Until the psychologist Shen Yu arrived, it was only on the first day of the Chinese New Year that the crew finally got to see their leading lady.
Physically, she was utterly exhausted and lethargic – all those late nights and overnight shoots she had endured since joining the production were now taking their toll on her with a vengeance. She had no desire to get up, nor could she be bothered to lift her eyelids, letting Shang Shao carry her in his arms. Outside, she could hear Luo Siliang shouting that he had lost two thousand in the afternoon, then Tennessee saying he had made a palace lantern and was coaxing Lishan to inscribe it with his calligraphy. The alarm clock had rung several times, but none of it had managed to wake Ying Yin.
It was not until sunset, when a kiss landed on her tightly shut eyelids and she heard Shang Shao say that Shen Yu had arrived, that she forced herself to get up.
She stepped outside and made her way to the village entrance, where Shen Yu was crouching in the snow, having vomited so much that the color had drained from his face. It turned out he was terrified of helicopters and had flatly refused to board one, insisting on taking a car into the mountains instead. The mountain roads were long and desolate; he was originally scheduled to arrive around 1 p.m., but by car he wouldn’t get there until 7 or 8 in the evening. Stubborn as he was, Dr. Shen insisted on taking the car anyway. Halfway there, the tires got stuck in forty centimeters of snow. After nearly an hour of futile struggle, they finally sent a helicopter to pick him up.
Shen Yu had endured a double ordeal – after getting off the helicopter, he vomited violently, then smoked two cigarettes in rapid succession before finally managing to pull himself together. When he heard Ying Yin greet him, he turned around. Behind his silver-rimmed glasses, his eyes were still as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel – effortlessly precise.
The female patient before him was wearing a brand-new, crisp aqua-green coat with a clean, straight cut. The belt was tied into a wide, neatly pressed bow, and the square lapels were small and folded. The top button was undone, revealing a pale champagne-colored silk scarf beneath.
It was an exceptionally elegant and refined outfit, paired with a jade hairpin holding up her bun and cream-colored leather gloves – she carried off the vintage chic with perfect finesse.
Seeing her like this, Dr. Shen, still not yet recovered from his own disheveled state, gave a gentle smile.
She was still willing to put thought into dressing up, still cared about coordinating her entire look, and still wanted the image she presented to the world to be beautiful – that meant her mental strength had not yet been completely destroyed.
Or perhaps… she had already been ravaged beyond recognition, and what he, as a doctor who had arrived too late, was now seeing was the version of her that had already been stitched back together.
“Miss Ying, I’ve never traveled this far for a house call.” Shen Yu brushed the snow off his knees and extended his hand toward her. “It’s the first day of the New Year, and it looks like you’ve already made a fresh start.”
He turned his gaze to the man beside her. He knew who he was – in his case files on Ying Yin, that man’s name filled page after page.
As a psychologist deeply trusted by Ying Yin, Shen Yu was fully aware of the upheavals she had gone through in her love life. It was true that some bipolar patients eventually transition into depression, but Ying Yin had walked back into his consultation room after two years of stability. She held nothing back that time – starting with an umbrella, a shawl, a rainy day – and Shen Yu listened quietly, took notes quietly, occasionally asking rational, objective questions to help Ying Yin express herself more deeply.
“So, have you ever entertained the same thoughts as a few years ago? I mean leaving, or harming yourself.” Shen Yu asked without evasion.
He never used baby talk. By the time his patients walked through his door, they had already heard thousands of variations of “cheer up,” “just smile more,” “just try to see the bright side” – words that were kind, warm, but ultimately powerless, floating outside the patient’s true inner world. They needed something more objective, more forceful – language and observation that could pierce through their fortified walls.
“No,” Ying Yin pressed her palms against her cheeks, took a deep breath, then lifted her face with a faint smile. “I promised him I’d live to a hundred.”
But this time, he had been summoned by Shang Shao. Over the phone, he had been tersely informed that his patient had engaged in another instance of risky behavior.
Shen Yu gave Shang Shao a slight nod of acknowledgment. As his gaze returned to Ying Yin, a red envelope appeared before him.
“A lai see – happy New Year, may you strike it rich.” Ying Yin held it out with both hands, tilting her head with a smile.
“I’ll take the lai see, but you can skip the ‘strike it rich’ part.” Shen Yu accepted the envelope. “If someone in my line of work gets rich, it means the world is full of suffering.”
For the next half hour, Shen Yu followed behind her as she handed out lai see to every single crew member. Her pale, porcelain face moved through the night, passing in and out of light and shadow, now visible, now hidden – so much so that Shen Yu felt as if he were watching a zoetrope reel of film.
When they finally reached the director – renowned for his strictness and his skill at molding actors – Shen Yu made a request: “I need to read the script. All of it.”
Strictly speaking, since the film was still in production, the final script and story had to be kept under strict confidentiality to prevent leaks, spoilers, and malicious competition – Shen Yu had no business reading them. But Li Shan paused for a moment, then broke precedent and said, “Have my leading lady give them to you.”
In the rustic Kazakh log cabin, where a mild animal odor always hung in the air, Dr. Shen sat by the oil radiator, reading through Ying Yin’s case files and the script side by side under the dim glow of a tungsten bulb, all through the night.
From then on, after wrapping up each day’s shoot, Ying Yin would go to Shen Yu for an hour of talk therapy.
When she went, Shang Shao would personally escort her to the door and watch her lift the quilted curtain to step through.
Helicopters shuttled back and forth overhead, flying almost daily. Sometimes they carried fresh fruits and vegetables, sometimes other supplies. At first, the entire crew regarded the helicopter with awed reverence, too embarrassed to trouble the pilot. It was Cai Si from the cinematography department who broke the ice – his camera equipment broke down and wouldn’t charge, so he hesitantly knocked on Shang Shao’s door. That very night, he and his gear were flown to the provincial capital, and he made it back in time before the next day’s shoot began.
Once there was a first, there was no shortage of seconds. Gradually, the crew stopped sending packages to the set address altogether – they had them delivered to the airport in the provincial capital instead, and the helicopter would bring them back directly. Tennessee, the art director, packed a batch of fresh snow in glass bottles, wrapped them in layers of ice packs and quilts to keep them cold, and asked the pilot to deliver them to his daughter in the far south. The pilot obliged. When Tennessee’s daughter received the snow, light and fluffy, she took a photo and was overjoyed. In their chat history, she said, “Dad, I can smell the pine needles.”
Tennessee posted the photo and the chat log on Weibo, saying he had “benefited from Miss Ying’s kindness.” He was a highly respected art director in the industry, having appeared on a reality show about crew workplace life, and had a large following of young fans on Weibo who affectionately called him “Mr. Tian” and loved seeing his behind-the-scenes posts.
But the post was deleted within two minutes – because he forgot to crop out the chat dialog box, revealing a simple exchange:
[Dad, won’t the snow melt on such a long journey?]
[The snow takes a helicopter first, then a plane – it’s not afraid of heat.]
But his account had several hundred thousand followers, and two minutes was more than enough for them to save the screenshots. Combined with that previously cryptic line – “benefited from Miss Ying’s kindness” – the implication was clear enough.
The entertainment forum had already built up a thread: “Did anyone see Tennessee’s Weibo post? (It’s been deleted now)”
Sure enough, screenshots followed in the replies.
“You mean the helicopter was thanks to Ying Yin?”
“Did Ying Yin buy the helicopter herself?”
“LMAO, the person above clearly doesn’t know Ying Yin. Our Yinyin would never splurge on such flashy show-off stuff!”
“Why not? I looked it up – it’s not even that expensive. Lots of people abroad use them as everyday transportation.”
An account named iris replied: “For those who don’t know – those small choppers can’t handle long-distance, all-terrain flights. They are more common abroad, but in China… they’re basically just for sightseeing tours over scenic areas. We don’t know exactly where they are filming, but based on the heavy snow and mountain conditions, if we search within Xinjiang, even the closest location is about 463 kilometers by air from the provincial capital. A small chopper like that can’t make the round trip, and takeoffs and landings in snowy mountains are risky. If we calculate based on an all-terrain, 1,000-kilometer cruising range, then this helicopter would cost upwards of 20 million RMB. Considering that large private helicopters (twin-engine standard) aren’t common in China, the management and maintenance costs are only higher – so the overall cost of owning a helicopter is very high. Usually, helicopters aren’t parked at civil airports either, because that defeats the advantage of flexibility. So for wealthy people who own helicopters, the first prerequisite is having their own takeoff and landing conditions – like a big house with a large yard or rooftop, or a small private airport nearby. And as we all know, Ying Yin’s penthouse is in the city center with no helipad nearby. In conclusion, this chopper is definitely not hers.”
“…After reading the above, I suddenly forgot what I was going to say.”
“Maybe she rented it locally…”
iris: “That’s possible, but the phrasing ‘benefited from Miss Ying’s kindness’ is very telling. Also, from what I’ve observed, this helicopter has been on long-term standby with the crew. [Bunch of screenshots.jpg]”
In the screenshots, a crew member had posted: “Now this is what you call a set visit – a hundred oil radiators airlifted in. This New Year’s Eve is freaking warm!”
A location manager showed off baby mustard greens: “Goodbye, onions, potatoes, and tomatoes! Cold-chain airlift – the smell of cash power.”
An aerial camera operator posted a bird’s-eye view: “Helicopter + gyro-stabilized gimbal + Fujinon 80-250 = YYDS. Could shoot Transformers 6 with this. That little Squirrel we rented before is practically a toy in comparison.”
These crew members were among the hundreds of thousands of film industry laborers – their faces hidden behind the scenes, unknown, braving the elements, working to make a living. Only the most dedicated, hardcore fans would even follow their accounts and piece together behind-the-scenes tidbits from them.
Someone in the forum replied:
[Iris came prepared? I’m shook.]
[Getting some stalker-fan vibes…]
iris: [So, this 20-million helicopter has been on long-term standby with the crew, helping transport supplies, replacing the crew’s original aerial camera platform to get better airborne shots for the cinematography team, and even delivering snow to Tennessee’s daughter.]
[The snow part got me.]
[Same here! It feels so warm – it was such a small thing, maybe just a favor, but it still feels really thoughtful.]
[Tennessee came across as pretty aloof and proud on that show. For him to ask someone to help deliver snow means that person must be within his circle of trust. He felt comfortable making that request because he knew they’d never laugh at him or think he was being overly sentimental.]
Someone asked: [Could Ying Yin have rented it long-term?]
A fan replied: [Ten-year fan here, coming in uninvited. Based on what I know of Yinyin, absolutely not…]
[So, following the clues we have: this helicopter isn’t rented by the crew, but it’s on long-term standby with them. Its tasks are all over the place – anyone can use it, and it helps with all kinds of minor errands. At the same time, it doesn’t belong to Ying Yin, but it has a direct, strong connection to her. Judging by Tennessee’s ‘benefited from her kindness’ comment, it’s here for her, on standby for her.]
Someone else spotted a new detail: [Is nobody paying attention to that line -‘Now this is what you call a set visit’ – and the hundred airlifted oil radiators?]
[So… someone used a helicopter to visit Ying Yin on set and airlifted a hundred oil radiators for the whole crew.]
[Holy shit]
[I dunno, feels kinda whatever. Yinyin often buys afternoon tea for the crew, and that’s like a hundred per person, right?]
Then some clever soul chimed in: [Feels like Ke Yu!]
[The person above is way off…]
[What? Didn’t Ke Yu visit the set back in Ningxia too, and airlifted a whole truckload of imported fruit?]
[Case closed! The Silver Fish CP is real!]
[You CP fans just scatter your droppings wherever you please… but fine, I’m shipping it too – it lines up on every point! Even the snow delivery to Tennessee!]
Just as the thread was about to turn into a full-blown Ying Yin × Ke Yu CP fan celebration, iris stepped in again: [Bunch of screenshots.jpg]
The screenshots were all rather vague:
[Will they go public? They look so good together.]
[Just a thought – a person’s upbringing and status really do show through their presence, even when they don’t speak a word.]
[A 200-yuan lai see from the Best Actress – back in Hong Kong, that’s the kind where you’d have to kowtow (doge). Does it include the other half’s share?]
iris: [Image 1 is from a makeup assistant, Image 2 from a trainee assistant on Li Shan’s team, Image 3 from a prop master. Judging by their tones, they don’t know this person, but he’s clearly of high status – and they look good together.]
[Iris is starting to scare me…]
[Haven’t seen a quality gossip thread like this in ages. Kinda feels like the old Tianya forum days.]
[Keep going, sis – ignore the naysayers! Lay out the evidence, I’m all ears!]
But after dropping that batch of screenshots, iris never appeared in the thread again. As if to say: the food’s already been spoon-fed to you – if you still can’t piece it together, go get your brain stem checked.
Although Ying Yin was a bona fide film actress who maintained the mystique befitting a true cinema actress – having appeared on only a handful of variety shows – under Chenye’s former management, her traffic-star attributes had at one point overshadowed her identity as a film actress. Her fan base was massive, with looks-focused fans and career-focused fans outnumbering the purely cinephile contingent – not that the former weren’t also film fans, but clearly, their expectations and demands of Ying Yin were more complicated, and the emotions they projected onto her were far more diverse. This diversity of energy was as vast as a mountain torrent or a tsunami – capable of lifting all her commercial metrics to the skies, but equally capable, in a backlash, of bringing everything crashing down around her.
For a female star whose profile leaned so heavily toward the traffic-flower mold, having a relationship exposed was dangerous. The well-wishes fans expressed with their mouths might be sincere, but so was the act of leaving.
If this “brother-in-law” wasn’t up to snuff, she could plummet from grace within a single day.
The movements on major entertainment forums were constantly monitored by marketing accounts. True or false, it didn’t matter – as long as there was gossip value, they’d repost it to Weibo without authorization, which would then be exported and re-imported back to other entertainment groups, forums, and news platforms, circulating back and forth. With enough exposure, a major public opinion incident was born.
After signing Ying Yin, Zhuang Tiwen had vetted numerous PR agencies before finally settling on one known for its keen instincts and ability to nip crises in the bud. So even before the marketing accounts had reposted the thread, they had already contacted Tiwen.
Now, what Tiwen had to consider wasn’t just Ying Yin as an individual, but also the film. Having the crew’s art director be the thread that unraveled into the leading lady’s love life was all too easily interpreted as counter-promotional hype. For a romantic art-house film, that could be fatal.
“Contact those account agencies. Tell them not to repost or let it blow up.” Tiwen strode briskly while barking orders to the PR team.
There were hundreds of thousands of entertainment marketing accounts out there, but the top-tier ones – the ones capable of trending and wielding opinion-leader influence – could fit on a single page. Trace them back to their roots, and they almost always pointed to the same handful of companies.
“This will only hold for a while, and you know it. There are still plenty of privately-run KOLs, or accounts run by rival camps.” The PR manager reminded her. “Ying Yin has too many rivals.”
Those were all old grudges left over from the Chenye era – and which Chenye-affiliated star didn’t have enemies by the dozen? The way Mai Anyan played the game of public opinion was simply too dirty.
Tiwen took a deep breath. “Wait for me. First, get that thing I just mentioned done. At the same time, contact the forum platform and wait for my notice on whether to delete the post.”
By the time she finished that phone call, she was already back on set. Ying Yin had wrapped for the day and was with Shen Yu. The last shot of the day involved Jiang Te and the villagers. Tiwen waited until that take was finished before saying, “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
She always got straight to the point, treating Lishan as a collaborative colleague rather than an elder.
Li Shan’s eyes were still fixed on the monitor, replaying the footage. “What?”
“Someone’s dug up Ying Yin’s relationship. It hasn’t blown up yet, but if we don’t handle it, it will soon.”
Li Shan shifted his gaze to her and pondered for a moment. “She can’t afford to trend over her personal life right now.”
Tiwen nodded. “I think so too.”
First, in mid-March, Undercover was scheduled to wrap. Ying Yin’s character, Ying Yuhua, had a sensitive identity – a relationship scandal at this time would invite backlash.
Second, When Snow Melts It Turns Green had kept a very low profile since filming began. Li Shan’s style had always been to never let a single scrap of information leak to the public ahead of time, let alone resort to lowbrow tactics like rumor-mongering.
Third, Ying Yin was still deep in her role, and Bai Lan had just joined the set. They were about to shoot a series of crucial scenes – the ex-wife’s prying gaze, the villagers’ stares and harassment – with the climactic wrap scene being Yin Xueqing’s big highlight: bathing in the snow, her “Best Actress moment.” For this, Li Shan had already revised his storyboards twenty times. He had made an array of wildly demanding lighting and set requirements.
Lighting in the deep snow at night was already incredibly difficult, yet there could be no trace of artificial lighting. The moonlight in many films and TV shows looked as silly as car xenon headlights – not only Li Shan, but even Old Fu couldn’t bear that kind of embarrassment. On top of that, Lishan demanded an ethereal purity, as if she were bathing by the Jade Pool in heaven, with the moonlight reflecting off the snow onto her face like a mirror, revealing her quiet contemplation, her sorrow, and her innocence.
Lumens, placement, color temperature, the diffusion and condensation of every artificial moonbeam – all had to be meticulously refined down to the technical detail. Old Fu and his lighting crew would spend hours after wrap adjusting the lights, only for Li Shan to come in, review it, and deliver a single word: “No.”
There was one more thing that Tiwen and Lishan both understood without saying. At this stage of the production, Ying Yin was like a spinning top balanced on a wire – dancing beautifully, but precariously, liable to shatter at any moment. If her relationship with Shang Shao were exposed now, given her level of fame, any barrage of insults or mockery would amount to online harassment on a massive scale. She was far from having developed a heart of stone; she couldn’t possibly remain unmoved.
Tiwen and Li Shan reached a consensus, and she instructed the PR team, “Keep Weibo and other platforms under control. There’s no need to delete the original thread – let them start new ones if they want. Just make sure the noise stays contained within that little pond. Also, find me every account that has posted behind-the-scenes content on Weibo – I want to talk to each of them personally.”
By the time all of this was handled, night had fully fallen. Tiwen looked up and saw Shang Shao standing outside Shen Yu’s wooden cabin.
The Lantern Festival had long passed, and the first month of the new year was nearly over – yet he was still on set. He ignored Shang Qingye’s orders to return, and Shang Qingye, in turn, ignored his willfulness, signing an administrative order to reinstate him. When Wen Youyi caught wind of it and came to ask, Shang Qingye held her shoulders and reassured her, “He was too exhausted before the New Year, so I gave him a month off. I didn’t want you to worry – he’s fine now.”
Wen Youyi was both concerned and doubtful. “Are you sure nothing happened?”
“You saw him during the New Year holidays, didn’t you? Did he look unwell?”
Wen Youyi thought back. “He didn’t seem very happy.”
Shang Qingye snorted. “He’s perfectly happy now.”
“Then why hasn’t he come back to Ning City?”
Shang Qingye’s stoic face revealed nothing. “I sent him to Xinjiang for an inspection trip. Consider it a change of scenery.”
When Wen Youyi video-called Shang Shao, Shang Qingye loomed behind the camera like a hawk. Shang Shao had no choice but to say, “Yes, I’m in Xinjiang on an inspection.”
Just as Shang Qingye let out a silent, subtle sigh of relief, Shang Shao dropped a bombshell. “…And, by the way, in line with what Dad wanted – I’ve started a relationship.”
Shang Qingye: “…”
Wen Youyi: “…”
But they were increasingly unable to control him. No matter how much Wen Youyi pressed, he remained unmoved, only saying, “She’s an ordinary girl. Once she’s done with her current work, I’ll formally bring her to meet you.”
That very night, Shang Qingye formally moved out of the master bedroom at Deep Water Bay.
Shang Shao was swamped – his phone had to be charged twice a day, and invitations for meetings and social engagements came in faster than he could handle. His reply to all of them was the same: “Push it back to after May.” By the time Tiwen walked up to him, he had just finished approving a workflow.
Shang Shao glanced at her, stepped aside, and asked, “Something on your mind?”
Tiwen followed his lead. “I want to ask you – have you ever thought about going public with Ying Yin?”
His expression didn’t falter. “What kind of ‘public’ do you mean?”
“Public to the entertainment world?”
The moment the question left her mouth, under Shang Shao’s steady gaze, Tiwen realized it was a stupid question.
If not for the fact that Shang Lu was a director, the Shang family’s business and modus operandi had virtually nothing to do with the entertainment industry. They certainly socialized with celebrities and socialites, but never too closely. For the industries the Shang family operated in, what they needed was a steady, prudent, and dignified public image – not one associated with dating stars, chasing trends, or living under the spotlight of trending searches, gossip threads, and paparazzi lenses.
“Then… if you and Ying Yin get married, will it be a secret marriage?”
“We’ll go public within our circles.” Shang Shao pocketed his phone and met Tiwen’s gaze squarely. “Why do you ask all of a sudden?”
Tiwen thought for a moment, then offered a tactful reminder: “If you don’t want to go public, you’d better keep a low profile. You need to face the fact that your girlfriend is a super A-list star.”
Shang Shao nodded. “Okay.” As if it were no trouble at all.
Tiwen was still a bit puzzled. “But even if you keep it under wraps, she still has to attend events befitting her status – galas, important functions within the group, overseas inspections, things like that. How do you plan to hide it?”
Shang Shao looked at her for a moment and asked, “What is the media?”
“The fourth estate.”
“Since it’s a form of power,” Shang Shao lifted the corner of his mouth, speaking casually, “it can be wielded with restraint.”
Zhuang Tiwen froze. When the meaning of his words sank in, a jolt ran through her body, and she shivered involuntarily.
“Any other questions?”
Tiwen looked away. “Nothing… I thought you’d want to announce it to the world.”
Shang Shao shot her a glance and said coolly, “I’m not a histrionic personality.”
Zhuang Tiwen believed him. That was, until a month later, when photos of him holding Ying Yin aboard a superyacht flooded the internet.
