1. White Camellia

Chi Xing knew from the age of six that “being beautiful” was a useful thing.

On her sixth birthday, Sun Juanjuan took her to the department store to pick out a gift. She quickly set her sights on a little white gauze dress. The dress came with a woven sapphire-blue tasseled belt, adorned with two diamond-like glass beads—fresh and lovely.

The dress cost three hundred, and the belt was sold separately for fifty extra.

Chi Xing loved the belt and, after trying it on, refused to take it off.

Sun Juanjuan couldn’t bear to spend the extra fifty and tried to persuade her to give up the belt. Chi Xing, using some skill she’d picked up somewhere, began to cry—not wailing, but with her lips pressed tight, her little face flushed, tears rolling down like she’d suffered all the world’s grievances.

There were a few customers standing by the counter. One of them stepped forward and paid for both the dress and the belt. Sun Juanjuan tried to refuse the unexpected kindness, but the person had already left, saying as they went, “A pretty little girl should wear pretty clothes.”

And so, Chi Xing ended up with both the dress and the belt.

She was far too young to understand the deeper meaning behind this unexpected gift. She only remembered her own light steps on the way home, her mother’s sweaty palm, and her mother’s repeated reminders to keep it all a secret—not to let her father know where the dress and belt had come from.

Later, Chi Xing developed a habit of loving white dresses. Her hair was thick, dark, and slightly wavy, her features strikingly beautiful with a hint of wildness; dressed in white, she looked both stunning and pure.

“Did you know the screenwriter Mai Zi described you as a ‘white camellia’?”

The question pulled Chi Xing’s attention back to the interview.

“He was talking about that candid shot of you drinking in Lan Kwai Fong,” the director asked, “what do you think of his description?”

Last week, Chi Xing had gone to Hong Kong for a shoot. A friend invited her out for drinks in Lan Kwai Fong. She went straight from the set, still in her makeup and costume. Chi Xing had seen the candid photo—she’d marveled at the paparazzi’s high-resolution phone and expert photography.

Her gaze met the camera, a trace of a smile at her lips; she seemed to leap out from the surrounding darkness, striking and unforgettable. When tipsy, she always laughed loudly, her cheeks flushed with drink, her eyes bright and moist.

The photo spread online. Mai Zi saw it and said she resembled a white camellia—heavy with desire and beauty, the kind of woman any man would want to keep at home, even if only to look at in a vase.

Chi Xing’s eyes curved in a smile. “I never pay attention to nonsense online.”

The director was very satisfied with her answer and quickly moved on. “We heard you’ve been taking dance lessons lately for the film ‘Earthquake Tremor’?”

Chi Xing nodded—she liked this question and her enthusiasm grew.

“Earthquake Tremor” told the story of a dancer, and she was playing the lead. The collaboration was nearly finalized, and Chi Xing had already started from scratch with dance lessons.

She shared some amusing stories from her classes and showed off photos on her phone. The director complimented how beautiful she looked in her dance costume, then suddenly asked, “Do you think it’s possible for someone to be ‘beautiful but unaware of it’?”

Chi Xing smiled sweetly. “How could that be?”

“You don’t agree?” asked the director.

Behind the director and cameraman, her agent Chang Xiaoyan shot frantic looks at Chi Xing.

This was yesterday’s trending topic on Weibo, attached to another hot actress’s name. An international director had praised that actress as “beautiful but unaware of it,” and her fans had pushed the phrase to the top of the hot search.

Chi Xing smiled. “A real actor rarely cares if they’re beautiful on camera. We care more about other things—like how to portray the character.”

Chang Xiaoyan smacked her forehead and silently cursed.

Of course, the director wouldn’t let the opportunity slip. “So what is a real actor?”

Chi Xing continued, “Beautiful but not vain, I suppose. Once a beauty becomes narcissistic, she stops being lovable.”

Chang Xiaoyan sighed with her hand to her forehead.

The interview program was called “Fifteen-Minute Question”—each episode was fifteen minutes, focusing on a single celebrity. Chi Xing’s schedule was packed, so they could only squeeze the interview into the half hour before shooting began. The outline had arrived the day before; Chang Xiaoyan had carefully prepared all the answers and made Chi Xing memorize them.

Back in the dressing room, Chang Xiaoyan turned to her, face fierce. “Do you want me to curse you back to dust and ashes?”

Chi Xing lit a cigarette. “Your answers were too long. I couldn’t memorize them. Didn’t I do well enough?”

Chang Jie snapped, “What nonsense! That’s going to get you roasted online in no time!”

Chi Xing bit her cigarette and clapped. “Isn’t that perfect? You all love it when I trend.”

Her smile melted Chang Xiaoyan’s anger.

Chi Xing was flawless in every detail. If you looked at her features separately, there were always little flaws—eyebrows too thick, nose too high, lips a bit thin—but together on her soft, pure face, they all fit. Anyone who saw her had to remember her. Even the imperfections became memorable. And her eyes—her eyes were too good, too powerful.

Chang Xiaoyan sighed, flipping through her schedule. “You’re impossible. You say what you shouldn’t, and what you should say, you don’t. Even if you don’t like that actress, you didn’t have to be so direct.”

Chi Xing closed her eyes and began removing her makeup. “She’s taken swipes at me more than once, openly or behind my back. Why should you be so nervous just because I spoke the truth once?”

Chang Xiaoyan knew she hadn’t liked today’s interview and changed the subject. “Today is the wrap-up scene. The director told me yesterday: the live sound isn’t ideal, so we’ll need to find time to record ADR in the studio.”

Chi Xing rarely complained about work and nodded her agreement.

Chang Xiaoyan sighed again. “When will you finally make it to the top tier?”

Chi Xing instantly raised her fist. “Xiaoyan, let’s keep going!”

Today she had to film a wire stunt scene—her character, a special agent, would massacre everyone in this warehouse to avenge her humiliated younger brother.

Chi Xing walked around the warehouse, memorizing the fight choreography and positions. She looked up and saw a nervous, unfamiliar girl sitting in a corner.

The girl was watching the crew lay down tracks at the entrance. When Chi Xing approached, the girl jumped as if scalded, whispering, “Ms. Chi, h-hello…”

Chi Xing asked what she was doing on set.

“My cousin brought me here as a background extra,” the girl stammered, “and said I could… maybe ask for your autograph…”

Chi Xing studied her. “Do you like acting?”

The girl was still confused. “I’ve never done it before.”

Chi Xing pointed to a few apple boxes the girl had been sitting on. “Those are called apple boxes. Women shouldn’t sit on them.”

The girl was alarmed, hurriedly wiping down the box. “Why not?”

Chi Xing felt as if she was seeing herself on set for the first time.

“I still don’t know why,” she said with a laugh. “My first time on set, I waited for seven hours from day to night. There weren’t enough chairs, so I sat on an apple box—and got yelled at.”

“Your first show was ‘Tiger’s Fang’!” the girl exclaimed, “You played the third sister with half her head shaved—it was so cool!”

Chi Xing felt a kinship with her and signed several autographs.

“Tiger’s Fang” was her first job in the industry.

A friend dragged her along as an extra—thirty yuan a day, just walking back and forth as a passerby. Unfortunately, it rained during the day. By night, the ground was shining with reflections. The director changed the scene, redid the lights, and the set was chaos.

She and her friend waited so long that they grew tired and sat on a wooden box, daydreaming.

The director was from Hong Kong and superstitious—he had a roast pig for the opening ceremony, invited all the gods, wore a Guan Gong medallion on his hat. The shoot wasn’t going well, and he was already irritable. When he saw the two girls sitting on the apple boxes, he sprinted over.

Chi Xing didn’t know he was the director. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have backed down. There was shouting—one rude, one defiant—until the set nearly collapsed.

In the midst of the argument, the director stroked his chin, looked her up and down, and asked, “Would you dare shave your head?”

The third sister in “Tiger’s Fang” had a pivotal scene—shaving off half her long hair on camera. It was a two-minute close-up, one long take, no dialogue—a serious test of acting.

It was a last-minute change. The original actress had a hair product endorsement and couldn’t shave her head, so she quit.

Chi Xing auditioned, still angry, teeth clenched, staring at the director with a look that could kill.

She was nineteen then, beautiful but still raw, her gaze fierce as a wild animal, fire hidden deep in her pupils. Shaving her hair was a commitment—she had to transform from “third sister” into Tiger’s Fang’s stand-in, waiting for her brother’s uncertain return.

She used a comb as a razor, grabbed her hair as if to cut it off, and her eyes filled with tears. She’d just been yelled at for no reason, after all. Third sister was just as wronged—she’d tried so hard to escape her family, only to be dragged back to face life and death.

The third sister had to cry, and so did Chi Xing. The tears welled in her eyes, but for a long time, they wouldn’t fall.

The director, who was also the producer, made his decision on the spot. “Use her.”

“Tiger’s Fang” went on to win awards in Hong Kong, was distributed in more than a dozen countries, and screened at film festivals. The promotional posters were everywhere—one of them was a solo poster of Chi Xing.

In the mottled light, half of third sister’s face was lost in shadow. She looked like a gun, cocked and ready.

Chi Xing felt that the person on the poster didn’t look like her at all. The expression, the attitude—so unfamiliar.

She and her friends from the crew sat in the last row, quietly watching the audience’s reactions.

The audience loved it. When the third sister took on a gang alone, Chi Xing heard someone gasp.

Someone squeezed her hand and smiled—encouragement, surprise. But Chi Xing felt anxious.

The bold, capable woman on the screen wasn’t her—it was an incarnation called “third sister.” The audience loved the third sister. They had no idea who “Chi Xing” was.

After the film ended, everyone went out drinking. Drunk, they sat on the curb, staring into space. Chi Xing bought a bottle of water and returned to find some of them tipsily talking to a stray dog. “…Did you see that? My name, in the credits…I wrote eight minutes of the script, but I’m not officially a screenwriter…”

The dog gnawed a chicken bone, barely listening. Chi Xing squatted beside them. One of the girls leaned on her shoulder, hair soft, murmuring in her sleep, “One day my name…will be in the opening credits…I’ll be a director…a great director…Chi Xing, my dream…is to make my own movie…”

Chi Xing had no dreams.

She’d come from a small county to the big city and started working crazy part-time jobs her first year of college. She wanted money. Filming “Tiger’s Fang” for a month, she earned three thousand—a fortune.

She knew the set was full of clever people and fools. The people around her were fools.

She’d shot hundreds of takes for “Tiger’s Fang.” In the end, only 8 minutes and 26 seconds of her scenes made the final cut.

Chi Xing thought she was a fool, too. She’d gotten her money—so why was she still so dissatisfied?

That day was her twentieth birthday. Five or six people and a stray dog spent half the night on the street, crying and laughing.

From then on, she’d been acting for twelve years.

After making her rounds, Chi Xing saw Chang Xiaoyan waving to her from the lounge.

“Chi! The next one is ‘Earthquake Tremor,’ right?” she called as Chi Xing ran over, passing the screenwriter who was smoking. The screenwriter rasped, “I read that script! It’s written for awards! Fantastic stuff—do your best, Chi!”

Chi Xing had only seen a multi-thousand-word outline. She smiled, “Absolutely!”

Chang Xiaoyan clutched her phone, hesitating. Chi Xing remembered her tight schedule: after filming, there was a wrap party, but before that, she had to go back to the company to meet the producer for “Earthquake Tremor.” If all went well, she’d sign the letter of intent today.

“Xiaoyan, did you bring the wine for the producer?” Chi Xing looked around.

“I did,” Chang Xiaoyan pulled her into the lounge, “…never mind, let’s keep it for ourselves. We won’t need it.”

A chill ran through Chi Xing. “Why not?”

“The lead actress in ‘Earthquake Tremor’ has been replaced,” Chang Xiaoyan replied. “The company made the decision today.”

The lounge went silent. Only Chi Xing’s quickened breath could be heard. On instinct, she reached for her pocket, but her phone wasn’t there.

“Give me your phone.” All traces of warmth vanished from Chi Xing’s face, replaced by icy anger. “The company? Was it Lin Shuchuan?”

She dialed Lin Shuchuan with Chang Xiaoyan’s phone. On the screen, the contact name flashed: “Creditor.” Chang Xiaoyan coughed and glanced at the makeup artist, saying nothing.

The call connected. Chi Xing took a deep breath. “It’s Chi Xing. Why was I replaced as the lead in ‘Earthquake Tremor’?”

A moment later, a lazy voice replied, “Because someone doesn’t know how to behave.”