After a busy morning, Ding Yuxi was indeed hungry. He turned around slowly.
Yu Shuxin handed him a box of small cakes with a brilliant smile. “Director Ding, try this little cake.”
Ding Yuxi picked it up and looked at it, raising an eyebrow. “Kaiserling’s chestnut cake.”
Yu Shuxin nodded. “You’ve had it before?”
“I ate it often as a kid,” Ding Yuxi scooped a spoonful and tasted it—still the flavor of his childhood. “I’m a Shanghai local, and I remember you’re from Shanghai too, right?”
Yu Shuxin extended her hand. “That’s right, so we’re fellow townsfolk! Hello, hello.”
Ding Yuxi gently took her hand. The well-cared-for hand of the actress was soft as if boneless, with slender, delicate fingers and neatly trimmed, rounded nails that shimmered with a faint pink luster.
It made his own nails—chewed into a mess—look even worse by comparison. For the first time, he regretted having that bad habit.
Yu Shuxin seized the opportunity. “Director Ding, could I trouble you to take a few photos for me? The photos you take are so beautiful! I really love your photography style. I haven’t posted on Weibo since joining the crew. If Director Ding could take some photos for me, I can’t even imagine how happy my fans would be.”
Ding Yuxi felt like laughing. Yu Shuxin’s expression when asking for a favor was especially like a kitten begging its owner for a treat—big eyes staring at you expectantly, occasionally fluttering her lashes, cute and adorable without being annoying.
He deliberately said, “But I still need to review the footage right now. I’m afraid I won’t have time to take photos for you.”
Yu Shuxin pressed her advantage. “Then after work today, I’ll treat Director Ding to dinner. There’s a Shanghainese restaurant with amazing food—you’ll definitely love it.”
Ding Yuxi watched her describe the restaurant’s sizzling eel shreds with such relish, trying to tempt him, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, alright, I promise you. I’ll take photos for you after work today.”
Having achieved her goal, Yu Shuxin waved happily. “Director Ding, it’s settled then! After work, see you there!”
“Mm, see you after work.”
…
They got off work fairly early today, and the weather was beautiful. Autumn in Shanghai was always bathed in golden light. Golden leaves lay scattered beneath the trees lining both sides of the road, and every step landed on fallen leaves, producing a soft rustling sound.
What was even rarer was the pink sunset glow in the sky. After getting out of the car, the assistant went ahead to order food, while Ding Yuxi and Yu Shuxin took photos on the autumn leaf-lined avenue that looked like something out of a fairy tale.
Ding Yuxi kept telling Yu Shuxin to smile more. Though she didn’t understand why, she still did as told, thinking of happy things and smiling sweetly and radiantly against the sunset glow.
After taking a few sets of adorable “office worker getting off work in autumn” photos, Ding Yuxi had Yu Shuxin take off the female lead’s coat from the drama, revealing the delicate white blouse and long skirt underneath. Late October’s deep autumn was already quite cold, but to get the perfect shots, Yu Shuxin obediently complied.
There was also a pedestrian bridge by the roadside. Ding Yuxi had Yu Shuxin slowly walk up the stairs, and then, out of nowhere, he called out, “Yu Shuxin.”
Yu Shuxin turned around, and Ding Yuxi captured her calm expression against the dazzling pink sunset behind her.
In the frame, Yu Shuxin’s features were as beautiful as a painting, while the people around her were all blurred figures out of focus—among the bustling, hurried masses, a goddess cast a pitying glance upon the mortal world.
…
As night deepened, the city’s lights twinkled like stars.
Ding Yuxi and Yu Shuxin chatted while eating. Shanghai was big in some ways, but small in others, and the two naturally drifted into a conversation about their school days.
One had grown up in Jing’an District, the other in Xuhui District—two adjacent districts with plenty of overlap between them.
Yu Shuxin looked a bit surprised. “You went to A High?”
Ding Yuxi casually ladled her a bowl of vegetable rice and set it in front of her. “Yeah.”
“Then do you know Ding Zhoujie? Hey, you two share the same surname.”
Ding Yuxi’s expression turned odd. “My real name is Ding Zhoujie. Ding Yuxi is my stage name.”
“Pfft…”
Yu Shuxin was a little curious. “Why would you use a stage name as a director?”
It was common for actors to adopt stage names, but directors and other behind-the-scenes crew usually just went by their real names without a second thought.
Ding Yuxi lowered his head and took a sip of the rice cake soup, his expression indifferent. “My family didn’t approve of me doing this. I didn’t use my real name so I wouldn’t embarrass them.”
She had touched on something private and painful for him, but Yu Shuxin didn’t awkwardly change the subject. Instead, she told him seriously, “But you’re doing an amazing job as a director! You’re already an assistant director at such a young age—in a couple of years, you’ll be a full-fledged director. My family doesn’t approve of me being an actress either, but I’m going to make a name for myself and show them. Haha!”
In that regard, Ding Yuxi and Yu Shuxin were very alike—both were pushing forward with a fierce determination, trying to prove themselves.
Ding Yuxi raised his juice as a toast. “Then let me raise a glass to the future Best Actress who’s going to make a name for herself.”
Yu Shuxin clinked her glass enthusiastically. “Thank you, Best Director.”
They exchanged a smile, a hint of boldness in their eyes, and downed their juice in one go.
Ding Yuxi shifted the topic. “By the way, how do you know my real name?”
Yu Shuxin certainly wasn’t going to tell Ding Yuxi that her middle school best friend had attended A High, and that a sixteen-year-old girl’s secret crush had been on Ding Zhoujie, the heartthrob from the class next door.
She said playfully, “Hehe, you were the heartthrob of A High! Back then, your photo was all over Renren.”
That was true. In the photo, Ding Yuxi looked young and green, standing obediently in front of the blackboard in his school uniform, helping a female classmate wipe off chalk marks. But later, the photo was inexplicably scrubbed from the internet.
Ding Yuxi knew about that. Back then, Renren was fond of circulating photos of school beauties and heartthrobs. His photo had been taken without permission and uploaded, and after his family found out, they contacted the site to have all his personal information removed.
The Ding family was prominent and influential. Had things gone as expected, Ding Yuxi would have followed the conventional path into the Ding Group to inherit the family business. People like them didn’t leave random traces of information online.
When it came time to fill out college applications after the college entrance exam, Ding Yuxi secretly applied to a directing program behind his family’s back. The day his acceptance letter arrived, his grandfather flew into a rage, blaming his parents for failing to raise him properly, and even planned to forcibly send him abroad for university.
Ding Yuxi stood his ground stubbornly against Elder Ding. “I’m not going. I don’t want to study business management. I just want to make films! My older brother graduated and went straight into the company—having him inherit your group is enough. Why do you have to force me down the same path?”
His cousin Ding Yuanjie, quick as a flash, intercepted the cane that Elder Ding swung down at him, shielding Ding Yuxi. “Ding Zhoujie, how dare you talk to Grandpa like that?”
Then Ding Yuanjie shot him a look. “Apologize to Grandpa. Tell him you’ll go to the U.S. for prep school tomorrow.”
Ding Yuxi was seventeen or eighteen at the time, in the prime of his hot-blooded youth, and stubborn as a mule: “I told you, I’m not going! I’m studying directing.”
Elder Ding was so furious he laughed instead: “Fine. Starting today, cut off Ding Zhoujie’s credit cards. Nobody gives him a single cent. I see your wings have grown—you think you can defy heaven itself.”
From that day on, Ding Yuxi never spent a single cent of his family’s money. Even when his mother secretly slipped him cash, he left it untouched on the coffee table. He worked as an advertising photographer, wrote murder mystery scripts, filmed comedy skits for internet influencers—whatever made money fast, he did it.
By the time he formally started working as a director on set, former collaborators would still ask if he was taking commercial gigs.
Praise this glorious internet age—someone with a marketable skill can easily earn enough to support themselves. Paying his own way through the expensive tuition of the directing program, his college life wasn’t even particularly tight. After graduation, he rented a small apartment in Shanghai and moved out on his own, a declaration of his resolve to fight to the bitter end.