Meng Shizhen thought Zhou Zhi had improper intentions toward Fang Jiang and immediately turned cold-faced. "This is the first time I've heard of a writer trying to leverage power over an actor. Who do you think you are? Mo Yan or Mao Ni? How dare someone like you even entertain such thoughts. If it weren't for Song Yuan recommending you, who would know you exist? You—you're just an unknown, penniless writer. How many people have actually read your novels? A few hundred at most, I'd wager. I'm almost impressed by your audacity—it's utterly ridiculous. Believe me, one phone call from me is all it takes to ensure you never write again!"

And to think Fang Jiang had kindly invited her to dinner. What a waste—better to have fed it to a dog.

At first, Zhou Zhi thought Fang Jiang had seen through her hidden feelings and felt a flicker of embarrassment. But the next moment, Meng Shizhen's words ignited her anger. It was one thing for the other to suspect her of ill intentions toward Fang Jiang—understandable, given how common such things were in the entertainment industry, and she could dismiss it as an overactive imagination, treating Fang Jiang like some universally adored prize. But that final remark carried a naked threat and malice. The most infuriating part was that Meng Shizhen was right: one phone call could indeed end her writing career.

Furious, Zhou Zhi laughed and even clapped sarcastically. "How impressive, Miss Meng, what power—a single call to alter the fate of us little people. And truly, how fortunate I am to have caught your attention, such an honor. But let me make this clear: you can stop me from publishing, but you can never stop me from writing. Thoughts are free, and so are words. Even under constraints, control, and limitations, they remain free. Who wants to be Mo Yan? If I aspire to be anyone, it's Calvino."

Her gaze swept over Song Yuan, who seemed torn between explaining to Meng Shizhen and not knowing how. Zhou Zhi sneered, "It's true I'm an obscure author, but at least I have principles. Why did I refuse to sell the rights to you? I told the editor the first time, and I told Miss Song the last time—did no one pass it on? Ha, these days there are many 'Emperor's New Clothes,' but few children willing to speak the truth. It's simple: I don't think much of—"

(The Emperor's New Clothes means that people can be easily fooled or afraid to speak the truth. It teaches a lesson about honesty and the importance of speaking up.)

"Shang Que!" Song Yuan shouted, trying to stop the bristling Zhou Zhi.

Meng Shizhen also sensed the situation escalating and realized her misunderstanding. "Miss Zhou..."

"Don't stop her. Let her speak. Go on, say it—if you don't, you're no better than a coward. You just want to say you look down on my acting, don't you?" Fang Jiang bit out each word through gritted teeth.

The superstar was furious, but her beautiful face didn't contort with rage. Instead, beneath a strained composure, a profound sorrow stirred. Because she cared, she was sensitive, once her weakness was exposed, she erupted.

Hearing the truth spoken with such stubborn defiance, Zhou Zhi felt no satisfaction. It was clear this was the star's sore spot, and striking it gave Zhou Zhi a pang of shared pain. Do not do unto others what you do not want done unto you—if she didn't want others criticizing her, she shouldn't criticize them.

But Fang Jiang's words hit her sore spot again. "No matter how poor my acting is, at least people watch me—I have fans. You? You think you write well, but no one reads your work. You know what that's called? Self-admiration, arrogance."

"Hah, yes, someone watches you—trading on your looks. Make the most of these years to film more of those lousy TV dramas, so you can afford to buy awards. That Best Actress title of yours—do you even know it was bought? In a few years, when your looks fade and affection wanes, if you want people to watch you, you'll have to pay for that too."

Fang Jiang jumped up, pointing at Zhou Zhi's forehead. "You—say that again."

"You think I'll say it just because you told me to? That would make me lose face. Don't think I'm afraid of you—I just can't be bothered. Can't. Be. Bothered. Oh, by the way, big star, I made a PowerPoint for you. It's a chart analyzing your outstanding acting skills, so you can have a more intuitive understanding of your own performance. If you dare to look, I'll email it to you." Zhou Zhi refused to back down, standing up as well.

"Email? Send it to me now. Send it over WeChat." Fang Jiang opened WeChat. "Scan my code."

"Fine, I'll scan it."

Meng Shizhen massaged her temples. Even with her usual sharp judgment, she hadn't expected things to escalate to this point. Two people in their thirties had regressed to six-year-olds, rolling up their sleeves and trading barbs, almost coming to blows like butting heads.

At this stage, she no longer felt like mediating. She calmly sat back to enjoy the show. After all, they wouldn't actually fight. The curtains were drawn, the private room was empty, and the soundproofing was decent—no risk of word getting out. This was the first time she'd seen Fang Jiang so furious, trembling with anger. It was also one of the rare moments in recent years, outside of work, where Fang Jiang showed such vibrant energy.

Chinese is quite interesting—both sheng qì, "anger" and "vitality."" The same word (sheng qì), yet it expresses entirely different meanings.

Fang Jiang flipped through the PowerPoint slide by slide. Judging by the heaving of her chest, she was far from calm, piquing Meng Shizhen's curiosity enough to lean in for a look. The presentation was quite well-made—clear charts, comparative data, forum comments—everything was there. It was evident that a lot of effort had gone into it.

No manager would be pleased to see their artist criticized, but today, she had misspoken first and was now just watching. No matter how detestable this writer might be, at least she was a stimulus for Fang Jiang—and from the looks of it, not a bad one.

After finishing the PowerPoint, Fang Jiang looked at Zhou Zhi with a strange expression, a flicker of light in her captivating eyes. "Hey, you're not secretly in love with me, are you?"

The kind of fake anti-fan who's actually a true fan, the type who crosses dimensional boundaries and turns love into hatred. Otherwise, who would spend so much time and effort on something like this? Before becoming an actress, she had interned at a company and knew exactly how much work went into making a PowerPoint—especially since the data here had been processed and wasn't raw.

Meng Shizhen and Song Yuan choked.

Zhou Zhi, already fuming from the argument with Fang Jiang, was drinking water and cursing herself for losing her temper when she was blindsided by such a ridiculous conclusion.

Does the big star have an overinflated ego? Is narcissism a prerequisite for stardom? Where did she get the idea that I'm secretly in love with her?

Thinking everyone has a crush on you is a sickness that needs treatment.

Zhou Zhi rolled her eyes. "Thank you for your hospitality today. It was a pleasure meeting you all. I hope we have the chance to collaborate in the future. Well, if there's nothing else, I'll take my leave." She directed her anger at Song Yuan as well, not wanting to say another word.

Now that Fang Jiang had seen her masterpiece, she could consider her mission accomplished. As for collaboration—that was just polite talk. Surely no one would take it seriously. After all, they had just been shouting at each other, and the thought alone was embarrassing.

Yet, amid the embarrassment, there was a certain satisfaction.

Not just anyone can quarrel with a big celebrity—first, you rarely get the chance to meet them. Second, it's hard to even start an argument. Think about those wealthy second-generation heirs who spend hundreds of thousands just to share a meal or a night with a star—but quarreling?

Wishful thinking.

If you want something from them, you won't quarrel. If you want nothing, you'll never cross paths.

As for ordinary people, celebrities don't give them the opportunity. If you curse them as crazy or foolish, security and bodyguards will swiftly escort you out.

Zhou Zhi straightened her chest, feeling a hint of pride. The small joys and vanities of ordinary folk.

Her socially awkward persona, the big star's elegant and intellectual image—all were tossed to the winds, shattered to pieces. It would be fitting to livestream this, to let Fang Jiang's fans see, to truly see how their goddess had just acted like a shrew.

Zhou Zhi felt like laughing, and she did—a laugh that seemed to say, "Since I've already messed up, I might as well enjoy it."

"Hey, big star, the way you were just now was way more interesting than you in those brain-dead dramas. You're actually quite expressive—why do you always wear the same expression?"

Fang Jiang choked back, torn between laughter and exasperation. "You call them brain-dead dramas, yet you still watch them? I can't even sit through them myself."

With that, she burst into hearty laughter, tears streaming from her eyes.

The big star wiped her tears boldly with the back of her hand. Zhou Zhi couldn't stand it and pulled out a handkerchief to hand to her.

Fang Jiang slapped her hand away but snatched the handkerchief. "Such an old-fashioned person, still carrying a handkerchief."

"Big star, we're the same age."

"You dare trust Baidu's information?"

"I use Google."

"Maybe I shaved off three years."

"You mean you're three years older than me? Well, that makes me feel better."

"Huh?" Wiping the tears from the corner of her eye, her voice slightly hoarse, Fang Jiang said, "What about me could possibly make you feel insecure? Tell me quickly, so I can feel better too."

Zhou Zhi didn't want to say—just moments ago, she had been pointing at her forehead and cursing.

"Come on, tell me! Tell me!"

This person was strange—she actually enjoyed hearing others praise her. Had the overwhelming flood of "Marry me, hubby! Marry me, wifey! So beautiful! Love you!" failed to satisfy her craving?

"Tell me! Tell me!" Her soft, coquettish tone was a world apart from before, making it hard to tell whether the earlier quarrel was a dream or this gentle conversation was.

Zhou Zhi was baffled. She simply sat down beside Fang Jiang.

To avoid being caught in the crossfire, Meng Shizhen and Song Yuan had long since moved to a nearby bench, taking the remaining desserts and coffee with them. One moment they were hurling insults, the next they were sitting together—they really couldn't understand young people these days.

"Tell me." Fang Jiang pressed her relentlessly.

"Alright, alright." Even gods would show more indulgence toward someone breathtakingly beautiful, let alone mere mortals. Zhou Zhi said, "Look, we're the same age, but you appear mature, beautiful, and graceful, while I seem... foolish. You're indispensable to the world, while I'm utterly replaceable."

That's it? Fang Jiang laughed. "Even if I were thirty years older than you, it'd still be the same. But don't get your hopes up—the online info is correct. I might even be a few months younger than you."

"That's impossible. Online info says you were born in April, a Taurus. I'm a September Virgo."

"And you claim not to have a crush on me? You even know my birthday. Hey, you're not a former fan turning against me, are you?"

"..." How thick-skinned.

Seeing Zhou Zhi about to say something unpleasant again, Fang Jiang quickly added, "Alright, alright, I know you're not. Who's your goddess? I'll have Song Yuan get you an autograph someday."

"Guan Yin."

"Ah?"

"Only Guan Yin and the Queen Mother of the West can be considered goddesses."

Fang Jiang was speechless, finally understanding why this writer was so obscure. Her thought process was too bizarre, not aligning with mainstream tastes.

Look at that woolen hat she'd been wearing since entering—Fang Jiang didn't believe she wasn't hot, especially with sweat beading on her forehead.

"Hey, you..." Finally, Fang Jiang noticed the strangest thing about Zhou Zhi.

When ordinary people wear hats, it's impossible to contain all their hair inside. There are always stray strands sticking out—one or two at minimum, even with short hair. But this person, this person had no stray hairs.

Fang Jiang saw the sweat but wouldn't use her tear-stained handkerchief to wipe someone else's forehead—not even if it were the handkerchief's owner. What a ridiculous gesture, something only seen in brain-dead dramas. Yet in that moment, possessed by some unknown impulse, she reached out and pulled off Zhou Zhi's hat.

Zhou Zhi never expected such a move and couldn't dodge in time, falling backward onto the floor while clutching her head—a completely bald head.

"What are you doing!"

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