Beijing.
A massive snowfall had blanketed the city before the New Year, and for days afterward, the air hung thick with fog, a dull gray-white veil that the sunlight couldn’t pierce.
The red carpet for the charity gala stretched from the venue all the way out to the wide avenue beyond.
Along the barriers cordoning off the carpet stood a dense crowd of media reporters, their cameras and equipment hoisted higher than the next.
Song Yu stepped out of the sleek black luxury sedan, and the flashbulbs erupted in a rapid staccato. She squinted uncomfortably against the glare.
The previous female star to walk the carpet had already reached the center, her skirt slit high up the thigh, swaying gracefully in the subzero chill as if she felt no cold at all.
Compared to her, Song Yu was no less striking. She wore the latest haute couture from a top spring collection—a form-fitting, low-cut halter gown in a stunning lake-water green. Silk fabric caught the light in silvery sheens, soft and rippling like spreading waves with every step. Her jewelry was priceless, every piece a statement.
Her skin was an icy porcelain white that gleamed even after two months under the rainforest sun.
The moment she appeared, she drew every eye like a magnet.
Though her relationship with Shen Shuzhi was icy in private, the material support never wavered. Shen Shuzhi wouldn’t dream of letting Song Yu dress in a way that embarrassed the Shen family.
Despite her grueling work schedule, Shen Shuzhi personally oversaw every red-carpet look for Song Yu, fussing over her like a living doll, determined not to let any other star outshine her.
It got to the point where, even when Song Yu attended as a director, her film’s leading actresses wouldn’t walk with her. Especially in recent years, with no major releases to her name, people joked that she should act while she was still young.
The photographers swung their gear around the instant Song Yu emerged from the car, chasing her every move.
The cold air hit her the moment her heels touched down, seeping straight into her lungs.
Snow had begun to fall that evening.
Flakes drifted down slowly, catching on her lashes with an icy chill.
For a fleeting moment, she felt disoriented. She’d taken ages to readjust to the biting northern winter after returning from sweltering Brazil.
Song Yu snapped back to herself, her lips curling in the faintest hint of a self-mocking smile. Then she stepped forward along the carpet in her sky-high stilettos with their slender straps.
Snow had piled up on the red carpet, melting into damp patches that squished softly underfoot—a sensation somewhat like trudging through mud and fallen leaves after rain, but not quite.
The rainforest’s end had been a wall of dense green; the red carpet’s led to an even more clamorous world of glamour and flash.
“Hey—Director Song, hold up, slow down a bit,” one reporter called out.
Song Yu paused. It had been so long since her last red carpet that she’d forgotten to give the media time for shots.
She stopped in place, chin lifted slightly, striking a pose. Her gaze was languid, lips pressed lightly together without a smile, exuding an air of aloof nobility.
It was a perfunctory pose, barely a few seconds. Song Yu didn’t even bother seeking out the lenses, as if just checking a box. She turned and walked off without a backward glance, uncaring of the results.
Truth be told, Song Yu rarely attended these star-studded events.
As a director, she preferred staying behind the scenes. Tonight, she was here to prep her new film.
Song Yu was notoriously picky about actors and seldom found one she approved of. Though her last project had fizzled out, its lead actress, Chen Jia, had been flawless in image and talent—perfect for the role in her script.
Thanks to scheduling, Chen Jia was only in Beijing for this charity gala, and Song Yu had received an invite too. Their teams arranged to discuss collaboration during the event.
Chen Jia’s star had skyrocketed after starring in Xu Jie’s latest film, her agency’s team expanding accordingly.
But her success owed much to Song Yu, who had first recommended her to Xu Jie.
Chen Jia wanted to repay the favor, and besides, she’d read Song Yu’s new script. The character was richly drawn, and she was eager to tackle it.
Talks went smoothly, and they’d shaken on it verbally before the banquet even started.
The gala hall was opulent, glittering with crystal chandeliers, a glass stage in cool tones, and guest tables adorned with countless white roses.
Each seat bore a name tag; every table seated eight.
Song Yu’s table was up front, shared with Xu Jie.
Xu Jie was a titan of Hong Kong martial arts cinema, over fifty now, with a trophy case bursting from his directing career. His latest film was riding a wave of rave reviews.
By rights, Song Yu’s credentials in the industry didn’t quite warrant sitting with him—those spots went to A-listers.
She arrived late; most at the table were already seated. Xu Jie held court at the head, his left seat empty, a dark suit jacket draped over the chair to his right.
Spotting her, Xu Jie waved her over warmly. “Yu Yu, it’s been ages. Come sit.”
Song Yu smiled politely, greeting everyone with practiced courtesy. “Uncle Xu.”
She took the seat beside him, exchanging light pleasantries.
“How’s your dad been? Not acting anymore?” Xu Jie asked.
Song Qiliang had been a king of entertainment decades ago, Xu Jie’s go-to leading man.
Together, they’d built half the foundation of domestic cinema.
Song Yu probably knew less about Song Qiliang’s recent life than his bevy of goddaughters did.
She gave a light laugh, offhand. “You should ask Xu Meng about that.”
Xu Meng had starred in a few middling web dramas—if Song Qiliang hadn’t swapped her out, she was his latest favorite.
Xu Jie’s expression faltered; he shook his head helplessly. “You kids these days.”
Unlike Shen Shuzhi, Song Yu never bothered with facades. It was an open secret in the circle anyway; she couldn’t be bothered to pretend.
Just then, an attendant pulled out the chair to Xu Jie’s right. A man appeared—tall and upright—and sat down directly.
Zhou Yan smoothed the hem of his suit vest with both hands, every gesture deliberate and precise.
Song Yu hadn’t seen Zhou Yan since their unpleasant parting in Brazil. Even when Xu Zhouxu set up drinks a few times, he hadn’t shown.
“President Zhou, let me introduce you?” Xu Jie’s tone was affable.
Zhou Yan gave a slight nod of his chin, glancing at Song Yu. “No need. We know each other.”
The industry’s web of connections was tangled; it was normal for people to cross paths. Saved the formalities.
“You’ve been swamped lately, huh? Still on conference calls this late,” Xu Jie teased.
Zhou Yan’s voice was refined and easygoing. “Mm. I’ve been abroad on business for the past month—just got back.” Whether deliberate or not, it came off as an explanation.
Song Yu propped her chin on her hand, eyes downcast, uninterested in probing. She idly toyed with her phone on the table.
With Zhou Yan seated, Xu Jie’s attention shifted somewhat from Song Yu, but he balanced it evenly, drawing them both into the chat.
Xu Jie leaned slightly toward Song Yu, murmuring, “I heard from Chen Jia that your project got scrapped?”
Song Yu shrugged, murmuring a faint “Mm.”
Xu Jie seemed more put out than she did. “Why not go home and apologize to President Shen? Mother and daughter don’t stay mad overnight. If she’d help, it’d be a shame to shelve it halfway.”
Shen Shuzhi had opposed Song Yu entering showbiz from the start. Early on, she’d thrown plenty of obstacles in her directing path, worsening their already tense relationship.
Song Yu kept her head down, twirling the base of her crystal wineglass between thumb and forefinger. On the white-draped tablecloth, it resisted with friction, the red wine sloshing lazily inside.
“It’s not my money on the line anyway,” she said.
Xu Jie shook his head with a sigh. “I’ve watched you grow up. You’re so stubborn, just like always.”
He launched into earnest advice, rambling on as if he were the world’s greatest worrier over Song Yu’s family ties.
Song Yu stayed silent. Speaking too freely with casual acquaintances—that was her takeaway.
Zhou Yan glanced over Xu Jie at her, his gaze flat and emotionless.
Song Yu read the message in his eyes instantly.
He meant: See? This seat she’s in, Xu Jie’s concern—it wasn’t for her as a person, but for the status and family power she represented. Xu Jie valued the resources wielded by Song Qiliang and Shen Shuzhi.
Families rose and fell together, a primal truth embedded deep in civilized society.
Once the charity gala kicked off, Xu Jie kicked things off strong, bidding two million on a calligraphy scroll.
Song Yu planned to grab something random to fulfill her quota.
These days, people really did track donations post-gala via lists—who gave, who didn’t, who gave more or less—then trash-talk accordingly.
She flipped through the auction catalog.
It was lavish: thick, textured paper, five items per page with photos and donor notes.
Mostly jewelry, artwork, antiques—nothing special.
But one lot caught Song Yu’s eye.
It was a wooden doll.
The doll depicted a little old man, about twenty centimeters tall, with an oversized, round head taking up nearly a third of its body.
Its eyes were hollow voids, giving it a eerie look, and a necklace dangled from its neck.
She was immediately drawn to the wooden doll. It reminded her of the one she’d seen in the basket of a Native American old woman at the market in Paso. The style was similar, even if the shape differed slightly.
“Want this one?” Zhou Yan’s gaze fell on the image of the doll in the auction catalog. He spotted the donor’s name and said leisurely, “Better pick something else.”
Xu Jie had left his seat after making his donation, leaving an empty spot between them that made conversation easier.
Song Yu frowned. “Why?”
“You can’t afford it.”
Song Yu shot Zhou Yan a glance and shrugged, utterly unconcerned.
Soon it was time for the wooden doll’s auction. The host was explaining its background: it was indeed a decorative item from a Native American tribe, specifically from the Apotara Tribe.
At that, Song Yu sat up straight, her eyes fixed on the doll displayed in its glass case onstage.
The host referred to the donor with great respect as Elder Mr. Pei.
Without the introduction, she wouldn’t have known. The full name of this Elder Mr. Pei was Pei Zhenshan, a renowned patriotic merchant from the last century. He had lived in Paris, France, for years, using his own fortune to buy back numerous cultural artifacts that had been lost overseas and donating them back to the motherland for free.
His overseas business dealings had given Pei Zhenshan considerable influence in international trade. In recent years, he had returned to his roots in the country.
During the bidding, Song Yu hadn’t expected so many people to fight over a mere wooden doll—many of them business leaders, all eager to curry favor with Pei Zhenshan.
She had barely raised her paddle when someone upped the bid by fifty thousand. Back and forth it went, shattering the evening’s bidding record as the price soared.
Song Yu clicked her tongue softly, reluctantly setting her paddle back down on the table.
She no longer had direct financial ties to her family, but her habit of spending freely hadn’t changed much. She’d earned a good sum as a director, but she burned through it just as quickly, leaving little in reserve.
As the price for the doll climbed higher and higher, Song Yu’s gaze drifted to the large screen.
The old man puppet’s eyes were hollow, as if staring right back at her in wordless silence.
The cheers and shouts from the crowd around her grew noisy and chaotic.
Song Yu rested her index finger on her paddle, gritted her teeth, and raised it once more.
“Seven million!” the host called out. “Director Song has bid seven million! Anyone else?”
Zhou Yan, who had been watching quietly until then, looked at her in surprise. “It’s just a piece of wood. Winning it won’t do you any good.”
Song Yu shot him a sidelong glare. “Mind your own business.” She quickly turned her attention back to the auction.
Though Song Yu talked a big game, even she felt she’d lost her senses. She couldn’t understand why she was so determined to claim this lump of wood.
But one thought had lodged itself in her mind: she wanted to deliver this piece of wood into the hands of someone who truly understood its worth.
“Seven million once, seven million twice,” the host drew out his words for dramatic effect. “No more bids?”
At that moment, Zhou Yan slowly raised his own paddle.
The host’s eyes were sharp. “Oh, a bid from the same table!”
Song Yu’s brows knitted tightly. She hadn’t expected a rival to emerge from right beside her. She whipped her head around and snapped, “What the hell are you doing?”
Zhou Yan remained nonchalant and gestured at her. “Following?”
“…” Song Yu crisply raised her paddle in response, her movement laced with irritation.
Zhou Yan lifted an eyebrow and signaled a bid straight to ten million.
“…”
She knew he was doing it on purpose, just to keep it from her. Song Yu cursed under her breath and slammed her paddle back onto the table. If not for the cameras, she would have jumped him right then and there.
Zhou Yan, by contrast, looked perfectly calm. He pushed back his chair and headed onstage.
As per the evening’s format, the winner of each auction item was invited up for a brief interview—nothing but polite small talk.
The host said, “President Zhou, we didn’t expect such generosity from you today. On behalf of the children in the impoverished areas, thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do.” Zhou Yan’s voice was refined and amiable.
“Why did you bid on this piece?”
Zhou Yan smiled. “It’s a gift.”
“I saw Director Song really wanted it, so I got it for her.”
The moment Zhou Yan spoke, the entire hall erupted in gasps and teasing cheers.
Curious and suggestive gazes poured in from all sides. Song Yu’s face stiffened, but she couldn’t lash out.
A camera shoved right into her face.
She lifted her eyes coolly, sweeping the lens with an impassive expression that gave nothing away—no joy, no anger.
With that auction item wrapped up, the program moved to the celebrity performance segment. A hot young pop singer took the stage, mercifully drawing some attention away.
When Zhou Yan returned, he held the ten-million-yuan wooden doll casually in his hand.
Song Yu stood with a dark expression and hissed, “Come with me.”
In a secluded corner outside the banquet hall.
The cold wind chilled Song Yu’s bare back, making the delicate wings of her shoulder blades tense instinctively. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she unleashed her intense displeasure at Zhou Yan’s overstep.
She cut straight to it. “Do you have to make everything about your own satisfaction?”
Zhou Yan said nothing. He shrugged off his suit jacket, draped it around her shoulders from behind, and shielded her from the biting wind.
Song Yu shrugged her shoulders, trying to shake it off.
Zhou Yan pressed his hands down on her shoulders with some force, attempting to calm her. “Don’t get worked up. If you don’t like it, I won’t do it again.”
Her temper flared. “Are we even that close? Are you out of your mind?”
Zhou Yan’s face darkened. “Not close? Xu Zhouxu has known you as long as I have. He’s fine investing in your films, but I can’t give you a little trinket?”
Few people dared speak to him like that besides Song Yu. His own temper rose as he demanded, “Do you hate me that much? What exactly do you hate?”
His words carried a thick Beijing accent. He usually came off as the picture of gentlemanly courtesy, but now his slower, deeper timbre carried an oppressive weight.
Song Yu faltered, taken aback by his barrage of questions. Her momentum deflated.
“Is it really me who’s sick, or are your defenses just too high?” Zhou Yan fixed her with a steady gaze. “What exactly are you resisting about me?”
“…” Song Yu tilted her head up to meet his eyes.
Truth be told, Zhou Yan was handsome enough, with sharp, refined features. Aside from his occasional self-importance, there wasn’t much to dislike about him.
After a long silence, she lowered her lashes.
Zhou Yan released his grip on her shoulders.
“Song Yu,” he sighed helplessly, “you know, you’re really hard to please.”
“Trying it out won’t kill you.”
“…” Song Yu stayed silent, as if facing a silver-tongued sophist. Something felt off, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
She looked down and suddenly noticed the old man puppet in Zhou Yan’s hand.
The old man stared at her with two pitch-black eyes.
It was as if he could see right through her cowardice, her evasion—her willingness to wall herself off, terrified of potential hurt.
So after crossing that line, she had fled in panic, using cultural differences as an excuse, escaping the rainforest in the most immature way possible.
For some reason, through the puppet’s hollow eyes and numb expression, Song Yu seemed to see someone else.
A man leaning against a towering tree, shadows dancing on the bark, sunlight spilling across his back and flowing slowly.
She couldn’t make out the man’s face; even his figure began to blur.
“These are two different things.” Song Yu had it figured out. “I just don’t like you, plain and simple. I don’t want people thinking we’re involved.”
She was evading, yes—but not him.
Song Yu snatched the old man puppet from Zhou Yan’s hand and waved it in front of him. “I’ll transfer the money to you.”
She gripped the puppet, its carved edges sharp and its texture cool.
Her heart seemed to follow the wood’s grain back to that rainforest, thick with green.
She wondered if the man would be happy to see this puppet.