If he hadn’t been completely out of options, Xu Wenheng wouldn’t have taken such a risk—sending his own people to spy on the Shen family’s old residence.
Looking at the information he’d gathered, Xu Wenheng almost wondered if the Shen family had once been part of some underground organization. How were they so good at hiding things?
…
The older generation was easy enough—ask around and everything became clear. Song Cheng’s mother, Shen Fuli, was also straightforward; she had already passed away, and her story could be pieced together from acquaintances.
But Shen Hanshu, Song Cheng, and the adopted son Ji Xingyuan—it was like they had sprung out of thin air. Aside from their ages and parents, almost nothing could be found.
That was why Qin Wunian had turned to him in the first place. Four years ago, when Qin Wunian had investigated on his own, all he managed to uncover was Song Cheng’s uncle. Beyond that, nothing. Back then, Qin Wunian didn’t care about the rest—he just wanted to find Song Cheng. But after hitting a massive wall at the Shen residence, he dropped the matter entirely.
Even Shen Hanshu and the others had faded from his attention—until now.
Finding no information at all was, in itself, a kind of information.
It meant the Shen family was extremely private, unwilling to reveal even the smallest detail to outsiders. And that usually pointed to two possibilities: either Shen Hanshu was deeply suspicious of everyone… or he had secrets he couldn’t let others discover.
Sitting in his office, Xu Wenheng stared so long at Shen Hanshu’s photo he could almost burn a hole through it. Finally, the spy he had sent out brought back good news.
Everything had been uncovered.
—
Xu Wenheng called Qin Wunian. Even over the phone, Qin Wunian could hear how complicated his emotions were.
“Um… I found something,” Xu Wenheng said. “But I don’t think it’s appropriate to explain over the phone. Can you come back in person?”
Qin Wunian frowned but didn’t ask further. After a moment, he gave a quiet “Mm.”
—
Previously, Ban Yunfang had secured Qin Wunian a villain role in a historical drama. That character only had more scenes in the later stages, which overlapped with his film schedule. This had already been discussed with the director—five days filming here, two days there.
On the day of departure, Qin Wunian took the earliest flight. By 7 a.m., he had already left the airport.
He waved his assistant off and drove himself to Xu Wenheng’s company.
Meanwhile, Song Cheng was at home, humming to himself as he made breakfast.
Ten minutes earlier, Qin Wunian had texted him good morning, and Song Cheng hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Turning off the stove, holding a dish in one hand while absentmindedly patting the dog by his leg with the other, he headed to the dining room.
At the same time, Qin Wunian had already arrived at Xu Wenheng’s office.
He went upstairs quickly and entered, only to find that besides Xu Wenheng, there was also an elderly woman with graying hair, dressed sharply.
When she saw Qin Wunian, her gaze shifted slightly. Then she smiled at him—a kind, almost gentle smile accentuated by her wrinkles and white hair.
Xu Wenheng stood to greet him and gestured inward. “Let’s talk inside. It’s more spacious.”
The three of them moved rooms.
In truth, it wasn’t more spacious—just more private. No employees would suddenly walk in, and sunlight streamed across the sofa, warming the space just enough to chase away some of the chill.
Xu Wenheng thought that part was especially important.
The elderly woman was, of course, Madam Zhang.
Today, she had been paid twice over to come tell Qin Wunian a story. While most people lost their desire for material things with age, Madam Zhang was different. She had spent her whole life working for money. Even at ninety, as long as someone paid her, she would stand up energetically and declare she was more than capable of earning it.
…
Qin Wunian sat across from her, staring without speaking.
The moment Madam Zhang saw him, she recognized who he was. But Qin Wunian didn’t have such a good memory—back when he visited the Shen residence, his mind had been entirely on Song Cheng. With Shen Hanshu sitting across from him, he hadn’t paid attention to how many servants were in the house.
Now, the way he stared at her wasn’t recognition—it was tension.
Some people, when nervous, instinctively fix their gaze on the other person, putting on a fierce front to hide their unease.
Very quickly, the preparation time ended, and Pei Qingjian once again stood before the director and screenwriter.
This was a scene between a sister and her younger brother. Although Pei Qingjian had prepared seriously, compared to Ning Rong’s superb acting, he still seemed somewhat green.
Wang Bin watched quietly and gave him an 80. More than half of that score came from his face.
Luo Fei was a handsome man. His family background was ordinary, but he never lacked girlfriends—simply because he was good-looking.
So his face was a major factor shaping his personality and life. Because of that, the actor playing Luo Fei had to be handsome. This was something the screenwriter had insisted on from the very beginning.
As long as the acting was above a passing line, it could be trained—otherwise, what was the director for?
But looks were different. No matter how skilled makeup was, there were always limits. Otherwise, why would celebrities still get plastic surgery?
So being handsome was a non-negotiable requirement—and Pei Qingjian fit it perfectly.
Zhang Nan, however, focused on something else.
She was watching Ning Rong. In this scene, Ning Rong performed exceptionally well. It wasn’t that her previous performances were bad, but this one stood out.
Because there was a softness in her eyes, a kind of warmth—as if she were truly looking at her own younger brother.
That was something she hadn’t shown with other scene partners before.
And because of that warmth, Pei Qingjian’s inexperience instead became a kind of natural dynamic—the way an older sister suppresses her younger brother. Just like in the script: no matter how at ease Luo Fei was among his peers, in front of Luo Rong, he would still frown and ask helplessly, “Sis, how should I handle this proposal?”
Zhang Nan thought for a moment, then ultimately gave Pei Qingjian a score of 98 in this round of auditions.
The extra twenty points were for Ning Rong. She was the absolute lead of the drama, and her state determined the overall quality of the show. Right now, among all the actors auditioning for “Luo Fei,” she clearly had the best chemistry with Pei Qingjian—so naturally, he became the top choice.
After scoring, they asked Pei Qingjian a few more questions before letting him leave.
As soon as Zhou Pengyue saw him come out, he hurried over. “How was it? Do you think you’ve got a shot?”
Pei Qingjian couldn’t tell. He felt his performance had been average—at least, compared to Ning Rong, he seemed quite ordinary.
“Teacher Ning is amazing. Compared to her, I’m way behind.”
Zhou Pengyue laughed. “Listen to yourself. If you were better than her, they’d just hand you the Golden Laurel Award right now. Why would you still be auditioning here?”
Pei Qingjian thought about it and realized that was true. He shouldn’t be comparing himself to Ning Rong—he should be comparing himself to the other auditioning actors.
“I’m not sure either. The director said they’ll announce the results soon, so just wait and see if they contact you.”
“Mm.” Zhou Pengyue nodded. “Do your best and leave the rest to fate.”
They had already done everything they could. The rest was up to destiny.
“Come on, let’s grab something to eat.” He slung an arm over Pei Qingjian’s shoulder.
Two days later, on Friday afternoon, Zhou Pengyue received an email informing him that Pei Qingjian had successfully passed the audition.
Overjoyed, he immediately told him the good news.
Pei Qingjian was in the middle of eating with Lin Xingchen when he heard it, and he almost jumped up in excitement.
“Really? That’s great!”
“Exactly. Study the script carefully. Filming starts in a little over twenty days, so you need to prepare well.”
“Mm, I promise—I won’t do anything else these twenty days. I’ll focus entirely on understanding the role.”
“Good.”
After giving him a few more reminders, Zhou Pengyue hung up.
Pei Qingjian turned to Lin Xingchen, eyes bright. “I got the role.”
Lin Xingchen: …
“So what was that about twenty-something days just now?”
“Oh, the production is basically ready, so filming will start in a little over twenty days.”
Lin Xingchen: ???
He suddenly felt short of breath. “So what, you’re on winter break now? For a whole month?”
Pei Qingjian: …
All he could do was look at him obediently. “After this show wraps, I’ll ask Brother Zhou to space out my projects more.”
“And what about this one?”
Pei Qingjian tugged at his hand ingratiatingly. “Then I’ll just have to trouble you to visit me on set more often.”
He quickly added, “Brother Zhou said we won’t be going to a filming base—we’re shooting right here in our city. So as long as we have time, we can see each other easily.”
Only then did Lin Xingchen’s mood improve slightly.
“You’re really something. Seeing you now requires a special trip. In the future, do I need to make an appointment in advance too?”
Hearing his sarcastic tone, Pei Qingjian couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll make the appointment. I’ll be the one booking you in advance.”
He grabbed Lin Xingchen’s hand with both of his. “I’m booking you right now—for tomorrow and the day after. Whatever you want to do, I’ll do it with you. How about that?”
“You mean it?”
Pei Qingjian nodded eagerly.
Lin Xingchen smiled lightly. “Then I’ll have to think carefully about what I want to do these next two days—and how I want to do it.”
Pei Qingjian: ???