The tiny private screening room was clean and well kept, but the mosaic-patterned floor tiles, the red upholstered folding seats with their subtle embossed design, and the green-painted walls all betrayed its age.
It was close to midnight, and there weren’t many people there for the screening. Ying Yin and Shang Shao took seats in the last row nearest the exit, with only a few scattered heads in front of them. Someone yawned as the opening credits rolled.
“A mandarin film, huh?” someone muttered before getting up to leave. As they passed by, they cast Ying Yin a listless glance.
Ying Yin didn’t move until the moviegoer had gone. Then she grabbed Shang Shao’s arm with both hands. “Can we go back instead? I’ll watch it with you at home.”
Shang Shao remained perfectly composed, one leg crossed over the other without so much as a twitch. “Why?”
Ying Yin answered vaguely. “This is my least favorite film. I’ll put on a better one for you when we get back.”
Shang Shao arched an eyebrow. On their way through the lobby, he’d glanced at one of the illuminated posters. A line of small print had caught his attention:
Berlin Film Festival Night.
He wasn’t much of a movie buff, but even he had heard of Europe’s three major film festivals. If this film had made it to Berlin, it had to be of considerable quality.
He gave Ying Yin’s hand a reassuring pat. The back of her hand was startlingly cold.
“We’re watching this one,” he said, settling the matter.
“But…”
Ying Yin was still trying to persuade him when Shang Shao leaned close and whispered into her ear. “You’re this nervous… Is there something in here I’m not supposed to see?”
Ying Yin swallowed, lowering her gaze guiltily.
There wasn’t really anything he wasn’t supposed to see.
It was simply the boldest film of her entire career…
The Bitter Beauty was different from Floating Flower. After all, Floating Flower had been made eleven or twelve years ago. She had long since forgotten many of its scenes and could watch it now without batting an eye, even stepping outside herself to critique the youthful, instinct-driven performance she’d given back then.
Song Shizhang had once said that she had been ambitious when she was young, and he wasn’t wrong. Otherwise, she never would have dared to volunteer herself for that role, relying solely on confidence in her own ability. Back then, what did she know about love or desire? She simply listened to the director’s instructions, her beautifully sculpted features set in stubborn determination, unwilling to admit defeat.
But The Bitter Beauty was different.
It wasn’t so hazy or ethereally sensual. It was a story of two adults locked in a struggle of desire, love, hatred, and emotional entanglement.
Ying Yin had only watched The Bitter Beauty once – its theatrical release version – after filming wrapped. She had never played it again.
Several scenes that had required the set to be cleared had been cut entirely from the theatrical release. Now, all Ying Yin could do was hope that the version playing here was indeed that censored cut.
It was the spring of 1937. Winter’s chill had yet to fade, but the lingering cold was the least of people’s concerns. News that the Japanese were steadily advancing with designs on Central China had left many living in constant fear.
Yet Shanghai remained a city devoted to living for the moment.
Even if the Japanese were about to march in, people still sang and danced as though nothing had changed. At the Grand Cathay Theatre, Zhou Xuan’s Spring in Full Bloom sold out performance after performance to thunderous applause. Streetcars clanged through the avenues, and as night deepened, the neon lights of the Paramount Ballroom only grew more seductive.
The character Ying Yin played, Li Meijian, had been the Paramount’s reigning star performer for years.
As for her singing voice, a major shareholder of United Pictures would hold her in his lap, coaxing her by saying she was every bit the equal of Li Xianglan. When she danced the Quick Foxtrot, no one in all of Shanghai moved with greater grace or effortless poise. The moment she stepped onto the floor, the wealthy matrons, tycoons, movie stars, and glamorous socialites filling the ballroom would all stop to watch.
During winter, Li Meijian often spent entire nights reveling at the Paramount or in the mansions of powerful officials. Wrapped in a fitted black fox-fur coat with a turned-down collar, she would step elegantly out of a motorcar and walk a few quiet paces through the mist. The plane trees lining the asphalt roads of the French Concession had shed their leaves, carpeting the streets in gold. When she walked by, even the exhausted street sweepers would pause for a couple of seconds.
Because, someone had once told her, to keep working in the presence of such beauty was practically a sin.
She had heard so many compliments over the years that they had become little more than background noise, some sincere, some false.
Only that one had reached her heart.
The man who said it was Xu Situ, the young army officer portrayed by Shen Ji.
Xu Situ was only in his early thirties. His finely tailored wool military uniform fit him impeccably, lending him an air of refinement. Thanks to the influence of his elder brother – a powerful southern warlord – people respectfully addressed him as “Commander” despite his youth. But everyone understood that the title carried equal measures of caution and mockery.
In truth, with his brother wielding enormous influence in the south, Xu Situ ought to have been living comfortably there, passing his days amid flowers, birds, and leisure. Instead, he had come alone to Shanghai. Put kindly, he was a promising talent being groomed for greatness. Put bluntly, he was nothing more than a political hostage.
Li Meijian had no shortage of suitors to choose from: influential directors of the financial bureau, lavish-spending comprador businessmen, a textile magnate from Wuxi, or any number of flashy young heirs from one bank or another.
She chose none of them.
Even when the directors of United Pictures promised to make her a film star, to compete with Hu Die and Zhou Xuan for the spotlight, she barely lifted an eyelid.
In the end, it was Xu Situ who became her lover.
What was so special about Xu Situ?
Perhaps it was simply that he knew how to humble himself to indulge the woman he loved.
There was one scene where Li Meijian rested her bare foot against his face. Rather than taking offense, he cradled it as though it were a priceless treasure, letting the arch of her foot rest against his cheek before looking into her eyes and reverently pressing a kiss to the top of her foot.
By this point, Ying Yin could hardly bear to keep watching.
They had filmed this scene early in production, when she and Shen Ji barely knew each other. They had needed countless takes before getting it right.
She turned her face toward Shang Shao, parting her lips as though to explain herself.
He was still holding her hand, though his grip tightened ever so slightly. Turning to meet her eyes, he lowered his voice until it brushed against her ear. “So… you have this side to you as well.”
Ying Yin couldn’t tell whether what she felt was embarrassment or nervousness. She only knew that the waves surging in her heart kept growing stronger.
In the film, Li Meijian and Xu Situ shared their first kiss at the fortieth minute.
The director had said that a kiss is the window to love. So for the first forty minutes of the film, Li Meijian and Xu Situ never kissed. Their relationship consisted only of flirtation, teasing, and a constant game of advance and retreat.
Their first kiss came on the eve of their parting.
The Japanese were making increasingly aggressive moves. Even the Paramount Ballroom could no longer carry on dancing as before. Those with connections and access to inside information had already begun preparing to flee to Hong Kong. Only the ordinary families packed into the alleyways still clutched their swaddled babies, soothing their crying children while murmuring “Namo Amitabha” to comfort themselves. Surely, they thought, with hundreds of thousands of Nationalist troops stationed on the front lines, Shanghai – the nation’s prosperous financial hub – could not simply be handed over to the enemy.
Separation arrived in haste that very morning.
Xu Situ was evacuating alongside government officials. He had hired a car, assigned trusted men to escort her, and bought her a ticket on a ship bound for Hong Kong.
“You like Cantonese cuisine,” he told her. “I’ve arranged for two housemaids to go with you. Once you’re in Hong Kong, keep your doors and windows locked, live well, eat Imperial Chicken every day… and wait for me to come find you.”
“And your wife?” Li Meijian asked.
Xu Situ had a wife and children. Keeping a mistress on the side was hardly unusual on Avenue Joffre in those days.
Among the city’s nightlife crowd, people joked that it was one of those fashionable habits the French had brought with them into the French Concession. Li Meijian had once laughed and said,
“I’ve never been to France, but I’ve heard the noble ladies there enjoy themselves even more freely. So why is it that the gentlemen of Avenue Joffre never let their own wives learn that particular custom too?”
The entire dinner table had burst into laughter.
Someone reached over and pinched her waist through her qipao.
“Then tell Commander Xu to let you, Miss Li, be the one to start the trend!”
Her question now caught Xu Situ completely off guard. Beneath the dim shadows of dawn, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face.
Li Meijian had always been a clever woman. She had known all along that he had a family, yet she had never once mentioned it.
Whenever he came to see her, she would have her housemaids prepare a table full of Lingnan delicacies. If he didn’t come for ten days or even half a month, that was fine too. Every moment of Li Meijian’s life was filled with men and lively company.
“They’re already in Hong Kong,” Xu Situ replied. “They went to Guangzhou first. My elder brother missed my little daughter.”
Li Meijian nodded.
Long before ordinary people had realized the political situation was changing, he had already sent his wife and children somewhere safe. And now, on a morning as urgent as this one, he was staging a heart-wrenching farewell with her.
She smiled, without the slightest crease appearing at the corners of her eyes. “Just don’t let us end up living on the same street.”
Xu Situ silenced her with a fierce kiss, pressing her back against the wall. The silver fox-fur coat slipped from her shoulders, revealing the alluring warmth of bare skin beneath.
“When I get to Hong Kong…” The promise reached his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
With characteristic perceptiveness, Li Meijian covered his mouth with her fingers, rescuing him from the moment. It was as though it wasn’t that he couldn’t say the words – it was that she wouldn’t let him.
“You and your wife were married properly, with all the formal betrothal rites. I’m just a dancer from the Paramount. If we have to part, then we part.”
Xu Situ slipped a small pistol into her hand. “We won’t.”
The camera pushed in for a close-up during the kiss. The frame held nothing but Ying Yin’s face as she was being kissed. According to the original storyboard, this scene had been planned as a medium shot, but the director felt her facial expression was too compelling. A close-up, he believed, would preserve every nuance of her performance.
The atmosphere of the film was so absorbing that Ying Yin found herself momentarily drawn back into it. Then, without warning, she felt her hand squeezed painfully tight.
Shang Shao had lost control of his grip. He was clutching her hand so hard that her knuckles ached. His normally dry palm was damp with sweat. His free hand lifted instinctively, irritably reaching to loosen his tie.
But he wasn’t wearing one today.
“Brother Ah-Shao,” Ying Yin called softly.
“I’m going out for a cigarette.”
He stood up. Before leaving, he rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t follow me. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He pushed open the emergency exit door. Patting every pocket of his trousers, he realized he hadn’t brought his cigarettes after all, so he headed to the convenience store to buy a pack.
Accustomed to smoking custom-made cigarettes, he found himself oddly at a loss in front of the wall of brightly colored packs. In the end, he picked up a pack of Marlboros.
He paid, tore off the plastic wrapping, and lit one beneath the store’s awning.
Perhaps he wasn’t used to the brand – or perhaps he was smoking too quickly. After only a couple of drags, he was seized by a fit of coughing.
The convenience store was nearly empty at that hour. The clerk silently watched as the cigarette rested at the corner of his lips, and then saw him take a long, deep drag.
By the time Shang Shao returned to the theater, the war scenes had already passed.
Xu Situ had originally evacuated with the government officials, but was unexpectedly reassigned to the front lines. A distinguished graduate of the Whampoa Military Academy who had learned strategy at his elder brother’s side, he had long harbored ambitions of commanding armies. But as the Battle of Shanghai deteriorated into one devastating defeat after another, his men were wiped out and he became separated from the rest of his unit. Left stranded in occupied territory, he survived by inching his way south until he finally reached Guangzhou, hoping to reunite with his brother there.
Li Meijian’s journey to Hong Kong fared no better.
The refugee ship was packed to bursting. The rough seas were one thing, but then dysentery swept through the passengers. Medicine was scarce; everyone could only endure it as best they could. One of the Suzhou housemaids who had accompanied her died along the way. They wrapped her in a straw mat and, with a heavy splash, consigned her body to the sea.
Wrapped tightly in a shawl, Li Meijian guarded her two suitcases without daring to close her eyes for even a moment.
Also aboard was the manager of the MGM dance hall, the Paramount’s longtime rival, who had tried more than once to poach Li Meijian. Whenever they’d met in Shanghai, he had always sported slicked-back hair and gleaming polished shoes. Now his face was gaunt and sallow; everyone bore their own marks of hardship.
After who knew how many days and nights at sea, the outline of an island finally appeared on the horizon.
Cheers erupted from the passengers. Every one of them felt as though they had escaped death itself.
The dock was in complete chaos – people greeting arriving relatives, rickshaw pullers soliciting fares, idlers milling about. Indians, Filipinos, Britons – people of every nationality crowded together, making the scene almost dizzying.
The place was so hectic that Li Meijian had only set down her suitcases for a moment to help the pitiful Suzhou housemaid, who was severely dehydrated. When she turned back, the luggage was gone.
Inside those suitcases was everything she owned.
Including the address of the house Xu Situ had arranged for her.
“Commander Xu only said someone would come to meet us,” the housemaid coughed weakly. “But we don’t even know what this Xiao Wu looks like. Is he dark? Fair?”
Helping her sit down on one of the dock pilings, Li Meijian said, “Perhaps Xiao Wu has my photograph and will recognize me. Let’s wait here.”
So they waited.
They waited until dusk was almost upon them. The crowds gradually dispersed, but no one came looking for her.
Finally, she had no choice but to wander around asking every likely stranger, “Are you Xiao Wu, the one Commander Xu sent?”
She searched for an entire week.
Night had fallen completely.
At one point she heard the sound of something splashing into the water, but paid it no attention.
Only when she returned did she see the blue cotton robe of the Suzhou housemaid floating in the harbor.
Her body floated face down, her back exposed to the night sky. The dysentery had wasted her until she was almost unrecognizable. In the darkness, she looked like nothing more than a strand of drifting seaweed.
Li Meijian stood there silently for a long moment.
Then she turned around and walked away.
Manager Jiang from MGM’s car came back again. He got out and bowed slightly. “Miss Li.”
No extra words were said.
She was just a dancer. She had danced for over ten years – besides dancing and selling the sway of her waist, what else could she do? Manager Jiang was at least a fellow townsman, and still had a bit of backbone; he wouldn’t go so far as to sell her off into clandestine prostitution.
So Li Meijian followed him without hesitation.
“In times like these, everyone can only look after themselves,” Manager Jiang would often say in Shanghainese, before humming one of his off-key little tunes.
Little Hong Kong had no Paramount Ballroom, no MGM. There were dance halls, yes, but none of the grandeur of Shanghai. Here, Li Meijian was like a dragon stranded in shallow waters.
The Indian men had strong body odor but liked to call themselves this prince or that prince. When Li Meijian sat in a “prince’s” lap, she had to hold her breath even to say a couple of English words. There were also brash young punks who hadn’t even fully grown in yet, calling her “sister” while groping her.
At one point, she even considered going to find Xu Situ’s wife.
The Chinese social circles in Hong Kong were small. The Shanghai expatriate community was especially tight-knit, constantly holding dances or beach volleyball games. It would not have been difficult to ask around and find out the identity of Commander Xu’s wife.
But Li Meijian disliked seeking humiliation for herself.
Perhaps she had begun to love Xu Situ a little. And that small trace of love made her unable to face his wife – let alone ask for her protection.
Later on, even a few years of peace did not come. By 1941, Japanese artillery bombarded Hong Kong into chaos, and the governor raised his hands in surrender. The once “safe” island beyond the war was also lost.
Manager Jiang was killed in the bombing. In the chaos, several dance girls were dragged into alleys by American soldiers and raped.
Li Meijian could not protect herself. In a world full of ruin and devastation, she drifted forward like a lost soul.
The screen went dark, and when it lit up again, it was 1948.
The British had returned to administer the territory. The streets were filled with chocolate-brown faces, and at night the districts of neon lights and liquor were brought under the control of the authorities.
Li Meijian was kept by a powerful man. Others called him “the Director.” She never bothered to ask about his affairs – whether he was involved in the underworld, or which bureau he actually headed. She simply lived in obedient comfort under his care.
Occasionally, she would stand in front of the mirror and dance a quick foxtrot. It was long out of fashion now. She danced anyway, watching in the mirror as her waist softened and faint lines formed at the corners of her eyes.
At the mahjong tables of wealthy ladies, twenty-four rounds had already been played and everyone was tired.
Xu Situ walked in behind the Director.
Li Meijian drew a white tile and called out “Red Dragon,” prompting soft laughter from the group.
The light inside the ground-floor hall of the villa was dim. The Director’s face was indistinct, but Xu Situ’s features moved through the light and shadow with striking clarity.
In front of Xu Situ, the Director bent down and wrapped his arms around Li Meijian from behind.
“Newly appointed head of security,” he said, bringing him over for her to meet. “A promising young graduate of Whampoa Military Academy. He survived the Battle of Shanghai – he’s no ordinary man.”
Li Meijian’s eyes suddenly grew hot. She almost cried.
She had long heard that General Xu in Guangzhou had died on the front lines, that the army of hundreds of thousands had scattered overnight. As for his younger brother – who would have cared? She had already assumed Xu Situ was dead too.
Yet here he was alive – much thinner, quiet, his entire demeanor changed. The frivolous, roguish air he once had was gone, replaced by something dark and brooding.
To have clawed his way out of that sea of blood and fire, only for others to dismiss it with a casual “he’s no ordinary man.”
Li Meijian was someone who accepted fate as it came. She had not intended to rekindle anything with Xu Situ.
But fate had other plans.
She ordered him upstairs to fetch a shawl. He went, then returned shortly after, standing by the staircase, looking directly at her.
“I couldn’t find it,” he said. “Miss Li, please come and take a look yourself.”
Her bedroom was filled with the sweet, heavy scent of tuberose. Silks and satin garments hung in the wardrobe. The yellow glass cabinet doors reflected the green wallpapered walls.
As soon as Li Meijian stepped inside, she swallowed nervously and said in a composed tone, “It’s right here, isn’t it? Peacock blue, with tassels…”
Before she could finish, Xu Situ suddenly embraced her from behind.
He held her so tightly that even the rounded fullness of her body beneath the qipao was distorted by his grip.
“You’ve put on weight.”
Li Meijian broke into a teary laugh. “Thirty-six… I can’t compare to how slim a girl is anymore.”
“Ten years. Meijian, I looked for you.”
“Your wife and the child…”
“They’re dead. The house was bombed flat – no one survived.” He rested his chin against her neck, closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down. “Meijian, why?”
That single “why” contained too many things – so many that Li Meijian could not answer at once. She thought of his wife, a well-bred woman from a respected family, educated and gentle by all accounts. And yet she had met such a fate. But in times like these, survival had nothing to do with good or evil; everything was simply left to destiny.
Xu Situ suddenly lost control of himself. He turned her around in his arms and kissed her fiercely, without regard for anything else. Li Meijian’s resistance had no effect at all. She struck his chest a few times, even kicked off her shoes, but he carried her against the wall and kissed her until she went weak.
After that, they often met in hotels.
In South Seas–style buildings, the moment you stepped inside there were red carpets, mint-green walls, and crystal lamps hanging overhead. Sometimes, before they even reached the bed, the buttons on her qipao would already be torn open, revealing patches of skin. The director filmed desire with striking precision – there was no explicit physical detail, but just hands gripping ankles, legs being lifted, and it was enough to make one blush.
By this point, Ying Yin had already realized: this was not the theatrical release version – it was the uncensored cut.
Her breathing had unconsciously stopped. The air beside her felt chillingly cold. Yet she did not even dare glance at Shang Shao, only swallowing nervously and hoping he could distinguish between cinematic art and reality.
There were many more kiss scenes afterward.
From the last thirty minutes onward, Shen Ji’s wife frequently appeared on set. For the kiss scenes, she did not sit under the director’s monitoring tent watching the screen – she watched the two actors directly on set instead.
Ying Yin was still manageable, but Shen Ji was the first to break under the pressure. He went to coax his wife for a long while.
After being comforted, his wife only stared at Ying Yin the entire time, her gaze like a burning torch.
Li Meijian was often bitten until her lips split open by Xu Situ. Tears would well in her eyes as she looked up at him with both resentment and yearning. Xu Situ would then cradle her face and gently kiss away the tears on her eyelashes.
This kind of affair was like walking a tightrope every second of every day. But she seemed unable to stop anymore.
In the ten years she spent in Hong Kong, they were ten years of displacement and turmoil. Whenever she saw Xu Situ, she would think of the Paramount Ballroom and Avenue Joffre, and the rows of French plane trees lining that street.
Their love had never been legitimate. Either he was the one cheating, or she was. Apart from releasing everything in hotel rooms, it seemed there was no other outlet.
Later that day, she lay in his arms, both of them drenched in sweat, sharing the same cigarette. Through the haze, she stared at the ceiling and said, “Take me away. The New China is about to be founded.”
Xu Situ said nothing. She rolled over and straddled him.
The silk backing of her garment slipped from her shoulders, revealing a large expanse of smooth, bare back.
Her breathing quickened. Xu Situ held her waist; her movements became more intense, low gasps escaping from her throat.
Next to them, a chair suddenly slammed shut with a loud bang.
Ying Yin instinctively lifted her head and saw Shang Shao take two urgent steps into the aisle. Then he abruptly turned back, strode right up to her, and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to her feet.
Another bang sounded. A few audience members in the front row, disturbed by the noise, frowned and turned around – but only saw two figures hurriedly leaving.
Shang Shao walked very fast, pushing open the iron door of the emergency exit. Ying Yin was dragged along stumbling; one of her low-cut shoes slipped off.
“My shoe – my shoe!” she said, glancing back and bending down to pick it up.
Before she could straighten again, Shang Shao had already lifted her with force and slammed her against the wall.
The wall was coated in an old-fashioned paint, cold to the touch. The impact made Ying Yin feel as though her heart had jumped out of her chest. She let out a small involuntary gasp – and then her lips were sealed completely.
Shang Shao kissed her with no sense of order or restraint. One hand clamped her jaw tightly, his thumb digging into bone, while the other locked her wrist in place, pinning it firmly.
Poor Ying Yin’s small lambskin shoe was still in her hand, crumpling further as she clenched it.
“How many times did he kiss you?” Shang Shao’s breath was scorching, his eyes fierce. His breathing was short and strained, as though he were struggling to restrain himself.
Ying Yin swallowed. Too afraid to meet his gaze, she looked away. “I don’t remember.”
It was an answer that sealed her fate.
Shang Shao’s breath tightened. His fingers on her jaw clenched so hard it seemed he might crush bone.
He forced her mouth open, his hot tongue driving in, sweeping through as though trying to erase every trace left by someone else.
If anyone had passed by at that moment, they would have seen a famous mainland actress being kissed so fiercely by a man that saliva had gathered at the corners of her mouth.
Ying Yin’s tongue root was sucked numb by him. Her body softened as she pleaded, “It’s all just for filming…”
“You look at him the same way you look at me.”
Ying Yin’s chest jolted. But Shang Shao’s grip loosened slightly as he helped her adjust her mask. His fingertips brushed her cheek – it was ice-cold, as if jealousy had chilled his whole body.
“It’s not that simple,” he said coldly, yet calmly. “Do you know? It’s not going to end that quickly.”
What else did he want to do? Ying Yin didn’t dare think further. That one sentence alone was enough to make her legs go weak.
By the time they left the cinema, it was already past two in the morning. The usually quiet street was almost empty.
Shang Shao took the car. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting by the window frame. He no longer cared about his usual rule of only three cigarettes a day – the cigarette between his fingers never went out.
He was burning with anger, yet his driving remained extremely steady. Light and shadow flowed across the car body like a beast lying in wait, ready to strike.
When they arrived at the Cape Collinson Qili Hotel, Shang Shao took her straight up to the executive suite. The hotel manager hurried over, preparing fruit and wine to welcome the young master.
But after knocking several times, all they heard was Shang Shao’s restrained voice. “Get out.”
Ying Yin’s bright green front-button cardigan had already been torn apart completely. The buttons had burst off and scattered across the wall, cabinet, and carpet, clicking and rustling as they fell.
She was thrown onto the bed, the soft mattress jolting her so hard her ears rang.
Loose-fitting jeans were extremely easy to remove – this was the only thing that had brought Shang Shao even a moment of relief in the past two hours. He watched without blinking. There were traces of moisture – freshly created by his kisses.
“Finished?”
She hadn’t even used a panty liner.
“No…” Ying Yin’s tone was weak. She was telling the truth, but the evidence was undeniable – she had been perfectly dry all day.
“So much moisture,” he said coldly, narrowing his eyes. “Is it from watching your scenes with him?”
Ying Yin was so ashamed she almost curled into a ball. “No…”
With a sharp smack, he delivered a light slap to that intimate place.
Ying Yin’s eyes flew wide open in shock. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes as she let out a soft sob – so similar to the expression in the film that it made Shang Shao think of Shen Ji’s face.
Jealousy had driven him mad. Possessiveness had clouded his judgment.
In the quiet suite, the sound of movement and impact filled the room.
Tears streamed down Ying Yin’s face. In shame, she reached her arms back and clung around his neck.
“Mr. Shang… Brother Ah-Shao… don’t… mm…”
Shang Shao remained cold and unmoved.
“Were you already immersed in it with him?” he asked icily.
Ying Yin shook her head repeatedly. “No…”
“Liar.”
“Please…” she begged. “I get out of character quickly… it’s normal for filming… Brother Ah-Shao, Brother Ah-Shao…”
She couldn’t take it anymore, struggling weakly; her heels couldn’t even find support against the sheets.
“For those scenes, did you use a body double, or did you do them yourself?”
Shang Shao remained calm, interrogating her, but in his lowered gaze there wasn’t a trace of warmth.
“Me…” Ying Yin didn’t dare lie. “I did them myself… I was wrong… please let me go…”
“Let you go?” Shang Shao sounded as if he had heard something absurd.
The once restrained and ascetic gentleman now radiated cold, dark, unrestrained brutality. He pressed his lips to her ear, his voice low and chilling. “I don’t have time to let you go. I haven’t finished punishing you.”
Before stepping into that cinema, Ying Yin had never imagined the night would turn out like this. She wanted to escape – but Shang Shao held her firmly, leaving no room to move.
The room fell silent for a moment, leaving only heavy breathing. They both stared at the screen without blinking. After only a few seconds, Ying Yin felt a flash of white light before her eyes and let out a long, uncontrollable scream.
That night, the Qili staffs came in four times to change the bedsheets.
![The Obsessive Shou Moves On [Rebirth]](https://i1.wp.com/lazygirltranslations.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/download-1.jpeg?resize=151,215 "The Obsessive Shou Moves On [Rebirth]")
