Shen Che had long since lost count of how many times he had listened to Zhao Jiaming report on Yu Shuang.
Every morning at seven sharp, Zhao Jiaming would appear at the study door. The contents of the envelopes grew increasingly detailed—what she had eaten that day, what she had drunk, how many times she had smiled while filming, where she had gone after work.
Zhao Jiaming was a capable adjutant, meticulous to the point where no one could find fault with him. Even if Yu Shuang changed into a new dress, he would make a note of it.
But sometimes Shen Che wished he weren’t quite so thorough.
“Yesterday, Miss Yu was picked up by Lin Ziheng after she finished filming. The two of them had dinner at a restaurant on Avenue Joffre. They ordered four dishes and one soup, spending eighty-two cents.”
Zhao Jiaming’s voice was as flat as if he were reading a military report.
“After dinner, they walked along the river for about half an hour. Miss Yu seemed to be in very good spirits. She laughed several times.”
The fountain pen in Shen Che’s hand stopped against the paper, a tiny dot of ink spreading beneath its nib.
“And then?”
“Then Lin Ziheng walked her home. They walked side by side for a while, and then Miss Yu rose onto her toes and kissed him on the—”
“That’s enough.”
Shen Che spoke suddenly.
His voice wasn’t loud, but Zhao Jiaming immediately fell silent.
The study grew quiet.
Shen Che’s Adam’s apple moved slightly.
He should have been used to it.
After listening for two months, he should have been used to it by now.
Yet every time he heard these things, that same spot in his chest still hurt, as though someone were slowly grinding a dull blade against it. There was no blood, yet the pain made it difficult to breathe.
“How has her appetite been lately?” he asked, deliberately keeping his voice even.
“Better than it was a few days ago. Xiao Ling said she’s been eating properly. Perhaps she’s been following the doctor’s advice.”
Shen Che nodded.
The last time he’d heard that her stomach was bothering her, he had sent one of his men to ask her assistant about it. Xiao Ling had mistaken him for a suspicious stranger and nearly reported him to the police.
In the end, Shen Che had to have Zhao Jiaming make the inquiry under the guise of being a representative of a business partner of Dahua Pictures.
He had gone to all that trouble just to find out whether she was eating properly.
Wasn’t that ridiculous?
He was the Young Marshal of the nine provinces of Jiangbei, with a million soldiers under his command. One stomp of his foot could make the entire Jiangbei tremble.
Yet when he wanted to know how a single woman was doing, he could only send his adjutant to find out—and he didn’t even dare let her know.
“Young Marshal,” Zhao Jiaming hesitated. “There’s one more thing. Dahua Pictures’ new film, Spring Waters Flow East, premieres next Friday. Miss Yu is the leading actress.”
Shen Che raised his head, his gaze drifting toward the window.
The pine trees in the courtyard swayed gently in the breeze, their needles rustling softly.
“The Grand Bright Theater?”
“Yes.”
Shen Che fell silent for a moment.
In that brief silence, Zhao Jiaming saw the fingers gripping the fountain pen tighten slightly, the knuckles turning white.
“Rent it out,” Shen Che said, his voice as steady as though he were issuing an ordinary military order. “The whole theater.”
Zhao Jiaming wasn’t nearly as surprised as he had been the last time.
He simply answered, “Yes,” and waited for the Young Marshal to continue.
“Make a guest list. City Hall, the Chamber of Commerce, the foreign consulates. Send invitations to all of them.”
Shen Che paused.
“Don’t say I rented it.”
“Yes.”
Zhao Jiaming turned to leave, but Shen Che suddenly called after him.
“Jiaming.”
“Yes?”
“You think…”
Shen Che stopped halfway through the sentence.
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly against the desk as though weighing his words.
After a long while, he finally spoke, his voice slightly lower than before.
“What do you think she’d think if she found out?”
Zhao Jiaming froze.
In the five years he had followed Shen Che, this was the first time he’d ever heard the Young Marshal ask him a question in such a tone.
It wasn’t a command.
It wasn’t an instruction.
It was a genuine question, carrying the faintest trace of uncertainty.
“I… don’t know, sir,” Zhao Jiaming answered honestly.
Shen Che didn’t press him.
He waved a hand, signaling him to leave.
The moment the door closed, Shen Che shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath.
He knew he shouldn’t be doing this.
Renting an entire theater and inviting all the city’s prominent figures to come and show their support—what was that supposed to be?
Courting her?
Trying to win her favor?
Since when had Shen Che fallen so low that he needed such tricks just to get a woman’s attention?
Yet he couldn’t help himself.
He remembered that evening at the reception, when she had stood by the window, neon lights reflecting across her face in flashes of red and green. She had remained composed throughout, showing no interest in flattering anyone.
He remembered the calm voice with which she’d helped the young waiter to his feet.
He remembered the blush on her cheeks.
He remembered her standing in the doorway of the suite in that goose-yellow qipao, like a yellow rose just beginning to bloom.
He wanted her to stand at the very highest place, where everyone could see her.
He wanted her to know that there was someone willing to do all these things for her.
But he didn’t dare let her know it was him.
Because he was afraid.
Afraid that she would feel awkward if she found out.
Afraid she would feel indebted to him.
Afraid the way she looked at him would change—from clear and open to distant, from frank and natural to cautious and guarded.
He had seen the way she looked at men who harbored ulterior motives.
Cold.
Like the freezing waters of the river in the twelfth lunar month.
He couldn’t bear for her to look at him that way.
So he could only remain in the shadows, watching as everyone saw her, everyone praised her, everyone gathered around her—
And then return alone to this empty residence, clutching her pearl earring in the darkness.
Shen Che opened his eyes and rose.
He walked to the window and pushed it open.
The night wind rushed in, cool against his skin, carrying the fresh scent of pine needles.
Far away, lights from boats flickered across the river, tiny points of brightness swaying back and forth over the water.
He remembered the first time he had seen her on the silver screen.
She had been nothing more than a profile, her figure wrapped in a qipao, her lashes lowered, yet somehow she had possessed an indescribable grace and allure.
He had forgotten to light the cigar in his hand.
His eyes had followed her, unable to move away even for a moment.
At the time, he had thought it was nothing more than a man’s instinctive reaction to beauty.
Look once.
Feel his heart stir.
Then move on with his life.
But now?
Two months had passed.
For two months, he had listened to reports about her.
He had listened to every little detail about her and another man, listening until the ache in his chest became unbearable, yet still unable to bring himself to say, “Stop.”
He had sent people to inquire about her health, going around eighteen corners just to find out whether she had eaten.
He had rented out an entire theater and invited everyone in the city to come support her, yet he didn’t even dare leave his own name behind.
Was he still the Young Marshal who made ruthless decisions on the battlefield?
Was he still Shen Che, who refused to yield even an inch at the negotiating table?
He wasn’t.
Not even a little.
And yet he couldn’t control himself.
He wanted her.
The thought was like a tree growing inside his heart. Its roots sank deeper and deeper, its branches spreading through every limb, into every breath he took, into every sleepless moment of every night.
When he closed his eyes, he saw her.
When he opened them, he thought of her.
Even while handling military and political affairs, her face would drift through his mind.
He wanted to stand beside her.
He wanted her to smile at him.
He wanted to hear her call his name in that soft, sweet voice—
Not “Young Marshal.”
“Shen Che.”
He wanted to shield her from every storm.
He wanted to be the first person to appear whenever she needed someone.
He wanted her to know that there was someone in this world who would do anything for her.
But there was already someone beside her.
Shen Che leaned against the window frame and tilted his head back to look at the crescent moon.
The moonlight was cold and lonely, spilling over him and casting his solitary shadow onto the ground.
Suddenly, he felt ridiculous.
The Young Marshal of Jiangbei’s nine provinces.
Unable even to have the woman he wanted.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t have her.
He simply didn’t dare.
He was afraid that what he could give her wasn’t what she wanted.
Afraid that she didn’t want anything from him at all.
Yet he still had to keep doing these things.
Renting the theater.
Promoting her.
Putting her on the highest stage—
Even if she never knew he was behind it.
Even if she never once turned around to look at him.
He simply couldn’t help himself.
Because this was the only thing he could do.
On the day of the premiere, Shen Che was distracted from the moment he woke.
Halfway through a military strategy meeting, his attention suddenly wandered.
The chief of staff was pointing at the blue arrows on the map, speaking at length about the latest movements of the three warlords in the west.
Shen Che didn’t hear a single word.
His mind was filled with thoughts of what color qipao she would wear that evening, how she would style her hair, and what jewelry she would choose.
“Young Marshal?” the chief of staff asked cautiously. “What do you think of this plan?”
Shen Che came back to himself.
He glanced at the map, pointed casually to several locations, and offered a few vague comments that neither hurt nor helped.
Although the chief of staff thought the Young Marshal seemed rather unusual today, he didn’t dare ask questions. He simply took the order and dismissed the meeting.
Zhao Jiaming was waiting by the door.
“Young Marshal, the car is ready.”
Shen Che nodded and strode outside.
But just as he reached the doorway, he suddenly stopped.
“Do I look all right in this?”
He looked down at his military uniform.
Zhao Jiaming froze.
In the five years he’d followed Shen Che, this was the first time the Young Marshal had ever asked him something like that.
“It looks fine,” Zhao Jiaming replied.
Then, after a pause, he added, “You look good in anything, Young Marshal.”
Shen Che ignored him.
He turned around, went back to his bedroom, and changed into a custom-tailored dark gray suit.
He stood before the mirror for a moment and straightened his tie.
Then he decided it looked too formal.
He pulled it off and replaced it with a more understated tie with a subtle pattern.
Still dissatisfied, he finally removed the tie altogether and unfastened the top button of his shirt.
He looked at himself in the mirror and suddenly found the whole thing absurd.
He was going to watch a movie, not go on a blind date.
Who was he dressing up for?
She wouldn’t even know what he was wearing inside the private box.
And yet, before leaving, he still changed into a pair of leather shoes polished to a brilliant shine.
The entrance of the Grand Bright Theater was as lively as New Year’s.
The moment Shen Che stepped out of the car, the entire street fell silent for a brief instant.
It wasn’t an exaggeration.
It really did go quiet for a moment.
The flashes stopped mid-flicker.
The whispers died down.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
Then the crowd parted like a tide splitting down the middle, people instinctively stepping aside.
Secretary-General Sun from City Hall hurried toward him, practically bending himself in half.
“Young Marshal! What an honor to have you here! This is truly our great fortune!”
President Zhou of the Chamber of Commerce was waiting nearby as well, his smile practically blooming across his face.
Officials from the foreign consulates stood not far away. Almost in unison, they straightened their ties and adopted solemn expressions.
Shen Che dealt with them one by one, wearing the faintly polite smile of a man fulfilling an obligation.
But his gaze passed over everyone’s heads and landed on the second floor of the theater.
The private box directly facing the screen.
Its curtains had already been drawn open, warm light spilling from within.
She was upstairs.
He knew it.
She should be in the dressing room on the second floor.
Perhaps she was touching up her makeup in front of the mirror.
Perhaps she was speaking with her assistant.
Perhaps she was standing by the window, watching the crowd below.
She didn’t know he had come.
She didn’t know that he had paid for all twelve hundred tickets.
She didn’t know that the city’s influential figures and officials had been invited by him.
She knew nothing.
And here he stood, surrounded by everyone, thinking only one thing—
Would she see him tonight?
Chen Maocai pushed his way through the crowd, his face flushed with excitement. He seized Shen Che’s hand with both of his and bowed nearly ninety degrees.
“Y-Young Marshal! Your presence is an incredible honor for Dahua Pictures! An incredible honor!”
Shen Che gave a slight nod.
“Manager Chen, you’re too kind.”
He didn’t mention Yu Shuang.
But what kind of man was Chen Maocai?
He had spent twenty years navigating the world of favors and social connections. His ears were sharper than a dog’s.
The Young Marshal hadn’t come early or late.
He had come precisely on this day.
Precisely for this screening.
Who else could have paid for those twelve hundred tickets?
Did anyone really need to ask?
“Young Marshal, this way, please! We’ve reserved the finest private box on the second floor—”
Chen Maocai eagerly led the way.
Shen Che gave a quiet “Mm” and started inside.
After two steps, he suddenly stopped and glanced back at Chen Maocai.
“Don’t disturb Miss Yu,” he said.
His voice wasn’t loud, but every word was perfectly clear.
“I’m only here to watch the movie.”
Chen Maocai nodded repeatedly.
“Yes, yes, of course. Rest assured, Young Marshal.”
Shen Che went upstairs and entered the private box.
Zhao Jiaming stopped at the door and closed it behind him.
There was no one else inside.
Shen Che sat down on the sofa.
He didn’t turn on the light.
He simply leaned back and closed his eyes.
The commotion from downstairs drifted upward.
Flashbulbs went off.
The crowd surged and murmured.
He wanted to go see her.
That thought had been circling in his mind from the moment he entered the theater, making him increasingly restless.
He imagined himself pushing open the door to the dressing room.
She would turn around and see him, her eyes widening slightly in surprise.
And then what?
What would he say?
“Miss Yu, I paid for all twelve hundred tickets. I invited all those prominent figures. I did all this for you.”
And what would she say?
“Thank you, Young Marshal.”
She would certainly say that.
Polite.
Distant.
With that perfect sense of propriety she always maintained.
Just as she had that day in the corridor.
She had called him “Young Marshal.”
She had thanked him.
Then she had turned around and left, climbing into that man’s rickshaw.
Shen Che opened his eyes and gave a bitter little laugh in the darkness.
He was a coward.
On the battlefield, he feared neither guns nor artillery.
At the negotiating table, he feared no opponent.
Yet before this one woman, he didn’t even dare leave his own name behind.
Because he knew that once she learned he was the one responsible, the way she looked at him would change.
Not for the better.
She would simply become more distant.
She would feel indebted to him.
She would think he was doing her a favor in hopes of getting something in return.
She might even think he was no different from those men with ulterior motives.
He couldn’t bear that.
So he could only sit here in the darkness, waiting for the screen to light up.
Waiting for her to appear.
The screen lit up.
She appeared in the first narrow alley.
She wore a simple white qipao and held an oil-paper umbrella as she slowly walked along the bluestone road.
Fine rain fell steadily, pattering against the umbrella, her shoulders, and the ends of her hair.
Shen Che’s gaze locked onto the screen.
He couldn’t look away.
She had lost weight.
Her chin looked slightly sharper on screen, her collarbones more pronounced beneath the high neckline of her white qipao, like two shallow hollows.
Yet she was still beautiful.
Beautiful enough to make his heart ache.
He remembered what she had asked him that day in the corridor.
“Why did the Young Marshal help me?”
He had answered:
“The wine was cold.”
She had looked at him but hadn’t pressed him for an explanation.
She had simply turned and continued walking.
At the time, how badly he had wanted to tell her—
It wasn’t the wine that was cold.
It was you.
You were so cold that it made a man want to warm you with his own hands.
But he had said nothing.
He had merely followed behind her, keeping half a step between them.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Just as he was now.
Separated from her by the silver screen, by the story itself, by every rule and convention in this world—
All he could do was watch her.
He could do nothing else.
He wanted her.
The thought became frighteningly clear in the darkness.
So clear that even he was afraid of it.
The movie ended.
When the lights came back on, Yu Shuang stood on the stage and bowed to the audience.
The applause was thunderous.
Twelve hundred people clapped at once, the sound so loud it seemed capable of lifting the roof.
Shen Che stood behind the second-floor railing and watched her.
She wore a sapphire-blue qipao, her hair swept into an elegant updo.
She raised her head and looked toward the second floor—
Shen Che didn’t hide.
He simply stood there and let her see him.
Across twelve hundred people.
Across the lights and dust filling the theater.
Across every rule and convention in this world—
He simply looked at her.
She looked at him for several seconds.
Then she turned her gaze away.
Shen Che’s hand tightened around the railing.
His knuckles turned white, the veins on the back of his hand standing out faintly.
Chen Maocai hurried upstairs and eagerly invited him to come down for a while, mentioning that Miss Yu was downstairs.
Shen Che refused.
“The movie’s over. I have something else to attend to.”
He turned and left.
But when he reached the stairs, he suddenly stopped and glanced back.
Yu Shuang was speaking to someone on the stage, a faint smile resting at the corners of her lips.
That smile wasn’t meant for him.
Yet he still thought it was beautiful.
Beautiful enough to hurt.
On the drive back to the residence, Shen Che leaned against the seat and closed his eyes.
From the front passenger seat, Zhao Jiaming turned around and cautiously glanced at him.
“Young Marshal, are you all right?”
Shen Che didn’t answer.
He was thinking about one thing—
How much longer could he keep this up?
Two months.
He had listened to reports for two months.
Endured two months of jealousy.
Spent two months tossing and turning through sleepless nights.
He had thought time would eventually dull everything.
But time hadn’t dulled anything.
Instead, it had made those feelings grow stronger, darker, thicker—
Like ink that could never be diluted.
The car stopped at the main gate.
Shen Che stepped out and stood in the courtyard.
Moonlight fell across him, stretching his shadow long and lonely over the ground.
He tilted his head back and looked at the crescent moon.
It was bright.
Almost painfully bright.
“Yu Shuang.”
He murmured her name.
His voice was as soft as a sigh, yet in the empty courtyard, it sounded heavy enough to shatter the darkness.
He stood there for a long time.
Long enough for the moonlight to shift his shadow from east to west.
Long enough for the pine trees in the courtyard to rustle endlessly in the wind.
Then he turned, went inside, and climbed the stairs.
The study light remained off.
He walked to the desk and opened the drawer.
The pearl earring was still exactly where he had left it.
He took it out and placed it in his palm.
Small.
Round.
Smooth and warm.
Like a drop of frozen moonlight.
He closed his fingers around it, then slowly loosened them.
He wanted her.
But all he could do was sit in this dark study, clutching an earring she had accidentally left behind and imagining that she was beside him.
The sound of the pines outside drifted through the night—
Rustle, rustle, rustle—
Like the ancient city itself was quietly sighing.
Shen Che closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
He didn’t want to hold back anymore.