Once he had opened that door by drinking for his “fiancée,” it became only natural for him to take over all the drinks she should have dodged from then on.
Shang Shao had rarely drunk so much white spirits, let alone a mix of several types of alcohol. Of course, he had his share of social engagements, but at his level of status, no one could pressure him into drinking. How much he drank was entirely up to his mood. As for the socializing at various cocktail parties and salons, everyone wore the polished veneer of high society, carrying themselves with grace and poise – afraid that even drinking too hastily might seem uncouth and beneath the notice of this young crown prince.
Today’s drinking session was bound to be different. A film crew is a world of its own, a clan of sorts. Every person at that table was as slippery as river fish and dragons, with a hundred different excuses to coax others into drinking.
Luo Siliang said, “Here’s to a hundred years of happiness for you two!”
Shang Shao drank – his own glass, and Ying Yin’s on her behalf.
Old Fu said, “Good things come in pairs – have another!”
Shang Shao drank again – still his own glass, and Ying Yin’s.
The art director, Tennessee, continued the toast, “Mr. Shang, you came all the way from afar on New Year’s Eve just to visit the set. Such devotion moves heaven and earth – it’s truly epic! Come! In honor of this touching gesture, I propose we all raise our glasses together!”
Shang Shao: “…”
In the blink of an eye, he had lost count of how much he’d drunk – three or five shots of the liquor, at least half a bottle of red wine, plus whiskey mixed in, impossible to tally. They weren’t particular about glassware, let alone decanting or aerating the wine; everything went into a single tumbler. The liquor was all top-shelf, and though drinking it this way might seem wasteful, it really wasn’t – after all, everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves.
After three rounds, they shifted their target to Li Shan. Li Shan remained unruffled, nursing a small half-glass of liquor with remarkable endurance, and deflected the crowd toward Zhuang Tiwen. “Miss Zhuang is my boss. Whether we get a day off tomorrow – that’s up to her.”
With just a few words, he turned the spotlight onto Tiwen. Tiwen had never seen such an onslaught. Clutching her glass protectively, she cast a pitiful look at Shang Shao. For a moment she thought, He’s the real boss – go drink with him! Then she thought, Save me, save me!
But how could Shang Shao save her? He poured himself a strong cup of tea to cut through the alcohol, gave a slight nod, and returned to her the very same “sorry, can’t help you” look she had given him right before she’d cleared the set earlier.
Under the table, Tiwen gave Jiang Te a kick. He had been silent all evening, tight-lipped as a clamped gourd, his face betraying none of his thoughts. He was spending the New Year with a group of strangers, and everyone assumed he was simply uncomfortable from not yet fitting in.
Tiwen, having deflected the trouble elsewhere, first downed her own glass with relish, then said, “Go ahead and pour for Jiang Te – he’s got no one to drink for him. If you get him drunk, we’ll have the day off tomorrow too.”
After all, she carried the titles of executive producer and general producer, and it was clear she was a junior that Li Shan held in high regard. With that said, the others had an easy out, and sure enough, they eagerly turned their attention to Jiang Te.
Jiang Te was truly a quiet one – not a word more than necessary, drinking whatever was offered. Even after drinking heavily, he sat ramrod straight, his face betraying nothing, letting this director and that advisor lecture him as they pleased. One threw an arm around his shoulder, urging him to stay true to his original aspirations once he became famous; another patted his back and said with grave sincerity that the glamorous world was no easy place to navigate; one pulled a chair close to him and launched into a tearful recitation of every student he’d taught and every award he’d won over his career; and another clung to him, sobbing, calling him “brother” and “comrade.”
The raucous chaos went on for an hour. Then, staff from the neighboring buildings also came in a surging crowd to toast him, wave after wave – at least a dozen glasses straight.
No one kept track of the time. Someone started clapping out a rhythm, and soon the whole group was singing “True Hero” in unison.
“Seize every minute of your life, give your all to the dreams in your heart… Without wind and rain, how can you see a rainbow? No one succeeds without effort…”
“Director Li, join in!”
Li Shan wasn’t strong-armed into standing, but his aged hand gently kept time on the table. His face, too, showed the haze of drink, a dreamy half-smile floating upon it.
Still singing, they pushed open the door and stepped out into the snowy field. Flushed and warm from the drinking inside, the cold wind did nothing to sober them up – instead, their eyes grew even more dazed and hazy. In the vast, snowy valley, the night was deep and the singing rang out loud and clear, though it was hardly pleasant to the ear – raucous and chaotic enough to draw the villagers of Aqiap out to watch the spectacle.
The Kazakhs are a people gifted in song and dance. Hearing such commotion, the night was bound not to pass quietly. A record player with speakers was moved out under the eaves, playing their folk pop music – the lyrics unintelligible, but the melody bright and rhythmic.
They began teaching the crew their dances.
Junyi sat on the threshold, chin resting in her hands, watching as Ying Yin was pulled along by the Aqiap women. They were teaching her a Kazakh dance step – which, to Junyi’s eye, looked impossibly difficult. But the women moved with such ease, bundled up though they were, their headscarves, coats, and skirts embroidered with gold thread, gleaming splendidly against the white snow.
“You dance, you dance,” they urged Ying Yin.
Ying Yin glanced back at Shang Shao. He stood with one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other casually holding a cigarette between his fingers, his gaze fixed on her with an amused, unreadable smile.
She had trained in modern dance – these steps and movements were simple enough for her. But it had been a long time since she’d danced seriously, aside from the occasional waltz or two with male guests at banquets.
“Alright, I’ll dance.” Ying Yin smiled faintly and gave a small nod.
The music happened to shift to the next track.
She moved with such lightness that the flared hem of her coat spun up like a blooming green rose. She copied the shoulder-shrugging and hip-swaying moves the Kazakh women had taught her, one by one, but worried she wasn’t doing them well – laughing shyly as she danced, waving her hands and saying, “No, no, it’s been too long since I’ve danced.”
Her smile was so bright – bright and alive, nothing like a sick person’s. Shang Shao had never seen her smile so vividly. He thought of how, just hours ago, she had nearly perished on this snowy plain; how, after dinner, when the night grew quiet, she would have to hide away and swallow two pills. Suddenly, his fingertips felt a piercing ache.
No one would let her off. They all cheered and cupped their hands around their mouths, calling out, “Miss Ying, one more!”
Ying Yin smiled and tried to decline, but the Kazakh women took her by the hand and led her to an open space, bathed in moonlight. They guided her, and so many flowers seemed to bloom – the golden-thread embroidered trailing vines vivid and heavy against the night sky.
As she danced, she laughed, breathless. Then she thought of the manic episodes when she would spin and whip-turn alone in her living room, over and over, tears slipping down unnoticed. Back then, sweat would drench the floor; she’d slip and fall, her Achilles tendon screaming with pain, and she’d crouch low and wail – for her mind and body that had spiraled beyond her control.
The snow had been trampled firm by all the comings and goings, now slick and slippery. Dizzy and lightheaded, Ying Yin’s foot slid out from under her – she was about to fall – when Shang Shao caught her steady. His right hand held a cigarette, which he hastily tossed aside, but reflexively he reached out with his left to support her.
She tumbled into his arms, her right hand pressing against his palm as he held her up.
Amid the revelry, it seemed a muffled grunt was heard. She looked up, and Shang Shao saw the glistening tear tracks on her face. He reached out – out of long habit – and wiped them away. “You should cry less.”
Such a simple remark, yet Ying Yin’s nose suddenly ached with emotion. She laughed through her tears and gave a soft “Mm.”
That was when she noticed the tie wrapped around Shang Shao’s left hand and remembered his injury.
“Didn’t Junyi take you to get it bandaged?” She lifted his hand and saw the faint trace of blood on the tie.
“I didn’t tell her. I forgot,” he said lightly.
Ying Yin began to untie the tightly knotted bow, loosening it loop by loop. At the very last layer, Shang Shao pressed his hand over hers. “Don’t.”
It had long since stuck to the wound with dried blood – pulling it off would tear the injury open again.
Panic rose to her face. Ying Yin cradled his hand and the tie in both of hers. “I’ll take you to find a doctor – we have a doctor…”
“Wait.” Shang Shao held her back. His palm couldn’t curl, so he merely hooked his fingers lightly around hers. The pine-green tie fluttered between their fingertips in the wind.
“What are we waiting for?” Ying Yin asked, confused.
“Do you hear the wind?”
Ying Yin paused to listen carefully – and indeed, she could make out the faint roar of wind, surging, drawing closer from afar.
It was a helicopter.
Everyone in the night sky looked up, waiting, searching. Someone pointed and let out a yell, “There!”
The black clouds were bleached white by the moonlight. The twin-engine helicopter, capable of thousand-kilometer flights, appeared in everyone’s sight, hovered for a moment, then touched down steadily on the open snow ahead.
The surging roar of the wind didn’t stop. After a moment, a second helicopter also landed smoothly.
The pilot opened the cockpit door, jumped straight down, and walked toward Shang Shao while pulling off his gloves. “The hundred oil-filled radiators took a bit of extra time. Two trips would’ve been too slow, so I called a friend to fly the second one.”
Shang Shao gave a slight nod. “Much appreciated.”
Before long, news of Mr. Shang bringing a hundred oil-filled radiators spread through the entire crew. Everyone had been suffering from the bitter cold for so long that the moment they heard it, their eyes lit up even as they asked, “Really?” Luo Siliang arranged for people to help unload and distribute – two units per room, with any leftovers allocated according to room size, all quite fairly.
Junyi didn’t wait for the pilot to arrange anything. She dashed over to the helicopter, climbed up, and rummaged out the sparklers and the eight-treasure rice pudding, clutching them in her arms. As she ran back, she left a stumbling trail of footprints in the snow.
“I’ll go steam it for you!” She ran up to Ying Yin, out of breath, her words puffing out in white clouds. “Don’t worry – I’ll wash the pot and the steaming cloth till they’re spotless. Not a trace of oil smell will get on it.” She took two steps, turned back, and shoved the sparklers into Ying Yin’s arms, adding, “Mr. Shang, I’ll take care of your luggage too!”
The sparklers were wrapped in bright red oilpaper – too many to count, just a thick bundle. Shang Shao pulled one out and handed it to Ying Yin. “Want to light one now?”
He patted his pockets – no lighter – and looked around to borrow one.
“I have one! I have one! I have one…” A dozen hands shot out at once.
Shang Shao curved his lips, took one, pressed the ignition with his fingertip, and a small flame sprang up.
“See the doctor first.” Ying Yin tucked the sparkler back.
“No rush.” Shang Shao took her hand, extended the slender sparkler forward, and brought it to the flame.
With a fizz, golden sparks lit up the snowy ground and reflected in her eyes.
Each burst of joy lasted only ten brief seconds.
But on the way to the medical room, Shang Shao lit one after another, handing each to her as she finished the last.
“Not going to wave it around?” he asked.
Ying Yin couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“Aren’t you?” He turned his eyes sideways, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
Ying Yin pressed her lips together firmly, then wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. He lifted his arm and drew her into his embrace. They walked on in this intimate, slightly awkward position.
“You’re only eight years older than me…” she mumbled.
“Eight years is a lot. When I was in college, you’d just graduated elementary school.”
“Then… when I debuted at sixteen in Floating Flowers, what were you doing?” She looked up at him, her eyes full of eager curiosity.
“Doing the same thing I am now – just not as well as I do today. Still learning patiently.”
Back then, he hadn’t yet joined the board of directors. People called him “Young Executive Shang.” Once he entered the company, he became assistant president, rotating through several subsidiary groups. He only worked, never spoke, and possessed the same eyes as now – deep as a still pool, obscure as mountain mist. Others said they’d never seen a young man with more composure. He’d also met a few girls introduced by his uncles and elders – politely sipping coffee for an hour, deliberately sparing with words, maintaining a perfect distance. They’d go home and say Mr. Shang was hard to talk to, that they didn’t know how to win his favor.
“Didn’t you date?” Ying Yin asked.
Shang Shao held her close, his dark eyes slightly lowered, reflecting the lamplight beneath the eaves. “My girlfriend was still a minor. Couldn’t date her yet.”
Ying Yin buried her face in his chest, feeling her cheeks grow hot. It must have been the cold.
Shang Shao drew her under the wooden cabin’s eaves, pressing her against the wind and snow as he kissed her. In the mingling of their breaths lingered the scent of gunpowder from the sparklers and the warmth of alcohol.
“You’re drunk,” Ying Yin murmured, tasting the sweet hint of wine on his tongue. She’d had quite a bit herself, but she’d kept it in check – just enough, not over the line.
“Mm.” Shang Shao didn’t deny it.
“How drunk?” she asked, concerned.
“Very drunk,” he replied shortly.
“I’ll have Junyi make you some hangover soup.” She reached for her phone, but Shang Shao caught her hand.
He pressed a kiss to her palm, his warm lips against her skin, making her tingle.
“Don’t bother. And don’t talk to anyone else.”
Ying Yin: “…”
He really did seem drunk.
But you’d never be able to tell – still so refined, so impeccably composed, his clothes crisp and unwrinkled, not a trace left of that arduous trek through the snowy slope that afternoon. If anything, the only difference was that beneath his lowered gaze, a hint of weariness seemed more pronounced than usual.
They arrived at the medical room, where the doctor had already gotten there first and had been waiting for some time. He’d been called back by a phone call from Luo Siliang and had hurried over as fast as he could – who would have thought they’d take even longer than him?
The tie was unwound, the wound disinfected, iodine applied, and bandages wrapped around it.
“The wound is quite deep – there’s bound to be a scar. Take good care of it, and maybe it’ll heal a bit better,” said the doctor, a northerner himself, his accent tinged with the Beijing dialect he’d picked up.
Shang Shao nodded, listening as the doctor continued, “Apply the medication twice a day. Don’t let it get wet.”
This time, for some reason, he hesitated for a moment before nodding.
Once they left the medical room, Junyi’s eight-treasure rice pudding should have been ready, so they headed to the dining hall. The rest of the crew had already dispersed. Out of respect for the mountains and forests around them, they’d arranged no fireworks or firecrackers. Thanks to Ying Yin, a bunch of grown men had simply played with a few sparklers before heading off to bed, washing up and turning in for the night. The oil-filled radiators kept the rooms warm and cozy – a good night’s sleep for the new year.
Junyi stood guard over the plate of eight-treasure rice pudding, her brows furrowed and eyes fixed on it, torn between worrying that the red bean paste inside might soften and melt, and fearing it might get cold. She was on high alert. When the wooden door finally pushed open, she sprang to her feet and lifted the big pot lid. In the rush of steaming heat, the lamplight turned hazy like mist, and the sweet aroma of the eight-treasure rice pudding wafted through the air.
“This eight-treasure rice pudding is the real deal,” Junyi declared with absolute certainty. “I didn’t sneak a bite – I can tell just by the smell.”
Ying Yin couldn’t help but laugh. She took a fruit knife and cut it into four portions – for herself, Junyi, Shang Shao, and Tiwen. Junyi bounced off to find Tiwen, who was having tea with Li Shan, so Li Shan ambled over as well. He carried a copper teapot wrapped in a small quilted cover, while Tiwen cradled a set of freshly rinsed cups in her arms. They entered the room, their black cloth shoes leaving faint frost patterns on the floor.
The four of them each gave a portion of theirs to the old director, then sat down around the square table and ate together with earnest attention. No one mentioned what had happened that afternoon.
After finishing the eight-treasure rice pudding and drinking two cups of tea, the fire in the stove had burned down to its end. The kindling had cooled, and so had they. They exchanged New Year’s greetings and goodnights.
Stepping through the snow on their way back, Ying Yin asked Junyi, “Has Mr. Shang’s sleeping quarters been prepared?”
Junyi looked at Tiwen, and Tiwen looked at Ying Yin – their expressions plainly saying, “That was a thing?”
Ying Yin knew then that both of them had completely forgotten.
Junyi immediately cleared herself. “I thought Tiwen would arrange it – she’s his cousin!”
Tiwen protested, “I thought you’d already told Junyi to take care of it.”
Ying Yin said, “I thought Junyi had discussed it with you.”
Shang Shao: “…”
When they pushed open the door, all three oil-filled radiators were glowing, making the room as warm as spring.
The bedding on the platform bed had already been laid out – but only Ying Yin’s set with the white base and black bow remained. The other two had vanished without a trace.
Tiwen and Junyi hooked their fingers around the brass ring handles on the wooden door, crouching low, biting their lips and giggling as they backed away. “We’re off to the deluxe suite! Bye-bye!”
Before Ying Yin could react, the two shut the door, and their footsteps crunching through the snow, along with their laughter, faded quickly down the path – they’d run off.
Once they were alone, Ying Yin suddenly felt ill at ease, not knowing where to look. Her gaze drifted to a dark green cardboard box by the bedside. She let out a soft “Hm?” and looked up at Shang Shao. “What’s this?”
Shang Shao, already unbuttoning his coat, said, “Open it and see.”
Ying Yin pulled loose the velvet bow, lifted the lid, and brushed aside the tissue paper to reveal a cashmere coat folded over a silk dress inside.
Both were green, but different shades – the coat a pale jade-green, the silk dress the tender green of peach leaves in early summer.
Ying Yin looked back at Shang Shao.
“For the New Year, one must wear new clothes.” He hung his suit jacket on the simple coat rack by the wall. “Do you like them?”
These had been chosen by Lin Cunkang and his wife. When they were picking them out, they’d specifically called Wen Youyi for advice. Upon hearing that Lin Cunkang was selecting gifts for someone very important, Wen Youyi had called the brand directly. On New Year’s Eve, the brand gathered all their green ready-to-wear pieces and sent them to the boutique – among them was one that many VIP customers had been waiting in line for but couldn’t get, and that was the very one before Ying Yin’s eyes.
Ying Yin hugged the clothes to her chest. She looked like she wanted to laugh, but also like she might cry. Then she remembered Shang Shao telling her earlier that day to cry less, and the tears obediently receded.
She took a long, long shower, unaware that Shang Shao had gone over to Li Shan’s place.
Li Shan seemed to have been expecting him. The tea table on the platform bed hadn’t been cleared away – tea was brewing, waiting. The door wasn’t locked either. Hearing the sound of movement, he didn’t even lift his brow, simply took a tea cup with bamboo tongs and placed it across the small table. “Please.”
“Sorry to intrude.” Shang Shao inclined his head and sat cross-legged across from him.
No need for veiled words between men of understanding. Li Shan waited in silence.
“She’s on medication. I don’t trust your doctor. A new one will arrive tomorrow. I hope that throughout the rest of the filming, you will respect her condition. If the doctor says to stop, I will find every way to take her away.”
Li Shan smiled. “She is a fine actress. I am glad her other half is you.”
Shang Shao met his gaze without flinching. “A gentleman’s word – answer me.”
The force of his presence was overwhelming. Li Shan’s hand, pouring tea, paused. After a long silence, the wrinkles on his face relaxed.
“I am not made of wood and stone, either,” he said with a sigh.
When Ying Yin came out, Shang Shao was already sitting on the edge of the bed. She had no idea of the brief confrontation that had just taken place. As she settled onto his lap, she only felt that he was wrapped in the chill of wind and snow.
Strange – hadn’t he already taken off his suit jacket? Why was he wearing it again?
Shang Shao, impeccably dressed in his suit, drew her into his arms. His gaze was serious, looking down at her from above – at her, in the peach-leaf green.
“Are you cold?” He breathed against her neck, brushing feather-light kisses.
“No.”
“Then why are you trembling?” He let his hand trail from her neck down to her shoulder, fingers slipping beneath the strap. As his hand moved lower, the loose strap slid down with it.
