Chapter 5

*Moon-Chasing Diary*
“It can’t be… that coincidental, can it?”
— *Moon-Chasing Diary*
_
Qin Sang felt she had a touch of blind confidence in her. Even though she’d never been particularly lucky—she’d never even won the consolation “one more bottle” prize—none of that stopped her from feeling good about herself.
Sister Wen worked like an iron lady—taking calls to placate partners, while also keeping the situation under control and directing everything. The assistant carried over two outfits for her to choose from. Sister Wen held the phone and said, “Director Qian, if there’s a chance, of course Sang-sang would love to work with you. It’s just that her schedule is full, we can’t fit it in.”
Then she covered the mic, leaned slightly aside, and signaled with her eyes, lowering her voice: “That one. Looks steadier.”
When Sister Wen finished fending off calls from a whole list of directors, she glanced over and saw Qin Sang still sitting there, not moving. She was instantly alarmed.
“Ancestor, what time is it? Why haven’t you changed yet?”
“I think what I’m wearing is fine. No need to change,” Qin Sang said.
See? That stubborn, self-satisfied streak was back.
Sister Wen didn’t indulge her. “Do you know what kind of occasion this is? Wearing *that*? Do you think you’re a golden phoenix—people will buy it even if you drape yourself in rags? Xiaoxiao, what are you standing there for? Get her changed!”
Xiaoxiao was the assistant’s name. She held the dress and stood to the side, eyes down, acting deaf. Clearly she was used to scenes like this.
Most of the time Qin Sang cooperated. But occasionally she’d throw a childish tantrum—like now, nitpicking. To put it plainly: she didn’t want to go on-site.
She looked at her manager pitifully. “Sister Wen, can I not go?”
Sister Wen refused without mercy. “No.”
“Forcing a socially anxious person to socialize—don’t you have a conscience? That’s a dragon’s den and tiger’s lair. Once I go, I’ll never come back!” Qin Sang exaggerated.
Sister Wen smiled at her. The smile was icy. “Xiaoxiao. Change her.”
Qin Sang struggled in vain, still unwilling. She whined to Xiaoxiao, “It’s too tight. It’s squeezing me. I can’t breathe.”
“You have the nerve to say that,” Sister Wen’s head throbbed from the noise. “Who went crazy at night and insisted on eating?”
Qin Sang immediately felt guilty. “I’ve been in a bad mood lately…”
“Bad mood, so you binge?” Sister Wen pierced right through her. “How come you’re not wasting away, then? Don’t think I don’t know—your trainer told me. Not only are you slacking off, you even gained five jin!”
That last line was practically shouted.
Qin Sang shrank her neck, still muttering angrily, “Traitor!”
She’d even introduced her trainer to a few high-quality clients—real resources. And he sold her out behind her back!
“What traitor? You think everyone’s as muddleheaded as you? I’m the one paying his salary. If he doesn’t side with me, should he side with you?”
Just thinking about it made Sister Wen angry. If Qin Sang hadn’t been off the past few days, she wouldn’t have had the chance to let her go this wild.
“Qin Sang, how dare you? Five jin! Don’t you know actresses look ten jin heavier on camera? With your body fat, it’s terrifying. Aren’t you afraid black fans will mock you for being broad-minded and broad-bodied?”
“I’m warning you—you're about to enter a shoot. Whatever you ate to put on weight, you’re going to grit your teeth and lose it!”
Sister Wen’s temper was fierce.
Qin Sang didn’t dare yank a tiger’s whiskers. She only whispered to Xiaoxiao, “Is Sister Wen’s hormones out of whack lately? Her temper’s huge—she even has mouth sores.”
Xiaoxiao, accustomed to being silent, wanted to cry. She thought, Sang-sang, if you said less, Sister Wen wouldn’t be so worked up…
…
Qin Sang wasn’t lying—she really was socially anxious. It was just selective social anxiety. Normally she’d detour around occasions like this. In previous years, skipping was fine, but this year was different. She’d just won the Golden Bell Best Actress. If she didn’t show up, someone would surely make a story out of it.
She sighed and stood in an inconspicuous corner, staring longingly at the dessert tower she wasn’t allowed to touch.
She looked pleadingly at Xiaoxiao. Xiaoxiao shook her head heavily: endure it. Absolutely no breaking.
Qin Sang sighed again, listless and pitiful.
She wasn’t like Sister Wen, who swam through these scenes like a fish in water. Whenever someone came to greet her, she merely followed at Sister Wen’s side—an obedient little accessory.
Now Sister Wen had been called away to take another phone call—eight hundred work calls a day. Before leaving, she still shot Qin Sang a warning look: no sneaking food.
Qin Sang thought, fine, I won’t eat. But do you have to assign a supervisor? She turned her head and saw Xiaoxiao planted there like a door god. Life felt hopeless. Her melancholy deepened.
“Teacher Liang, this role truly suits you. In the entire entertainment industry, there’s no actress with your unique aura. If you can, please consider it. This kind of subject matter is rare—very challenging—but I think with your ability, you’ll match the role perfectly.”
Qin Sang’s ears caught everything—she was bored, mostly. Hearing such shameless flattery, she got curious: what kind of figure could inspire this level of ass-kissing?
She lifted her eyes—and saw Liang Tingwan across the room.
So it was true: enemies met on narrow roads. Such a huge event, and she still had to run into her.
Liang Tingwan had clearly been pestered for a long time. A flicker of impatience crossed her face, though she controlled it well and didn’t blow up.
The person pestering her looked sneaky, not decent. Was he an actor? Seemed like nobody. A new director or producer, maybe?
Liang Tingwan was sick of it. She was about to speak when her assistant nudged her, signaling her to look forward.
By coincidence, her gaze collided with Qin Sang’s.
Qin Sang was eavesdropping, morally in the wrong, so she guiltily looked away. Liang Tingwan froze for a moment. They were competitors—same market, limited cake. They even “overlapped” in type and had to fight for it. That was one thing. The worst part was: Liang Tingwan hadn’t even won.
The clueless self-promoter in front of her annoyed her. Running into the rival who’d beaten her annoyed her even more.
One word: annoying.
Liang Tingwan’s thoughts turned; a plan formed instantly. She smiled and said, “Director Zhou, it’s not that I won’t agree. It’s that I don’t have the ability. If we’re talking about the best acting among female artists, that has to be Teacher Qin. And I looked carefully at the script—I don’t think I can handle this role, but it suits Teacher Qin extremely well. If Teacher Qin agrees, I guarantee the box office is already half secured.”
…
Xiaoxiao whispered, puzzled, “Sang-sang, what are Teacher Liang and that person talking about? They keep looking at you.”
Qin Sang glanced over. Just then Liang Tingwan looked at her too. Their eyes met; Liang Tingwan raised her wine glass and smiled at Qin Sang.
Qin Sang’s alarm bells went off. A bad feeling rose. “I suspect she’s setting me up.”
…
Zhou Yihong had only managed to get in by clinging to a friend’s invitation card. But he believed that those who did great things didn’t fuss over small matters. For future success, today’s cold shoulders and white eyes were nothing.
He made the rounds, trying hard to pitch. The results were minimal. Investors were clearly more interested in projects with short-term returns. As for actors—it went without saying: more than the work itself, they cared about the production team.
Zhou Yihong placed his last hope on Liang Tingwan because the moment he entered, he’d liked her aura. But it was wasted breath; she wasn’t interested in his role.
Now, hearing her say that, Zhou Yihong followed her gaze—and his eyes lit up.
Qin Sang was tall and slender. In a black, subtly patterned velvet dress, she looked even colder and more striking. At first sight, the “female colonel” in Zhou Yihong’s mind turned concrete—three-dimensional, vivid.
…
Qin Sang had been unlucky since childhood, but her bad premonitions were always eerily accurate.
She felt the way those two looked at her was like evaluating meat on a chopping block—picking and choosing, deciding how to carve.
Sure enough, the next second, the flatterer carried his wine glass over, smiling broadly.
Qin Sang panicked inside but couldn’t show it. After all, you didn’t hit a smiling face—and this guy clearly knew the art, a master of it.
Now she understood why Liang Tingwan’s expression had looked so speechless earlier. Liang Tingwan was dull too, sure, but her professional ability was real; she rarely lost control in public and had a decent reputation. If someone could nearly make her crack in front of everyone, that person had skills.
With this level of “persuasion,” who wouldn’t get confused?
Qin Sang listened for a while and basically understood. He had a decent script, but the genre was niche: a sci-fi film—rare in China.
And he wasn’t trained in the orthodox way; he was a self-taught director. In a circle that was extremely exclusionary, no wonder he hit walls everywhere.
He’d eaten enough cold shoulders tonight. Slammed into enough closed doors. The frustrations from his whole life didn’t add up to what he’d faced tonight.
He was, after all, a top student—an actual Tsinghua graduate.
If he weren’t truly interested, he wouldn’t have veered off his original life track at nearly thirty and charged down this one-way road.
Now with a few drinks in, he felt floaty, and his emotions spun out.
Zhou Yihong sighed in defeat. “I know switching industries is like crossing a mountain range. I prepared myself mentally before coming. But I didn’t expect it to be so hard that I couldn’t even take the first step.”
Qin Sang had no other great virtue except strong empathy. That was why she acted like she had divine help—entering roles fast, and leaving them slowly.
What Zhou Yihong suffered tonight, she’d suffered too when she first debuted. For a moment, she felt a rush of mixed feelings.
She wavered. “How about… you send me the script? Let me take a look.”
Zhou Yihong hadn’t even dared hope she’d agree. Hearing this, he went blank for a second, then ecstatic. “Then, Teacher Qin, can I add you on WeChat? Don’t worry—the story is really good. I had my junior look at it. He’s also a Tsinghua graduate, and he works at an aerospace institute. The professional side is absolutely guaranteed.”
The frequency of people and things related to “aerospace” in her life lately was so high that her body had developed an automatic defense mechanism.
It can’t be… that coincidental, can it?
Qin Sang suppressed the flutter in her chest and asked casually, “Your junior is that impressive?”
“Yeah. My junior is different from me. He’s our advisor’s prized student. You know the Fifth Academy of National Defense? That’s where he works. He mainly does aerospace aerodynamics—measurement and control sensors, overall design and manufacturing of special aircraft, deep-space surveying. I can’t say too much about the specific subdivisions.”
Zhou Yihong had a spark of inspiration. To add credibility, he suggested, “How about this: if you have time, I can ask my junior out and we can meet together. Once you’ve met him, you’ll know I’m not exaggerating.”