow alleys, enjoying the sea breeze. When she returned, she always brought him some snacks.

After midnight, when the beach emptied of tourists who had retreated to their guesthouses, she and Jiang Chengyu would take advantage of the quiet to stroll along the shore.

They walked hand in hand in the water, sometimes getting soaked by waves crashing against them.

Their days in Haitang Village passed simply and repetitively.

As the plane took off, Shen Tang wasn’t sure what exactly she was nostalgic for.

Perhaps it was the version of him that existed in Haitang Village.

Back in Beijing, the tranquility of the fishing village was quickly disrupted by a flurry of phone calls.

Jiang Chengyu had to rush to the office—negotiations with Chairman Xiao had been finalized, and the cooperation agreement would be signed next month.

He picked up his suit. “I have a dinner tonight—I’m not sure what time I’ll be back.”

Shen Tang, engrossed in the script, simply nodded.

He closed the bedroom door and headed downstairs.

Shen Tang turned her attention back to the script, flipping to the next page.

Once in Beijing, an invisible distance seemed to stretch between her and Jiang Chengyu.

Here, he was a major shareholder of GR Capital, the boss of Jingxu Group, and the second son of the Jiang family.

He was no longer the man who accompanied Grandpa on walks or strolled with her along the beach late at night.

Sister Li’s call pulled Shen Tang out of her thoughts.

“The audition has been pushed back by an hour—you don’t need to arrive too early.” After a pause, knowing that Shen Tang had only superficially agreed to audition while harboring resentment, Sister Li added, “Once you win an award for this drama, everything will be worth it. Oh, by the way…”

Shen Tang asked, “What is it?”

“The actress playing the second female lead seems to come from a prominent background, but we haven’t been able to find out who she is.”

Shen Tang wasn’t interested. Filming for Sheng Xiao was about to start, and whoever it was, they would meet during the opening ceremony.

________________________________________

The next afternoon, Shen Tang arrived at the designated location for the audition.

The assistant director greeted her, and her scene partner was Chen Yinao.

Chen Yinao was the only confirmed lead actor for That Early Summer . The two female leads shared numerous scenes, including a complicated love triangle with a male character.

Upon learning that she would be rehearsing with Shen Tang today, Chen Yinao had been excited for hours. “Teacher Shen, it’s been such a long time.”

Shen Tang, ever aloof, smiled faintly. “Hello.”

The assistant director handed them the script excerpt for the rehearsal. “You should already be familiar with the material. You have five minutes to prepare emotionally and get into character.”

In the adjacent room, Chen Nanjin held a teacup, glancing at his watch from time to time.

Zhou Mingqian came over to refill his tea. “Is it cold?”

The sudden sound startled Chen Nanjin. “It’s fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “No need to add more.”

Zhou Mingqian sat across from him. “Shen Tang is here for the audition—are you really this distracted? Are you worried she won’t even pass the assistant director’s evaluation?”

Chen Nanjin wasn’t concerned about Shen Tang’s acting abilities. If she was determined to take on this role, given her personality, she would surely immerse herself in the character. She had probably read the script multiple times already.

What worried him was that once she realized she’d be acting opposite Yinao, she might walk away immediately without looking back.

Even as he voiced his concerns aloud, he felt embarrassed. “Yinao has already been cast, but Shen Tang still needs to audition. I’m afraid she’ll lose her temper and refuse to act.”

Zhou Mingqian, ever the tactless friend, chimed in: “Right. If it were me, and my father had another son who got everything handed to him on a silver platter while I still had to go through the motions to prove myself, I’d throw down my glass and walk out.”

After delivering the cutting remark, he attempted to soften the blow with some outdated reassurance. “But your situation is unique—you have your reasons, right?”

Chen Nanjin pressed his fingers against his temples. “Let me be for a moment.”

Zhou Mingqian chuckled and fell silent.

Twenty agonizing minutes passed, each second feeling like a dull knife slicing at Chen Nanjin’s heart.

A knock on the door interrupted his torment, followed by a voice: “Director Zhou?”

It was Shen Tang’s voice.

Chen Nanjin exhaled deeply, relief washing over him. She hadn’t stormed out.

“Coming.” Zhou Mingqian personally opened the door. “Looking forward to working with you.”

Shen Tang responded tersely, “An honor.”

She had anticipated Chen Nanjin’s presence.

It was precisely because she knew he’d be here that she had come to see Zhou Mingqian.

Zhou Mingqian invited Shen Tang to sit and poured her a cup of tea.

Shen Tang treated Chen Nanjin as if he were invisible, completely ignoring him. Since Zhou Mingqian already knew about her relationship with Chen Nanjin, there was no need to beat around the bush.

“Director Zhou, the female protagonist’s hometown in the script is a small fishing village. I think Haitang Village would be perfect.”

Chen Nanjin’s heart sank.

Zhou Mingqian smiled faintly. “Is that so? I’ve heard the scenery in Haitang Village is beautiful, though I’ve never had the chance to visit.”

Shen Tang didn’t want to make things difficult for Zhou Mingqian. She looked directly at Chen Nanjin, cutting straight to the point: “Director Chen, filming in Haitang Village is one of my conditions for accepting this role.”

“Tangtang…”

Shen Tang cut him off. “Haitang Village closely resembles the village described in the script, and I also have time to spend with my grandfather.”

Chen Nanjin opened his mouth to speak but found his throat dry. The mention of his aging father left him speechless.

“Director Zhou, thank you for the tea. I won’t disturb you further.” Shen Tang excused herself.

Zhou Mingqian escorted her to the door. Once it closed behind her, he sighed deeply.

“What should we do?” he asked Chen Nanjin for advice.

Chen Nanjin stared blankly at the now-cold tea in his cup. He had long forgotten how many years it had been since he last returned home. Every time they spoke on the phone, his father would always say that the village had changed.

In recent years, his father rarely initiated calls anymore. When Chen Nanjin called, their conversations often ended in awkward silence.

Before hanging up, his father would invariably say: “I’ve watched all your movies and TV shows—multiple times.”

It was likely just a polite remark.

Most of the films he made in his youth were romantic comedies. His father probably had no interest in them.

His memories of his father were blurry. What remained vivid was from when he was six or seven years old—over forty years ago.

His mother had worked odd jobs in Guangzhou to save on travel expenses. His father would visit every six months to deliver money for living expenses—essentially child support.

The money was wrapped in a cloth bag: ten-yuan bills, five-yuan bills, mostly one-yuan notes, with some coins mixed in. The stack was thick, and it carried the smell of fish.

It was money his father had painstakingly saved.

His father never stayed for lunch because his mother always gave him a cold reception.

Before leaving, his father always said the same thing: “Listen to your mother.”

Later, when his mother remarried, her new husband also happened to share the surname Chen. Though he changed his surname to match his stepfather’s, it was technically his mother’s maiden name.

His stepfather and mother eventually moved to Hong Kong to run a small business. Their financial situation improved, and his mother gave birth to two more children.

However, due to irreconcilable differences, his mother divorced again.

When they left Guangzhou, his mother hadn’t informed his father. He couldn’t imagine how his father must have felt when he returned to the rented apartment only to find it empty.

For many years after, he and his father lost contact.

They reconnected when his mother sent Tangtang back to live with him.

“Perhaps we could consider Haitang Village—it doesn’t matter where we film. People won’t necessarily associate you with Shen Tang’s grandfather just because we shoot there.”

Chen Nanjin’s thoughts were interrupted by Zhou Mingqian. He dismissed the idea of filming in Haitang Village because he couldn’t get past his wife Fan Yu’s disapproval. “Fan Yu will definitely object.”

He didn’t even need to consult Fan Yu to know her stance.

He dreaded the potential fallout.

Fan Yu rarely allowed him to interact with Shen Tang, let alone film in the place where she grew up.

Zhou Mingqian nodded slowly. “This is tricky. Think of a way to satisfy both sides.” He sipped his tea. “The filming location is a minor issue. What’s crucial is how Fan Yu will react when she learns that Shen Tang is playing the other female lead.”

Today, Chen Yinao had come to rehearse with Shen Tang. There was a good chance she’d mention it to Fan Yu when she returned home. It wouldn’t be long before Fan Yu found out that Shen Tang was cast as the other female lead.

________________________________________

The following evening, Shen Tang flew to Hengdian.

While waiting to board, she sent Jiang Chengyu a message: [About to board the plane. No one will fight me for the blanket tonight.]

Jiang Chengyu was at a private club; the room was filled with cigarette smoke.

Yan Heyu had been losing at cards all night and was sulking, chain-smoking. Ash from his cigarette broke off and scattered across the poker table.

Someone nearby teased him: “I heard you’re getting engaged to Tian Qinglu during the Spring Festival—is that true?”

Yan Heyu stared at his cards for a long moment before replying, “I don’t know.”

He extinguished his cigarette.

The three words “I don’t know,” coming out of Yan Heyu’s mouth, carried a certain ironic charm.

His friend joked, “If you’re losing ground and getting engaged, our Brother Jiang’s life might get tough. My mother has been waiting for you and Tian Qinglu’s engagement so she can pressure Jiang Chengyu to get married.”

Yan Heyu lit another cigarette, taking a drag before responding, “Do you think he’s the type to get married?”

Jiang Chengyu nonchalantly sorted his cards, remaining silent, as if the matter didn’t concern him.

His phone vibrated, signaling an incoming message.

After organizing his cards, he neatly stacked them together.

Yan Heyu looked up. “Not playing anymore?”

Jiang Chengyu: “I’m guaranteed to win anyway—what’s the point?” He flipped his cards face down on the table, picked up his phone, and leaned back in his chair to read the message. He knew Shen Tang’s flight was tonight, though he wasn’t sure of the exact time.

“I’ll step out to make a call.” Jiang Chengyu left the private room.

At the end of the corridor, he opened a window to air out the lingering cigarette smoke.

The call connected after five or six rings. Shen Tang answered.

She said, “The semi-ripened cheese you bought me isn’t finished yet—it’s still in the fridge.” Last night, when he visited his niece at school, he had picked up some desserts for her and brought extras for Shen Tang.

Jiang Chengyu leaned against the windowsill. “I’ll save it for you.”

“No need to save it—it’ll expire by the time I get back.” Shen Tang had just reviewed her work schedule for the next six months. “Sheng Xiao wraps up in April. I’ll be spending the Lunar New Year on set.”

Several business events and the New Year’s Eve gala were scheduled in Shanghai. She wouldn’t have time to return to Beijing, and he wouldn’t visit her on set.

“We’ll see each other next year.”

Jiang Chengyu grunted in acknowledgment. Before hanging up, he said, “Whether you miss me or not, feel free to call me anytime.”