After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 183 Hot Spring Hotel
A light rain was falling as the plane landed in Milan, and the van drove directly into Van Cleef & Arpels' private showroom. Sang Shuwan had just changed into a moon phase necklace set with 187 sapphires when she heard Alice's arguing voice coming from outside the showroom: "I said no one except Miss Sang is allowed to touch this jewelry—including your chief designer." She chuckled at herself in the mirror, the pearl earrings on her earlobes swaying gently with the movement. They were replicas Alice had bought after she received her first appearance fee, scouring half the city for them. Later, a brand director recognized them as rare, discontinued pieces from twenty years ago and offered a high price to buy them on the spot.

"Inhale, show another half centimeter of your collarbone." As the stylist adjusted the dress, Sang Shuwan suddenly noticed Alice standing behind the display case, whispering something to the translator, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing her suit pocket—where her usual stomach medicine was kept, causing her pain whenever she hadn't eaten for more than twelve hours. She excused herself to touch up her makeup and headed to the rest area, shoving a warm thermos into her manager's hand: "Don't think I didn't see you skip breakfast this morning; the croissants your assistant bought are still in your bag." The moment Alice raised an eyebrow, Sang Shuwan noticed that Alice's phone lock screen featured a photo of the two of them in Cannes; she was wearing a backless dress, and her manager was draped in her cashmere shawl, like two weary birds huddled together for warmth in the cold wind.

When Sang Shuwan returned to the hotel late at night, she found Alice looking at her script for tomorrow's live stream on her computer, her eyelashes casting butterfly-like shadows under her eyes. On the table sat a cold seafood pasta, next to which was Alice's usual moisturizing spray, with a new label on the bottle: "Milan is dry, spray every two hours—Alice." She quietly went behind Alice and saw that besides the script, the document was filled with various annotations: "Slow down your speech when mentioning environmental projects," "Look at the center of the other person's forehead when answering questions from brand founders," and the last line circled in red: "Remember to remind her to drink warm water afterwards, and avoid iced drinks."

"Sneaking a peek at the boss's documents?" Alice suddenly turned her head. Sang Shuwan hurriedly stuffed the hand warmer she had prepared into her hand: "The floor heating in my room is broken, I'll borrow yours." The agent's light laugh, seeing through the lie, mingled with the warmth of the hand warmer, spreading through the quiet room. Sang Shuwan saw her open the notebook, inside which was a yellowed train ticket—a hard-seat ticket from three years ago when they squeezed onto a green train to go to the film set, with a little sun drawn on the ticket stub by herself with lipstick.

"After the live stream tomorrow," Alice suddenly closed her laptop, her voice so soft it was as if afraid to disturb the night, "I'll take you to Lake Como to watch the sunrise, as a celebration of you landing Lorenzo's new film." Sang Shuwan froze, remembering the email she received this morning—the audition invitation she had initially thought was hopeless. It turned out Alice had already secretly arranged everything for her. The drizzle outside the window tapped against the glass. She suddenly remembered that night at the hot spring hotel, when Alice had fallen asleep on the coffee table, her phone's screensaver still a selfie from their first collaboration, the background a simple dressing table in their rented room, yet reflecting two people with shining eyes.

“Okay,” Sang Shuwan reached out and hooked her little finger with Alice’s, just like they always did when they first met. “But you have to promise me you won’t look at the schedule in the car tomorrow and will listen to Canon with me for a while.” Alice’s ears turned red as she pulled her hand away, but as she turned around, she stuffed the lavender diffuser the hotel had given her into Alice’s arms: “Only children listen to piano music. I want to listen to the dialogue recordings from your new movie.” Before she finished speaking, she opened her phone, found Canon in her favorites, turned down the volume, and placed it between the two of them.

Night fell over the rooftops of Milan. In the halo of the floor lamp, two women hid their unspoken heartache and pride in the warmth of hand warmers, in the red pen annotations on the edge of the script, and in the piano piece that played on repeat, filled with memories and hope. Like the moon phase jewel on Sang Shu's evening gown, they would always, at some moment, reflect the undying starlight in each other's eyes.

Forty minutes before the live stream started, Sang Shuwan was adjusting her ear cartilage chain in front of the mirror backstage when Alice suddenly pushed the door open, clutching a hand warmer in her hand: "Put this on your waist. I saw you sneeze when you were changing into your dress." Before she finished speaking, Alice squatted down, her fingertips finding a hidden snap in Sang Shuwan's skirt, and skillfully securing the hand warmer to her lumbar spine—a move they had repeated countless times, from Alice secretly stuffing hand warmers into Sang Shuwan's costume three years ago when they were filming a period drama, to now using custom-made hand warmers to avoid any blind spots in the camera's view.

“The font on the teleprompter provided by the brand was too small,” Alice said, brushing against the sapphire on her skirt as she stood up, her fingertips shimmering with blue light under the lamp. “In the third part, when we talk about the charity project, a reporter in a dark green suit will ask a question. He has pearl cufflinks on his cuffs; he’s from a competitor. Remember to end with ‘Sustainable development requires industry-wide consensus.’” Sang Shuwan looked at the faint dark circles under Alice’s eyes and suddenly remembered seeing Alice video chatting with the New York team in the living room at three in the morning, her suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, and the collar of her white shirt still stained with her own lipstick.

The moment the camera lit up, Sang Shuwan automatically switched to red carpet mode, her dimples perfectly accentuated by the lighting. When she mentioned her new film plans, she caught a glimpse of Alice leaning against a pillar in the back row of the audience, munching on a sandwich—a whole-wheat ham sandwich that she had specially ordered from the hotel that morning, its edges neatly cut, just like three years ago in Hengdian, when Alice would always pick out the carrot pieces from her lunchbox and eat them quietly herself.

"Ms. Sang, what are your thoughts on the application of AI face-swapping technology in the film and television industry?" Sure enough, the reporter wearing pearl cufflinks stood up. Sang Shuwan's fingertips, holding the microphone, lightly touched the callus at the base of her ring finger—a mark left by Alice when she was being taught how to hold the microphone, correcting her hand gestures. "Technology is a tool," she smiled, looking at the camera, "but what the audience remembers is always the story as seen through the actor's eyes, like Van Cleef & Arpels' moon phase collection. Mechanical gears can precisely calculate the trajectory of moonlight, but they can't calculate which homeland's night sky the craftsman was thinking of when setting the first sapphire."

Amidst the applause that erupted backstage, Alice handed over warm honey water, her fingertips tracing the small mole on the inside of Sang Shuwan's wrist: "You're right, but you blinked three more times than usual just now—nervous?" Sang Shuwan shook her head, glancing at the corner of the concert ticket peeking out of Alice's suit pocket—it was the farewell concert of her childhood idol that she had mentioned once before, and she hadn't expected Alice to remember it so quietly.

As the van drove towards Lake Como, the sky was still a pale blue. Sang Shuwan leaned against the window, watching Alice doze with her eyes closed, her eyelashes casting fan-shaped shadows beneath her eyes, the calluses on her ring finger particularly clear in the morning light. She suddenly remembered when she first landed an important role, Alice took her to the rooftop for drinks, pointing to the distant skyscrapers and saying, "One day, we'll see our own reflections in those glass curtain walls." Now they truly stood amidst those shadows, yet more clearly than ever, they understood that they were each other's most solid reflections.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the morning mist over the lake, Alice suddenly sat up straight and pulled a waterproof bag from her tactical backpack: "Here, for you." Sang Shuwan opened it and saw a silver bracelet inside. The pendant was shaped like a tiny camera, and the back was engraved with "SW 2022.8.15"—the start date of her first leading role in filming. "Don't be touched," Alice turned her face away, but the tips of her ears were redder than the morning glow. "The craftsmen in Milan said engraving would cost extra, so I had them engrave your birthday one digit off, saving fifty euros."

The ferry's whistle drifted through the morning mist. Sang Shuwan suddenly grabbed Alice's hand and slipped her usual strawberry-flavored lip balm into Alice's palm: "A birthday present, I'm giving it to you two months early, so you won't forget again." Alice chuckled, her fingertips tracing the dent on the outer packaging—a habit Sang Shuwan always had of picking at the packaging with her fingernails. The distant sunrise fully rose above the lake, casting long shadows of the two of them that intertwined on the deck, forming an inseparable shape.

“Alice,” Sang Shuwan gazed at the shimmering water and suddenly said softly, “Actually, you don’t always need to hide your concern in your itinerary and tactical backpack. I know, just like you know I touch the callus on the base of my ring finger whenever I’m nervous, you know I must put seven roses in a hot spring, you know I…” Her voice was swallowed by the sound of a ship’s horn, but Alice suddenly turned her head, her eyes reflecting something brighter than the sunlight: “I know, just like you know I keep my stomach medicine in the third pocket of my suit, you know I drink an iced Americano with two spoonfuls of sugar after every all-nighter, you know I…”

The words faded into the gentle lake breeze, and the two smiled at each other, a tacit understanding that needed no words. The sound of the van's engine drifted from afar. Alice got up to straighten her suit, but accidentally knocked something out of the waterproof bag—a folded note with a simple drawing: a little person in a tuxedo leading another little person in a suit, and next to it, it read, "When we retire, let's open a small hotel on Lake Como—Sang Shuwan, May 20, 2023."

By the time the sunlight had completely bathed the lake, they were back in the car. Sang Shuwan watched Alice pretend to be serious as she opened the new itinerary, but then she noticed a small drawing on the edge of the page—a little figure in a suit wearing a comical sun hat, next to which was another little figure in a bathrobe holding a strawberry. She suddenly understood that the dried lychees hidden in the side pocket of the tactical backpack, the strawberry hard candy mixed in with the hangover cure, and the simple drawing on the back of the itinerary were all unspoken love letters they had given each other.

The next stop was Milan Cathedral. Sang Shuwan gazed at the fleeting plane trees outside the car window and suddenly recalled that night at the hot spring hotel, when Alice had fallen asleep on the coffee table, her phone's screensaver still a selfie of them huddled together in their rented room. Back then, they couldn't have known how many spotlights and thorns lay ahead, but the warmth of their palms touching at that moment shone brighter than any starlight. Like the camera bracelet Alice had given them, it would forever record their shared journey, a real life more moving than any movie.

As the spire of Milan Cathedral pierced the clouds, Sang Shuwan followed Alice through the Gothic cloisters, her high heels echoing crisply on the marble floor. Suddenly, her agent stopped, her fingertips brushing against the back of her neck—where the new hand warmer from that morning still clung, its warmth seeping through her skin like the touch Alice had used to warm her frozen earlobes three years ago while filming a snow scene in Changbai Mountain.

“Three o’clock,” Alice whispered, her suit sleeve brushing lightly against the back of Sang Shuwan’s hand. “The lady wearing the pearl necklace is the editor-in-chief of Vogue Italia. When you pass by, remember to turn your head so that the diamonds from the moon phase necklace are reflected in the stained glass window.” Sang Shuwan turned around in response, but in the instant her skirt spun, she saw Alice quietly switch her thermos from her left hand to her right—a little trick she often used to stay awake by sensing pain, something she did whenever her stomach medicine wore off.

Sunlight dappled the pillars through the stained-glass windows. Suddenly, a little girl with pigtails broke through the bodyguards' defenses and ran towards them, holding up her phone. Alice instinctively stepped aside to shield Sang Shuwan, but froze when she saw the poster the little girl was clutching—it was a poster for a web series where Sang Shuwan played a minor role three years ago, with a handwritten "thank you" sticky note stuck to the corner.

“Sister Shuwan!” The little girl’s eyes sparkled. “I got into the Central Academy of Drama. I want to be an actress like you in the future!” Sang Shuwan squatted down, the sapphire on her earring brushing against the little girl’s trembling fingertips. “Remember not to bite your tongue in dialogue class, like this—” She deliberately pronounced “Sang” as “Shang”, making the little girl giggle. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alice turn her back and quickly wipe her eyes with her fingertips.

As the rosy hues of dusk seeped into the church, Alice suddenly pulled her into a side chapel. The light and shadow from the stained glass flowed across the agent's face, softening her usually cold eyes: "Back then, I watched you audition for 'Cold Night' in the basement. You played a betrayed female student, crying until snot bubbles came out, but I felt—" She suddenly stopped, the tips of her ears turning red in the shadows, her fingertips unconsciously stroking the small mole on the inside of Sang Shuwan's wrist.

"Do you think I'm a silly girl?" Sang Shuwan laughed as she pulled out the crumpled itinerary, the back of which was covered in doodles: a little figure wearing a crown leading another little figure in a suit, with the crooked sign "Lake Como Hotel" at their feet. As Alice snatched the paper, half a silver bracelet peeked out from her cuff—the same camera bracelet Sang Shuwan had secretly fastened to her wrist that morning while she was changing, engraved with "AL 2020.3.1," the date of their first official contract signing.

As the van drove through the neon lights, Sang Shuwan leaned on Alice's shoulder, feigning sleep. Her fingertips touched a hard object in the inside pocket of Alice's suit—the script outline for Lorenzo's new film, which she had received that morning. On the title page, circled in red, was the note: "The female lead has a scene where she falls into a lake and needs to practice diving beforehand." She suddenly remembered filming the scene three years ago, when Alice waited on the shore for seven hours, clutching a towel, and eventually developed a fever of 39 degrees Celsius, yet insisted that the crew film her scene first.

“Don’t pretend to be asleep,” Alice’s voice mingled with the cedar scent of the car air freshener. “The translator sent an email from Chen Moyuan’s studio. He said that you mentioned the tofu pudding scene from ‘Old Alley’ at the banquet, and he had his assistant send ten boxes of Yangzhou’s time-honored brand to my rented apartment from ten years ago.” Sang Shuwan looked up and saw her agent revising her diving training plan on her phone. Each time slot was marked “accompaniment required,” just like the pinyin annotations Alice had filled the script with when she first learned her lines.

The floor lamp in the hotel suite stayed on until 2 a.m. When Sang Shuwan came out of the bathroom, she saw Alice lying on the carpet studying diagrams of diving equipment. Scattered around her feet were sticky notes with various illustrations of how to prevent choking on water. She quietly handed her some warm milk, her fingertips tracing the newly formed pimple on the back of Alice's neck—a sign of excessive stress, exactly the same as when she was preparing for her first wedding three years ago.

“Lorenzo’s email said,” Alice suddenly spoke, her voice muffled in the carpet, “that the female lead has a line that goes, ‘You are my safety rope forever,’ and I think—” she suddenly rolled over, her ear tip brushing against Sang Shuwan’s ankle, “that you should change ‘safety rope’ to ‘tactical backpack,’ it would suit your style better.”

Moonlight streamed through the window. Sang Shuwan gazed at Alice's profile, who was pretending to be engrossed in studying blueprints. Suddenly, she recalled that morning at the hot spring hotel—the lipstick mark on the fogged mirror, and the note she'd left behind when she first started out, tucked away in her itinerary. It turned out some things didn't need to be said aloud. Like the tactical backpack pocket always containing each other's favorite snacks, the suit pocket always holding each other's painkillers—the care hidden in those details had already woven a dialogue more moving than any spoken words.

“Okay,” she crouched down and tucked Alice’s unruly hair behind her ear. “Then you’ll be my eternal tactical backpack, accompanying me through all the storms.” The agent suddenly turned her face away, but as Sang Shuwan turned around, she quickly drew a simple sketch in the blank space of the equipment diagram: a little person wearing diving goggles carrying a huge backpack, with a strawberry floating next to her—that was the code about eternity that only they understood.

A night breeze lifted the curtains, revealing the myriad lights of Milan. The shadows of two women on the carpet were close together, like two plants rooted in the storms of the entertainment industry, their roots already intertwined in the ground. Tomorrow there would be diving training, brand interviews, new scripts and challenges, but the warmth of their palms touching at this moment was more solid than any starlight. Like the camera bracelet on Alice's wrist, or the hand warmer on Sang Shuwan's waist, these tender details would ultimately become their armor against the world, and also each other's warmest soft spot.

As the chlorine smell from the diving training center filled her nostrils, Sang Shuwan stared at the flickering lights at the bottom of the pool and suddenly remembered filming a scene in Qinghai Lake three years ago. The water temperature was so low that her right leg cramped up. Alice, wearing a down jacket, jumped into the water and pulled her out. Her lips were purple from the cold, but she still laughed and scolded, "Idiot, hold my wrist tightly when you choke on water."

“Let’s practice breath-holding first today,” Alice said, standing by the pool. Her tactical backpack was zipped up, revealing a spare breathing mask and a warm towel inside. “The coach said the ear pressure problem from your last filming hasn’t healed yet, so don’t push yourself.” She crouched down, her fingertips tracing the old scar on Sang Shuwan’s ankle—a mark from being scratched by a reef, now glowing pale pink in the underwater lights.

The moment the diving tank was placed over her head, Sang Shuwan saw Alice suddenly take off her suit jacket, kneeling by the pool in only a white shirt, her gaze never leaving the trajectory of her bubbles. When she opened her eyes underwater, through the rippling water, she saw her manager drawing crooked strawberries on the glass with her finger—the signal they had agreed upon: "If you can't hold on, surface."

Three minutes later, she emerged from the water. Before Sang Shuwan could even remove her goggles, a mint was shoved into her mouth—the kind Alice always gave her when she was nervous, the kind with a little sun printed on the wrapper. "How's the ear pressure?" Her manager wrapped a towel around her shoulders and gently pressed her fingertips against the heat pack on her lower back to make sure the temperature was comfortable.

From the rest area came the instructor's exclamation: "Miss Sang's body control is truly genius; she can hold her breath longer than professional divers." Alice pulled a towel over her trembling knees and whispered, "Back in Hengdian, you were filming a wire-work scene with a high fever. When you landed, you fell into my arms and laughed, saying, 'Alice, you're warmer than a heater'—and now you've learned to hide the pain from me?"

As the setting sun bathed the training hall's glass in a golden-red hue, Sang Shuwan watched Alice and her coach argue about the details of adjusting the protective gear. A button on Alice's collar had popped open, revealing a scar below her collarbone—a mark Alice had sustained while protecting her during a promotional event, when Alice had been scratched by an out-of-control fan. Sang Shuwan suddenly remembered first seeing the scar in the bathroom of her rented apartment; her manager was applying ointment in front of the mirror and, upon hearing her push open the door, immediately turned and covered her shoulder with a towel.

“Come try on the new fins,” Alice tossed over a waterproof bag with a strawberry pattern, inside which were custom-made diving socks with the letters “AL” and “SW” embroidered on the cuffs. “Lorenzo’s team said there will be underwater lighting effects in the lake scene, and the scar on your ankle…” She suddenly stopped talking, her fingertips tracing the anti-slip pattern on the fins.

“It’s alright,” Sang Shuwan held her cold hand and placed her usual hand warmer into her palm. “This scar is from a battle we fought together, just like the bruise on your wrist—” she pointed to the other’s wrist bone, red and swollen from long hours of typing, “a medal for commanding thousands of troops.” Alice turned her face away, but as Sang Shuwan turned, she quickly snapped a picture of Alice putting on her flippers. Her photo album was already full of similar photos: her profile while applying makeup, the way she bit her pen while memorizing lines, the moment she turned back at the corner of the red carpet. As the night diving training began, the LED lights at the bottom of the pool simulated the deep blue of the lake. Sang Shuwan turned around underwater and saw Alice leaning against the observation window, her phone screen lit up, showing a video of her falling into the water three years ago—back then, she was still a bit awkward in front of the camera, but the moment she was pulled out, she instinctively grabbed Alice’s wrist.

When the instructor signaled it was time to go, Sang Shuwan suddenly gave an "OK" sign and continued diving. At the bottom of the pool, she found the little gift Alice had secretly placed there: a glass jar containing seven dried roses, the exact number she always added when soaking in the hot springs. Engraved on the bottom of the jar were tiny words: "Don't be afraid, I'm counting the bubbles on the surface—Alice, April 17, 2025."

The moment she broke through the water, Sang Shuwan saw Alice with red eyes still cursing, "Crazy, don't you know I'll miscount the bubbles?" But as she handed her a towel, she secretly slipped her diving certificate into Alice's hand—in the photo, the agent was wearing goggles, with a rare smile on her lips, and the background was the beach where they had first gone abroad.

As they left the training facility, the night breeze carried the warmth of late spring. Sang Shuwan gazed at Alice's hand resting on the handbrake as she drove, the calluses on her ring finger clearly visible under the streetlights. She suddenly recalled that morning on Lake Como, the red tips of Alice's ears, and the plum candies she always carried in her tactical backpack to prevent seasickness.

“Alice,” she suddenly opened the waterproof bag and took out the jar of dried roses, “after we finish filming Lorenzo’s scenes, let’s go to Qinghai Lake, just like we did three years ago.” The agent’s hand on the steering wheel paused, her voice so soft it was as if she was afraid of disturbing his memories: “Okay, this time I’ll bring ten hand warmers, twenty packets of hangover candy, and—” she suddenly laughed, “and your favorite mints with little suns printed on the wrappers.”

Suddenly, the melody of "Canon" started playing on the car radio—the playlist Sang Shuwan had secretly changed that morning. Alice didn't speak, but slowed the car down, allowing the moonlight to bathe their leaning shoulders for a longer time. The streetlights in the distance lit up one after another, like scattered diamonds in the night sky, just like the tenderness they had collected over the years, hidden in the details—the warmth of hand warmers, the hidden compartments in their tactical backpacks, the bubbles they counted while diving, and the unspoken promise of "forever."

The lights of the diving center gradually shrank in the rearview mirror. Sang Shuwan looked at Alice's profile as she focused on driving and suddenly understood that the so-called safety rope and tactical backpack were never the objects themselves, but rather the gaze of the other person, the warmth of their palms touching, and the knowing that no matter how deep the water, someone would be on the surface, counting every rising bubble. And these were their most solid anchors in the storms of the entertainment industry.

The Parisian spring sunshine, like melted butter, spread evenly across the cast-iron tables and chairs in the Tuileries Garden. Sang Shuwan was using a silver fork to tap the sugar crust of her crème brûlée, creating tiny cracks, her fingertips still sticky with the sweet syrup as her phone vibrated under the tablecloth.

“It’s Xiao Zhou.” Alice’s sunglasses slid down to the tip of her nose, revealing the sharp curve at the corner of her eye. Her fingers, painted with emerald green nail polish, tapped out a rapid rhythm on the tablet. “The paparazzi took photos of you at the hospital last week, with the caption saying that you were seeking treatment for post-miscarriage depression—Sang Jiyue’s studio reposted it half an hour ago.”

The silver fork clattered onto the porcelain plate, and caramel crumbs splattered onto the edge of the temporary tattoo on Sang Shuwan's wrist. It was a half-wilted red rose, a design she and Alice had casually picked out at a tattoo shop in the Marais district three days ago, now twisted and deformed as she clenched her fist.

“When she was crying in my arms at the charity gala last month,” Sang Shuwan stared at the blonde woman jogging in the distance, her voice like frozen champagne bubbles, “she said something like, ‘I was young and ignorant back then, sister, don’t hate me,’ and she even smudged her mascara on her Givenchy haute couture with her tears.” She suddenly grabbed an iced Americano and took a swig, the condensation flowing down the side of the glass into her palm, “and now, she’s made up a whole script about me being an illegitimate child.”

Alice's fingers abruptly stopped on the screen. As a top agent who had been in the entertainment industry for fifteen years, she remembered it clearly: half a month ago, when Sang Jiyue's team offered a reconciliation, Sang Shuwan stared at the apology letter they sent, her fingertips tracing the words "sleepless nights" for a full ten minutes. Now, watching the artist's knuckles turn white as she gripped the coffee cup, she suddenly reached out and pressed her hand against that cold hand.

"Don't touch the domestic trending topics yet." Alice pulled out a wet wipe to clean the sugar stains from her wrist, her tone as if she were dealing with a public relations crisis caused by a top celebrity's cheating scandal years ago. "I had the legal department investigate. The hospital photos were leaked from the VIP channel surveillance, just in time for the time you accompanied Aunt Zhang to her follow-up appointment—" Her eyes behind her sunglasses narrowed into sharp points. "When Sang Jiyue's team bribed the caregiver, they probably didn't expect you to register under a fake name."

Sang Shuwan suddenly laughed, her fingertips tracing the water droplets on the glass. Three months ago, she did spend three days in a private hospital, but not for the so-called "miscarriage," but to accompany Aunt Zhang, who suffers from Alzheimer's disease, for rehabilitation training—Aunt Zhang was the only agent who spoke up for her when she was tricked into signing a "contract of servitude" when she first entered the industry.

"Should I contact my team in China now to issue a statement?" Alice's tablet had already switched to the email interface. "Should we include the transfer records from back then when she hired online trolls to smear you?"

“No.” Sang Shuwan suddenly grabbed her Chanel jacket from the back of the chair, her golden-brown curls billowing beautifully in the wind. “Move up the Paris Fashion Week schedule. We’ll fly to Milan tonight.” She texted her assistant, a smear of caramel still clinging to her lips. “Also, have Xiao Zhou cut out the CCTV footage of me and Sister Zhang at the hospital, highlighting the ‘Best Agent’ plaque in the ward—oh, and,” she looked up at the shimmering light on the Eiffel Tower’s spire, “and attach a photo of you and me in the Marais district, captioned ‘Recharging in Paris with the world’s best Alice.’”

Alice raised an eyebrow and smiled, her fingers flying across the screen. She knew that Sang Shuwan's move was a strategic retreat—since the other party wanted to use "secret marriage and childbirth" as a pretext, she would use her work schedule and intimate photos to dispel the rumors of her "retirement." As for the scene of Sister Zhang holding the medal in the hospital surveillance footage, it was a silent reminder to the industry that Sang Shuwan was never alone.

"Should I remind the domestic team to buy a few trending topics about 'Sang Shuwan in Paris'?" Alice closed her tablet and watched Sang Shuwan touch up her lipstick on her phone screen. The matte red lipstick looked like a flame tempered with ice in the sunlight.

“No need.” Sang Shuwan suddenly leaned closer to the camera, winked at the front-facing camera, and tapped the screen a few times with her fingertips. “I just posted an Instagram post, geotagged in the Tuileries Garden.” She turned her phone toward Alice, and the screen showed a candid profile shot: herself leaning against an wrought iron chair, Alice leaning over to adjust her necklace, the Eiffel Tower in the background with its gold trim, and the caption was three flame emojis.

The agent suddenly chuckled softly. She understood perfectly well that this dramatic photo would instantly silence those gossip accounts spreading rumors of a "sisterly feud"—after all, in the entertainment industry, what could be more convincing proof of a strong backing than traveling intimately with a top agent?

In the distance, a street performer played "La Vie en Rose." Sang Shuwan gazed at the falling cherry blossoms and suddenly remembered the bowl of bird's nest porridge that Sang Jiyue had insincerely brought her three years ago when she was filming all night in Hengdian. At the time, she was too tired to notice the stray hairs at the bottom of the bowl, only to later find out that it was "evidence" deliberately left by the other party so that the marketing accounts could expose "Sang Shuwan suppressing newcomers and making her co-star cry" the next day.

“Alice,” she suddenly pressed down on her agent’s hand, which was tidying up documents, her fingernail lightly tracing the tattoo on the back of the other’s hand—they got them in Tokyo last year, hers was “Sparse”, and Alice’s was “Evening”. “After we get back to China, let’s compile all the videos of my collaboration with Sang Jiyue.”

"What are you going to do with it?" Alice raised an eyebrow, her fingertips tracing the faded temporary tattoo on her wrist.

“To provide evidence.” Sang Shuwan stood up with a smile, letting the hem of her trench coat sweep across the petals scattered on the ground. “To prove that every time she handed me the microphone with a fake smile, I was diligently shielding her from the malicious blind spots of the camera—” She turned to look at the setting sun, her eyelashes casting butterfly-wing-like shadows under her eyes. “Now it’s time to let everyone see just how much filth the roots of this white lotus are soaking in.”

Alice followed behind her, listening to the sound of her high heels clicking on the cobblestones. Suddenly, she realized that this artist, often misunderstood as a "cold beauty," possessed a sharpness more dazzling than the lights of the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps from the moment Sang Shuwan threw the mud at her back on the company rooftop, they were destined to carve out a thorny path to stardom in this deceitful entertainment industry.

The phone vibrated again; it was a message from the domestic team: Sang Jiyue's studio had begun deleting related Weibo posts. Alice watched as Sang Shuwan suddenly turned around in front of her, flashing a "V" sign at the camera, a cherry blossom still clinging to her hair. She suddenly understood—this war was never a duel between a little rabbit and a fox, but rather two swords that had been honed for ten years, finally revealing their cold gleam in the sunlight.

In the VIP lounge of Charles de Gaulle Airport, Sang Shuwan was drawing a simple timeline on her makeup mirror with an eyebrow pencil. From Sang Jiyue's first purchase of a trending topic three years ago, "Sang Shuwan acted like a diva and shoved a newcomer," to the "sisterly affection" drama at last month's charity gala, each point was marked with a corresponding surveillance video number and witness contact information. Alice leaned back on the leather sofa, a newly printed screenshot of the hospital surveillance footage between her fingers—the image of Sister Zhang holding up the 2018 "Golden Agent" medal was so clear that the scratches on the bronze medal were visible.

“The Ministry of Justice just got the caregiver’s recording.” Alice pushed the tablet over, the screen showing an audio waveform. “She admitted to receiving 50 yuan from Sang Jiyue’s studio and, according to the script, ‘accidentally’ saying keywords like ‘miscarriage’ and ‘depression’ to the family members in the same ward.”

Sang Shuwan's eyebrow pencil heavily circled the "November 2023.11 Bird's Nest Porridge Incident." At the time, she was hospitalized for acute gastritis, and Sang Jiyue visited her with bird's nest. Shortly after, a marketing account posted, "Sang Shuwan, even in the hospital, didn't forget to suppress her juniors, forcing Sang Jiyue to hide in the stairwell and cry." Now, thinking back, the bouquet of lilies with a hidden miniature camera in the hospital room must have been placed there around the same time.

“Cut a 30-second clip from the recording, focusing on the line ‘Sister Jiyue said that as long as the acting is convincing, you can pick and choose any resources you want in the future.’” Sang Shuwan put down her eyebrow pencil, her fingertip tracing the “2019.3 Cannes red carpet fall” mark on the mirror. “Then pull up the surveillance footage of my dress being sewn shut at Cannes that year—do you remember, she squatted down to help me pull the thread, the camera captured it very clearly, there was still silver thread under her fingernail.”

Alice suddenly burst out laughing and pulled a USB drive out of her designer handbag: "What a coincidence, I just had Lao Jin sort out the transfer records of the clothing team back then. Sang Jiyue transferred 15 yuan to the tailor, with the note 'custom special edition'—as a result, the haute couture dress you wore had double hidden snaps on the hem, so you had to trip every three steps."

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the waiting area, an Air France Airbus A380 was taxiing towards the runway. Sang Shuwan gazed at the starry livery on the aircraft and suddenly recalled last year in Milan, when Sang Jiyue, backstage, pretended to adjust her dress but actually ripped off the invisible zipper. At the time, she relied on Alice's brooch to temporarily hold it in place and managed to walk the entire way with a smile. The next day, the trending topic was "Sang Shuwan's figure is out of shape; even the brooch can't hide her underarm fat."

"After arriving in Milan, I'll be doing a live interview with Vogue Italia." Sang Shuwan opened her phone and pulled out the outline the fashion editor had just sent her. "One of the questions is 'How do you view sisterhood in the entertainment industry?' Should I talk about the tears at the charity gala, or about someone tampering with my dress?"

Alice stood up and straightened her trench coat collar, gently tapping the mole on her collarbone with her fingertip: "Why don't we show them this—" She pulled up an old photo on her phone, from a celebration party in 2018. Sang Jiyue smiled as she handed Sang Shuwan a wine glass. In a corner not captured by the camera, her little finger was hooking the stem of the glass and pushing it outwards, the amber liquid swirling dangerously at the rim. "Back then, you were drinking the non-alcoholic version I mixed, otherwise the scar on your right hand would be three centimeters longer now."

As the boarding announcement sounded, Sang Shuwan suddenly received a screenshot of a trending topic in China from Xiao Zhou: #SangShuwanParisPhotos# was at number one, accompanied by a picture of her and Alice holding hands while shopping for a tattoo parlor in the Marais district, their shadows stretched long by the sunlight. The third trending topic was #SangJiyueDeletesPost#, with comments like "Don't be a coward, sister, face it head-on!"

“Should we have the domestic team release your medical records from back then, when you went to the hospital to shield me from drinking?” Sang Shuwan followed Alice toward the boarding gate, her heels tapping out a crisp rhythm on the ground. “And the diagnosis that she bribed the makeup artist to put fluorescent powder in my powder compact, causing my allergic reaction and irritated skin—oh right,” she suddenly turned to the airport cameras and curled her lips, “remember to compile the videos of her ‘accidentally’ knocking off my earrings and stepping on my skirt every time I attended an event into a compilation called ‘The Best Actress’s Improvisational Performance.’”

Alice watched the golden glints of light dancing in her hair and suddenly remembered that stormy night seven years ago. Nineteen-year-old Sang Shuwan burst into the company, soaking wet, clutching a torn-together "contract of servitude" in her hand, coffee stains still clinging to her collar. Later, she learned that Sang Jiyue had deliberately leaked the news of her successful audition, attracting haters who had blocked the elevator.