All eyes zeroed in on them.

What had Dong-ge done to Zhou Yining?

Only Amin knew the truth. She was the one who’d asked him to pinch her—yet now she was throwing a fit like a wronged heroine. Yelling at Dong-ge in front of the entire crew… who else but her would dare?

Had he really gone too far?

Ji Dongyang furrowed his brow and set her down. Zhou Yining instantly reached for her side, massaging the spot that throbbed with numb, sharp pain. She could swear the bruise had already started to bloom.

She glared up at him, eyes blazing.

“Even if I made you NG a dozen times, did you really have to go that hard? You don’t know your own strength, do you?!”

Her eyes shimmered, wet with the sting of pain and fury, and paired with that indignant scowl, the fire in her expression made her look startlingly alive—like she might leap right off the screen.

Ji Dongyang turned his gaze away, his voice flat. “I must’ve lost my mind, listening to you in the first place.”

She kept glaring, refusing to blink, like she could burn a hole through him.

Director Xu walked over with a storm brewing on his face. “What happened?”

Zhou Yining bit her lip. For a moment, she seemed like she’d spit fire again—then swallowed it down.

“Nothing, Director Xu. Just… give me a few minutes to calm down.”

Ji Dongyang pressed his lips into a thin line, watching her sidelong. Then he turned to the director.

“It was my fault.”

Zhou Yining turned to him, eyes wide.

Director Xu eyed them both, exasperated but clearly restraining himself for Ji Dongyang’s sake.

“Fine. I won’t ask what that was. But Zhou Yining—your expression in the last take was completely off. That’s the eleventh NG. Keep this up, and we won’t get to any of the other scenes tonight.”

Zhou Yining clenched her jaw.

“I’ll get it right next time.”

She spun around and went to get her makeup touched up.

As she left the set, Zhou Wei—fresh out of her own dressing room—sauntered over and nudged Zhou Yining hard with her elbow.

Right in the exact spot Ji Dongyang had pinched.

Zhou Yining sucked in a breath, face contorting. “Hss—!”

Zhou Wei leaned in and raised a brow. “What, did he hold you too tight? Can’t handle Dong-ge’s strength with that little waist of yours?”

The very mention made Zhou Yining’s temper spike again. But after all, this was her idea. She’d asked for it. Complaining now would only make her a joke.

She gave a tight-lipped smile. “Nothing. I knocked into something during the fall earlier. He just accidentally hit the same spot.”

Zhou Wei looked unconvinced. “Really? You two seem to have some spicy little secret going on, huh?”

Zhou Yining rolled her eyes. “Spicy, my ass. If there’s anything between me and Ji Dongyang, it’s straight-up mutual hatred.”

By then the makeup artist had finished touching her up, and the call to resume filming rang out.

Zhou Yining stood up, but the moment she did—

Achoo!

She sneezed hard, her body trembling with cold. Yep. She was definitely catching something.

The clapperboard slammed.

She took a deep breath.

Ji Dongyang stepped forward again, arms strong and practiced as he scooped her up for the twelfth time that night. His hands, large and warm, landed right on the sore spot at her waist. She winced.

But this time—moisture welled up in her eyes. Not from the script. Not from acting.

From pain.

Director Xu leaned forward in his chair, almost excited. “Yes! Yes, that’s it! Keep that emotion—this take might be the one!”

It was a long tracking shot—Ji Dongyang carrying her from the lakeside bridge all the way into the imperial chambers, the maids bustling in, the imperial physician rushing over—

The final frame: Zhou Yining curled up against Ji Dongyang’s chest.

The camera pulled back.

Director Xu’s voice rang out: “Cut! We’re good!”

A miracle. After eleven busted takes, the NG Queen had finally nailed it.

Still sniffling, Zhou Yining sneezed into Ji Dongyang’s chest. He looked down at her, then gently set her on her feet.

She gave a small grunt, tossed the blanket aside, and climbed off the chaise lounge. Off to the dressing room to wash up and change.

“You better soak in hot water the second you get home,” the makeup artist warned. “And drink some ginger soup—otherwise you’ll really catch a cold.”

Zhou Yining dabbed her nose. “Got it. Thanks.”

Ji Dongyang’s scenes had wrapped too. He changed quickly—much faster than she did. They ended up walking out the same way.

Zhou Yining spotted his car ahead and smirked. She stepped on the gas, overtook it, and left him in her rearview.

In Ji Dongyang’s car, Amin glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

Dong-ge wasn’t resting like usual. Legs stretched out, eyes open, gaze distant.

“Did you really pinch her that hard?” Amin asked.

Ji Dongyang lifted his eyes and shot him a look. “How should I know?”

He thought he’d gone easy. It wasn’t like her waist was made of glass. Was she really that delicate?

Amin hesitated. “Should I drop off some ointment or something?”

Ji Dongyang said nothing. Chin slightly raised, he continued staring out the window.

Back home, the first thing Zhou Yining did was run a steaming hot bath.

She peeled off her clothes, turned to the mirror—and winced.

Her pale waist bore five vivid finger-shaped bruises.

She’d asked for one pinch, not this. Did Ji Dongyang think “pinch” meant crush?

Her skin had always bruised easily. One bump and she’d mark like a peach. And her waist… had always been her most sensitive spot.

Sliding into the tub, hot water swallowing her shoulders, she let out a long sigh of relief, eyes fluttering shut like a cat settling in.

Halfway through her soak, she faintly heard the doorbell ring.

Still drowsy, she pretended she hadn’t heard.

Outside, Amin stood at the door with the ointment in hand. “I saw her car in the garage. And the lights are on. Maybe she saw it was us and just doesn’t want to open.”

He gestured toward the peephole.

Ji Dongyang stood quietly for a few seconds.

“Forget it,” he said at last. “Go home.”

He returned to his apartment, punched in the code, and went in without another word.

Amin looked down at the medicine in his hand, then back at Ji Dongyang’s door.

“Alright, I’ll pick you up at 7 a.m. sharp.”

Half an hour later, Zhou Yining wrapped a towel around herself and padded barefoot to the door.

No one was there.

She clicked her tongue.

Probably some weirdo playing around.

She shut the door and went to boil ginger soup.

After a long, exhausting night, she drank the soup, climbed into bed, and passed out.

The next morning, her phone rang endlessly before she managed to crawl up and answer it. Head pounding like a war drum.

Yep. Sick.

Good thing she didn’t have any scenes today.

“Hello…” she croaked, flopping back down.

“Are you still in bed?!” came Jingxin’s voice through the line. “It’s already three in the afternoon!”

Zhou Yining rubbed her eyes and yawned. “No wonder I’m starving…”

“We’re going to the Redemption premiere tonight. You are still coming, right?”

Her eyes cracked open.

Crap.

“I totally forgot! Give me a sec—I’m on my way!”

She leapt out of bed, dashed into the bathroom, washed up, threw on a white off-shoulder sweater and black skinny jeans. No makeup, just a splash of lipstick. She glanced at the bruise again—still there.

Should’ve bought the ointment last night.

Grabbing her bag and heels, she headed out and called a car to wait outside the complex.

At the premiere, the host had already taken the stage.

Ji Dongyang stood front and center, dressed in a black suit, tall and striking beneath the lights. The harshness of his features was softened by the stage glow, and for a moment—even through her bias—Zhou Yining had to admit:

He really was handsome.

Not just in the superficial way. His was a kind of presence—an aura honed by time, pain, and something deeper than charm.

The host pointed at the poster of Ji Dongyang in a police uniform.

“Doesn’t Dong-ge look dashing in uniform?”

The crowd screamed, “Yes!”

Zhou Yining glanced over. She didn’t deny it. The man did look good.

Half an hour later, the movie began.

Her phone buzzed. It was Jingxin calling.

Where are you?”

 “Just found a random seat– Don’t worry about me.” She replied 

: “Cool. Enjoy the movie.” Jingxin hung up.

When the credits rolled, the theater erupted in applause. Even Zhou Yining clapped.

The movie was that good. And Ji Dongyang’s performance—flawless.

She made her way toward the front.

Director Qin Sen was chatting with the crowd.

“We’ve got a little celebration party tonight. Everyone’s invited!”

Zhou Yining grinned. “Am I included?”

Jingxin looped an arm through hers. “Obviously.”

From across the room, Ji Dongyang gave her a glance, then turned and left first.

Since she hadn’t driven, Zhou Yining rode with Jingxin and Qin Sen. On the way, Jingxin scrolled through Weibo.

“Redemption and Ji Dongyang are trending! Ugh, but look at this crap…”

A gossip account had dug up his old scandal again, posting:

‘How is Ji Dongyang still playing a cop onscreen? His parents were drug addicts for years. The company keeps paying to bury the news—just because he’s a cash cow? Wake up, fans.’

Jingxin scowled. “Didn’t they debunk this already? Why does this rumor always pop up every time he releases something new?”

Zhou Yining casually scrolled through the post.

“No smoke without fire,” she said. “Maybe it’s true.”

Jingxin, a diehard fan, shook her head seriously  . “No way!”

Zhou Yining massaged her temples. She didn’t want to argue. “I’m starving.”

Jingxin reached out to feel her forehead.

“You’re burning up.”

She sighed, “It’s fine. I’ll grab some meds after the party.”

The celebration wrapped up late.

Zhou Yining, Jingxin, and Qin Sen stepped out of the hotel.

They ran into Ji Dongyang and Yang Xun at the entrance.

“I’ll give you a ride,” Jingxin offered.

“No need,” Zhou Yining said, waving a hand. “I’ll call a car.”

She headed to the curb.

A sleek black car pulled up.

In the driver’s seat, Amin looked back. “Want to give her a ride?”

Ji Dongyang looked straight ahead.

Zhou Yining had already hailed a car and climbed in.

“No need.”

The car drove on.

Near her complex, Zhou Yining spotted a pharmacy outside the window.

“Stop here, please!”

She jumped out and made her way toward the shop.

As she passed a man in black, he whistled with a cigarette between his lips.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

She shot him a cold look and walked on.

The man froze for a beat when he saw her face.

She was already at the door of the pharmacy.

He dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and stared—fixated on the bag slung over her back.

Translator’s Notes:

[1] Dong-ge (东哥) — “Brother Dong,” an affectionate or respectful nickname used in the entertainment industry, referring to Ji Dongyang.

[2] NG — “No Good” take in film production, i.e., a failed or unusable scene that needs to be re-shot. Common industry slang.

[3] No smoke without fire (无风不起浪) — A Chinese idiom suggesting that rumors often have some basis in truth.