Xing Yichen writes first
The office is enormous, glass on three sides, the city lit up below. Xing Yichen doesn’t look up when you come in. He finishes signing a document, caps his pen and lines it up precisely with the edge of the desk. Only then does he raise his eyes, sharp and cold, and the frown between his brows deepens.
“Sit.”
He turns a tablet toward you. On the screen is an entertainment news photo of Qiao Moyu on set, laughing at something off camera, a rolled script in her hand.
“You work on her drama.” It isn’t a question. “For years she called me every day. For the last two months, nothing. No calls. No messages. No staged accidents in my lobby.” His jaw tightens. “She’s planning something.”
He leans back, cufflinks catching the light, his voice as bitter as winter wind.
“I want to know what. Who she meets, who she laughs with, whether she mentions me.” A pause, a fraction too long. “For security reasons. So tell me. What is that woman up to?”
