Xia Wei followed her gaze and looked over, smiling slightly: “Junior high, I guess? That cherry tree at the school gate blooms so crazily every spring. My mom insisted on dragging me over to take a picture, and I thought it was super humiliating at the time.”
“Jinan Middle School?” Song乔 said, her tone very calm.
“Yeah, I went to high school there too,” Xia Wei replied with a smile.
“It’s very pretty,” Song Qiao said.
“Huh?” Xia Wei was still stuck on the middle school question.
“The photo is very pretty.” Song Qiao’s voice was soft and very calm, but Xia Wei felt she was being sincere.
Zhou Ci’s voice came from the kitchen: “Xiaowei, come bring the dishes!”
Xia Wei stood up and walked toward the kitchen, glancing back right before stepping inside.
Song Qiao’s gaze was still resting on the photo. She secretly rejoiced that when she was little, she hadn’t made any weird poses in photos; she had always stood straight and proper, completely different from her usual style of behavior.
Her childhood friends always joked that the moment she took a photo, she looked like her body had been possessed by a different spirit, becoming deadpan serious for one second.
Zhou Ci was just lifting a plate of sweet and sour pork ribs out of the wok. Seeing Xia Wei enter, she lowered her voice: “Why is your boss even buying bird’s nest? How expensive is that stuff?”
“She insisted on buying it,” Xia Wei took the plate. “I said we didn’t need it, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Zhou Ci glanced in the direction of the living room, then back at Xia Wei, the corners of her mouth curving in a smile that held a meaning Xia Wei hadn’t seen before.
“She certainly understands her manners,” Zhou Ci said. “She just looks a little… uncomfortable. Take good care of her later.”
Xia Wei carried the ribs out and placed them on the dining table.
Song Qiao pulled her gaze away from the group photo, stood up, walked over to the dining table, and watched Xia Wei set out the bowls and chopsticks. After hesitating for a moment, she reached out to help.
“No, no, you just sit,” Xia Wei said.
Song Qiao didn’t listen. She picked up the chopsticks from Xia Wei’s hand and laid them out one pair at a time, the tips pointing to the right with even spacing—completely different from Xia Wei’s usual casual habit of dropping them anywhere.
Looking at those neatly arranged pairs of chopsticks, Xia Wei suddenly thought of what was written in the “Rule Horror Game”—”All submitted documents must use black long-tail binder clips uniformly, with top and bottom margins of 2.5cm”—this person even laid out chopsticks as if she were doing page layout.
Zhou Ci came out carrying the soup, saw Song Qiao helping, and smiled, “Director Song, stop working, sit down quickly, sit down.”
“Just call me Song Qiao.” Song Qiao pulled out a chair, waited for Zhou Ci to sit down, and then sat down herself.
The dishes were all served.
Sweet and sour pork ribs, stir-fried seasonal vegetables, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, a bowl of winter melon and pork rib soup—they were all everyday home-cooked dishes, but they filled the table completely.
Zhou Ci picked up a piece of rib and put it in Song Qiao’s bowl, then picked up a helping of vegetables…
“Song Qiao, are you usually very busy with work? Xiaowei says you’re always working overtime.” Zhou Ci’s tone was casual, like chatting with someone she had known for a long time.
Song Qiao picked up her chopsticks and glanced at the pile of food rising in her bowl. “It’s alright. The project has been a bit tight lately, it’ll pass after this wave.”
“Xiaowei hasn’t been giving you trouble at your place, has she?” Zhou Ci glanced at Xia Wei with that “I know my own daughter” look.
“No,” Song Qiao said. “She does very well.”
Xia Wei kept her head down, shovelling rice, her ears a bit hot.
She had never heard Song Qiao praise her to her face before, but hearing it said right in front of her mom, she suddenly didn’t know how to react.
“She’s just not one for talking, keeps everything bottled up inside,” Zhou Ci sighed. “Around the time she went through that breakup earlier, she stayed at home for half a year without stepping out the door. Her dad and I were worried sick, but she wouldn’t talk to us either.”
Xia Wei’s hand gripping the chopsticks tightened slightly. “Mom—” She drew out the ending syllable, meaning “Stop talking about it.”
Zhou Ci glanced at her and didn’t continue, but Song Qiao put down her chopsticks, looked at Zhou Ci, and spoke in a voice softer than usual.
“Auntie Zhou, Xiaowei has helped me a lot at the company. Without her, this project wouldn’t be running this smoothly right now.”
Xia Wei froze for a moment. She raised her head and looked at Song Qiao.
Song Qiao wasn’t looking at her; her gaze was fixed on Zhou Ci, and her expression was very serious, not sounding like polite flattery at all.
Zhou Ci froze for a moment as well, then smiled, her smile carrying a kind of pride and heartache unique to mothers.
“That’s good, that’s good. Take her under your wing more. This girl, she needs someone to give her a push.” Zhou Ci picked up her bowl and put another helping of food into Song Qiao’s bowl. “Eat more, look how thin you are.”
Song Qiao looked down at the food that had appeared in her bowl again, the corners of her mouth twitching. She picked up her chopsticks and ate that piece of rib, eating very slowly, as if she were seriously tasting it.
“Delicious,” she said.
Zhou Ci’s eyes brightened: “If it’s delicious, eat more. Come over whenever you’re free on the weekends from now on, Auntie will cook for you.”
Listening from the side, Xia Wei always felt something was off.
Since when had her mom been this enthusiastic toward anyone else? Last time Fang Tian came over for dinner, Zhou Ci just said “eat more” and didn’t reach the level of “come over whenever you’re free on the weekends.”
Song Qiao ate another piece of rib, this time eating a bit faster than the last.
The way she ate was completely different from banquets—at banquets she only held a wine glass and talked, barely touching the food; now she sat at Xia Wei’s small dining table, with a bowl of rice and a plate of home-cooked dishes in front of her, eating very seriously, as if completing a task she hadn’t done in a long time.
“Xiaowei, what are you daydreaming for? Go ladle some soup for Song Qiao.” Zhou Ci nudged Xia Wei with her elbow.
Xia Wei snapped out of it, picked up Song Qiao’s bowl, ladled a bowl of soup, and placed it beside her hand.
Song Qiao said “Thank you,” her voice lighter and softer than usual.
Halfway through the meal, Zhou Ci suddenly asked, “Song Qiao, where is your family from? What do your parents do?”
Xia Wei almost choked on her soup; was her mom running a background check?
Song Qiao put down her chopsticks and didn’t answer right away. She picked up her soup bowl and took a sip, as if giving herself a moment.
“My parents are abroad,” she said, her tone very flat. “It’s been many years.”
Zhou Ci froze for a moment, glanced at Xia Wei, and Xia Wei hurriedly signaled her with her eyes to stop asking.
“Then you’re alone in the country?” Zhou Ci ignored Xia Wei, her voice growing softer, carrying a kind of maternal heartache. She had assumed Song Qiao was just working hard in this city by herself, not expecting her parents to be completely abroad.
“Yeah,” Song Qiao put down her soup bowl. “I’m used to it.”
Those two words—”I’m used to it”—were said very flatly, so flatly it sounded like she was talking about something completely irrelevant.
But Xia Wei heard what lay beneath those two words. It wasn’t the ease of “being used to it,” it was the helplessness of “having no choice but to get used to it.”
Zhou Ci went silent and didn’t ask any further. She put another helping of food into Song Qiao’s bowl with a movement lighter than before, as if afraid of startling something.
After the meal, Xia Wei cleared the dishes. Song Qiao stood up to help, but was pushed back down onto the sofa by Zhou Ci.
“You’re a guest, sit and rest. Let Xiaowei do it.” Zhou Ci carried the plates into the kitchen.
Song Qiao sat on the sofa, her back and waist still held quite straight, but more relaxed than when she had first come in. Her gaze fell on that family photo under the coffee table, lingering for several seconds.
“Your mom is a very nice person,” she said.
Xia Wei was wiping the table and gave an acknowledgment: “Yeah.”
“The food she cooks is also very delicious.”
Xia Wei looked up at her. Song Qiao was leaning against the sofa, her gaze fixed on somewhere outside the window, her expression very calm.
Yet Xia Wei felt that this was the most relaxed moment she had ever seen of Song Qiao—not the tight-wound calmness of the office, but that genuine relaxation of someone who had eaten a full meal and was sitting on a friend’s living room sofa.
A friend? Being friends with Song Qiao wasn’t bad either.
“Director Song,” Xia Wei began.
“Hmm.”
“If you’re ever free on the weekends, you can come to my house for dinner.” Xia Wei paused. “My mom said so.”
Song Qiao turned her head to look at her, that look seeming surprised, or perhaps like someone who hadn’t received this kind of invitation in a long time and didn’t know how to respond.
“Okay,” Song Qiao said.
Just a single word, but Xia Wei felt that this word carried much more weight than “thank you.”
Zhou Ci came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of freshly cut fruit and placed it on the coffee table. “Have some fruit, you just bought these oranges, they’re very sweet.”
Song Qiao glanced at the plate of oranges, then looked at Zhou Ci, the corners of her mouth curving. Unlike her usual cold-as-a-blade smile, it was a very faint, yet genuinely smiling arc.
“Thank you, Auntie Zhou.”
Zhou Ci sat down beside her, picked up a piece of orange, and handed it over. Song Qiao took it and took a bite; the juice burst out in her mouth, very sweet.
“Delicious,” she said.
Zhou Ci smiled, her eyes curving into crescents, exactly the same as the young mother holding Xia Wei in the family photo.
Xia Wei stood beside the dining table, watching the two people on the sofa—her mom and Song Qiao—separated by the width of a cushion, each holding a piece of orange, with a family drama playing softly on the television, the air conditioner blowing warm air, and the rain outside having stopped.
She suddenly felt as though she had seen this scene somewhere before.
Maybe in a dream.
Maybe in some scene about the “future” that she had never dared to imagine.
On Monday morning, Song Qiao turned back into that cold, ruthless Director Song.
The air in the Production and Promotion Department was filled with a scent of gunpowder.
When Xia Wei arrived, Xie Xiaoqing was standing by her workstation holding a cup of soy milk without drinking it, her eyes fixed on the end of the corridor. “The Business Department people are here again,” she lowered her voice. “Zhao恒 brought his deputy right into Director Song’s office, and the door’s been shut this whole time—fifteen minutes already.”
Xia Wei put down her bag and glanced toward the direction of the director’s office.
Behind the frosted glass, three figures—two sitting, one standing. The standing one was Song Qiao.
“What are they here for?” Xia Wei asked.
“Who knows,” Xie Xiaoqing bit down on her straw. “But definitely not to wish us a happy new year.”
The office area was dead silent.
Everyone was pricking up their ears, but the soundproofing was too good; you couldn’t hear a thing.
Occasionally a muffled voice drifted out, impossible to tell who was speaking, only hearing a rapid pace like an argument.
The door opened.
Zhao Heng came out first, wearing that habitual smile—corners of the mouth turned up, no light in his eyes.
His deputy followed behind holding a folder, looking tighter than him.
Song Qiao walked out last, standing at the doorway without seeing them off.
When Zhao Heng passed the office area, his footsteps slowed down. He swept his gaze across everyone’s faces, like a dull blade, not fast, but uncomfortable.
“The Production and Promotion Department’s setup is really getting ready for war,” he smiled, his tone sounding like a joke, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
No one answered.
Lin远 kept his head down flipping through documents; Xie Xiaoqing stared at her computer screen, her fingers hammering away at lightning speed.
Xia Wei lowered her head, pretending to read her notebook, but her peripheral vision stayed fixed on Zhao Heng.
Zhao Heng’s gaze landed on Lin远, pausing for a moment: “Lin远, the Starlight Project KOL data. I looked at it. Not bad.”
He paused: “But your backup proposal lost quite a bit of influence, didn’t it? Want the Business Department to help you find a few?”
Lin远 raised his head, glanced at him, and then looked at Song Qiao.
Song Qiao was standing at the office doorway, her expression completely unchanged.
“Thanks for the offer, Director Zhao,” Lin远’s voice was very steady. “The Production and Promotion Department can handle it ourselves.”
Zhao Heng smiled and nodded.
“Alright, you guys carry on.” He turned and walked away, his deputy following closely behind with faster steps than when they arrived.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor grew more distant until it disappeared.
Song Qiao didn’t offer any explanations, simply saying: “Meeting.”
Meeting Room Three was packed along both sides of the long table.
It was the same setup as last week, but the atmosphere had changed—it wasn’t purely tense; it was that tight breath you hold after someone blocks your door.
Song Qiao sat at the head of the table without speaking immediately like usual.
She leaned back against her chair, sweeping her gaze around the circle from left to right, right to left.
“What just happened, you all saw it,” her voice wasn’t loud, but every word was crystal clear. “The Business Department coming isn’t to help; they came to see how we die.”
No one spoke.
“Last week, the Business Department rejected our business expansion proposal, saying our content ‘does not match the market direction they are developing.’ I won’t explain what this ‘market direction’ is; you all understand yourselves.” Song Qiao’s tone was flat, flat enough to sound like she was reading a file.
The fingers Xia Wei used to hold her pen tightened slightly.
The Business Department’s “market direction” was traffic, live-streaming sales, and quick short-term monetization. The Starlight Project was about long-term cultivation, not a one-time deal.
Since they weren’t walking the same path, naturally no one was going to clear the way for you.
“Last week, I secured the first investment myself—five million,” Song Qiao opened her notebook. “This week, there are three more brands in talks. We don’t need the Business Department’s budget; we don’t need their resources. The Production and Promotion Department will pull its own investments, negotiate its own business deals, and make its own market.”
She raised her head and looked at everyone.
“Any questions?”
“None.” Lin远’s voice came out first, firmer than last week.
“None,” Xie Xiaoqing followed.
“None,” other voices rang out sequentially, not loud, but each one steadier than the last.
Song Qiao nodded and opened her notebook. “Good. Let’s go through progress updates.”
Lin远 stood up, clicked the remote, and a data table appeared on the projection screen.
“KOL communication matrix: a total of twelve content pieces were published over the weekend, with a total exposure of twenty-three million and an interaction rate of 4.7%, exceeding expectations. Mainstream platform hashtag #StarlightProject# read count increased by twelve million, with thirty-four thousand discussion posts.”
“Individual traffic: Cheng Nuo’s solo video had the highest view count at 890,000, while Lu Ang’s follower growth was the fastest, gaining 6,000 over the weekend.”
Song Qiao looked at the screen without speaking.
Lin远 paused and continued: “This Wednesday, the official announcement posters and short videos for the six trainees will be released across all channels. On Friday, the first trailer for ‘Road to Starlight’ goes live. Next Monday, the main episode airs.”
“How is the trailer editing coming along?” Song Qiao asked.
Xie Xiaoqing took over: “Three versions of the trailer have been produced. Director Song, you confirmed the third version yesterday. The post-production team is adding subtitles and sound effects, and the final cut will be ready before Tuesday.”
“Before Tuesday, send it to me for final review.”
“Got it.”
“What about the visual design?”
“All four main visual posters have been finalized, confirmed by Party A and the platform. Material distribution across all channels will be completed within today.”
Song Qiao wrote a line in her notebook, raised her head, closed the notebook, and stood up.
She didn’t immediately say “Meeting dismissed,” but stood there looking at everyone.
“The Business Department coming today was to see if we’ve fallen apart,” her voice wasn’t high, but every word sounded like a nail driven into wood. “What did they see? Did they see us falling apart?”
“No,” Lin远 said.
“Then what did they see?”
The meeting room fell silent for a fraction of a second. Then Xie Xiaoqing spoke up, her voice not loud, but very clear: “They saw that we are still doing our own work.”
Song Qiao looked at her, the corners of her mouth twitching in a very shallow, but genuine smile.
“Right,” Song Qiao said. “They saw that no matter what they do, the things we are supposed to do won’t be reduced by a single thing.”
She picked up her folder, walked to the door, paused, and looked back.
“Meeting dismissed.”
Almost simultaneously, everyone started packing up their things. This time Xia Wei walked out last, closing her notebook and waiting for the crowd to clear out.
Xia Wei closed the door, stood in the corridor, and took a deep breath.
She remembered what Song Qiao had said—”They came because they’re getting anxious.”
That look when Zhao Heng passed the office area, smiling as he said “The Production and Promotion Department’s setup is really getting ready for war”—there was no smile in his eyes.
Yes, they were anxious.
Chen Yu was going to attend the debut ceremony; Zhao Heng couldn’t sit still anymore. Although Song Qiao hadn’t secured the interview time slot, she had gained Chen Yu’s support.
And Song Qiao really had secured investments on her own, really pushed the Starlight Project forward step by step, and really made it happen without them.
They came not to help, but to see—just how far this project beyond their control had actually progressed.
Xia Wei returned to her desk to organize the meeting minutes, her gaze involuntarily drifting toward the closed door of Song Qiao’s office.
During lunch, Xia Wei sat opposite Xie Xiaoqing: “Sister Xiaoqing, why are you eating in such a hurry?”
“Eat fast so I can go back to work. That old bald donkey from the Business Department actually dared to come provoke us, treating us like pushovers. Once this project succeeds…”
Xie Xiaoqing looked left and right, lowering her voice: “They’ll have to detour around us. Hurry up and eat so we can head back.”
Xia Wei obediently sped up.
By the end of the day, Xia Wei felt her bones were about to fall apart, feeling like she was paying off last week’s debts.
Dragging her exhausted body back home, Xia Wei heard the voices of her dad, Xia Yiyuan, and her grandma, Wen Huaiyu, coming from the kitchen.
“Dad, Grandma,” Xia Wei walked into the kitchen and called out.
“Weifei, back from work? Wait for Grandma to make you something delicious,” Wen Huaiyu smiled, her face a web of wrinkles.
Xia Yiyuan squatted on the floor organizing local specialties, glanced up at Xia Wei, and said nothing.
Xia Wei couldn’t be bothered to talk to Xia Yiyuan either, turning to walk into the living room, tossing her bag down, and sitting next to Zhou Ci.
Zhou Ci glanced toward the kitchen: “Don’t mind your dad; he’s just a feudal-minded old fossil, even more ancient than your grandma.”
“Got it,” Xia Wei yawned from exhaustion.
Zhou Ci looked at her with heartache: “Hungry? Have a piece of bread first to tide you over.”
“Not hungry, just tired,” Xia Wei leaned against a cushion, her eyes squinting shut as her voice grew smaller and smaller.
At dinner time, Xia Wei deliberately sat opposite Xia Yiyuan. Didn’t want to look at her?
She was going to make her dad Xia Yiyuan look right at her and drive him crazy.
“Good granddaughter, hurry and try this chicken soup, authentic free-range chicken stewed for two hours,” Wen Huaiyu kept pushing her chicken soup as if completely oblivious to the undercurrents swirling across the dining table.
Xia Wei took a sip: “Mhm, really good.”
Zhou Ci chimed in: “Yeah, Mom, your stewed soup is always the best.”
“If it’s good, drink more. Next time I’ll have them ship some over,” Wen Huaiyu smiled happily, completely ignoring her son Xia Yiyuan’s face darkening into ink.
With no one paying attention to Xia Yiyuan, Xia Wei finished her meal, helped clear the dishes into the kitchen, and dove straight into her bedroom.
Opening her computer to look at project materials for a bit, Xia Wei felt thirsty.
Her grandma’s soup was actually quite salty; as people age, their taste buds degrade, and she always adds too much salt. The family usually stopped letting her grandma cook.
But she couldn’t resist the fact that the ingredients had been brought back from outside today, and her grandma insisted it only tasted good if she made it.
Just as Xia Wei stepped out of her bedroom door, she faintly heard sounds of arguing coming from the kitchen.
“The girl worked hard all day, and still has to look at your sour face when she comes back. Do you really think you’re an emperor with a throne to inherit?”
“I can’t talk sense into you; she’s just wrong for doing this.”
“How is she wrong? Back then I must have been blind to fall for an old fossil like you.”
“Argue later, argue later, I’m heading out first,” Wen Huaiyu wanted to escape as fast as possible, her usually uncooperative legs transforming into nimble flying feet.
Frightened of staying too long and getting caught in the crossfire, she only realized Xia Wei was standing in the living room as soon as she came out.
“Weifei, don’t mind your dad. Just be happy yourself. Look at your little aunt, she’s doing fine now—the only one who doesn’t get it is that old fart kicking the bucket.” Wen Huaiyu walked over and patted Xia Wei’s shoulder.
Hearing the phrase “kicking the bucket,” Xia Wei’s previously tense face instantly relaxed, and she burst out laughing.
“Grandma, you’re the best,” Xia Wei hooked her arm through Wen Huaiyu’s and acted spoiled.
Wen Huaiyu’s cloudy eyes lit up: “Good granddaughter, then bring me a cup of that milk tea tomorrow, no pearls, too hard to chew.”
“Grandma, you need to manage your blood sugar,” Xia Wei let go of Wen Huaiyu’s arm with a serious expression.
Wen Huaiyu smacked her lips: “If you won’t buy it, fine… can’t I buy it myself…”
The last half-sentence was muttered quietly, but Xia Wei was young with sharp hearing.
“I’ll have Mom keep an eye on you, old mischievous kid.” Xia Wei’s words hit like magic spells echoing in the ear, causing Wen Huaiyu to quickly scurry toward her bedroom.
Xia Wei watched Wen Huaiyu return to her room. The argument in the kitchen had stopped the moment her grandma started talking to her, though neither of them came out.
Pouring herself a glass of water, Xia Wei held her cup and turned back toward her room when her phone rang. Thinking it was Fang Tian, she pulled it out and saw it was her cousin.
Cousin: Heard from my dad that uncle is back, are you holding up okay?
Xia Wei replied while walking toward her room.
Xia Wei: I’m fine, just annoyed whenever I see my dad. I’m waiting for a couple of days off to go find a place and move out.
Cousin: What place are you looking for? I have a vacant apartment, completely move-in ready.
Xia Wei felt a bit tempted: How much is rent?
Cousin: ……
Xia Wei: Are utilities included?
Cousin: Do you want me to hire you a maid too?
Xia Wei: Where is it?
Her cousin quickly sent over an address, accompanied by a string of numbers labeled as the password.
“Emerald Bay.” Xia Wei frowned deeply; this residential complex address was identical to the navigation system destination in Song Qiao’s car.