Whether Ms. Tu had heard about the rumors between Cheng Ping and the director remained unknown.

However, the next day, she sent a document to Li Baixi.

Li Baixi quickly skimmed it; the filename was in English: “Script? For Cheng Ping?”

Tu Jian: “No, it’s for you. This director knows your uncle. He’s of Japanese descent and has mostly made commercial films, but he’s quite capable. Recently, he’s working on an independent film script and is putting together a team. They need a costume designer, so we recommended you.”

Surprised, Li Baixi opened the document, finding it entirely in English.

Tu Jian: “Don’t misunderstand, you still have to compete with other candidates with your design drafts.”

Roles in independent films often rely heavily on the director’s preference, and getting the role would largely be a matter of luck.

Li Baixi said slowly, “I’m not sure.”

Tu Jian encouraged him: “It’s a great opportunity to gain experience. Working with this director could teach you a lot, and if you’re lucky, you might even win an award.”

Li Baixi understood all these points. He had always wanted to get into filmmaking, knowing this was a golden opportunity.

However…

“From what I saw, the story has a European background? I’m not the best candidate, am I?”

Ms. Tu impatiently replied, “How would you know without trying? Do you think Europeans necessarily know better than you what people wore in 19th-century France? There’s a team responsible for research anyway.”

Li Baixi was still hesitating. It wasn’t stage fright but the concern that if he actually got selected, he wouldn’t be able to stay close to Cheng Ping.

Tu Jian said meaningfully, “Think about it. The script is quite interesting; you’ll understand when you read it.”

That night, Li Baixi read the entire script and indeed grasped the unspoken meaning behind Tu Jian’s words.

The story was indeed well-suited to him at the moment.

The script, titled “Crane Umbrella,” was set in late 19th-century Paris, revolving around a struggling young painter. He leaves his hometown to make a name for himself in Paris but remains obscure amidst the rise of Impressionism and numerous emerging artists. He only finds inspiration, almost divine, after meeting a destitute boy whose extraordinary beauty captivates him.

He sees the boy as his muse, using him as a model to create a masterpiece that finally brings him fame. However, this encounter also sets the stage for a tragedy.

The boy, named Hiro, is the illegitimate son of a Japanese merchant, born into a lowly background with a dying mother. Thus, he not only models for the painter but also permits further advances.

When the painter is down and out, he sees Hiro as a divine figure and vows to save him. Yet, once he attains fame and tries to transform Hiro along with himself, he starts to find Hiro unfamiliar and loses the captivating divine glow he once saw.

The story’s cunning lies in its narration through the painter’s perspective. The audience views everything through the painter’s eyes, seeing Hiro coming gracefully with a crane umbrella in the rain, giving him joy and sorrow, accompanying him through ups and downs, and then disappearing obediently when needed, sinking into the waves at Le Havre harbor.

From start to finish, the painter is deeply in love with a vaguely defined figure. It seems as if they shared an ocean-deep affection, yet it could just be another painting added to his collection.

The next day, Tu Jian called: “Finished reading?”

Li Baixi: “Yes.”

Tu Jian: “What do you think?”

Last time, in their brief conversation outside the restaurant, her son’s words revealed some psychological states she wanted to delve into but couldn’t. Now, she saw a chance to explore.

Tu Jian: “What do you think of the painter?”

Li Baixi was silent.

Tu Jian asked again: “And Hiro?”

Li Baixi: “I can do it.”

Tu Jian: “?”

Li Baixi: “I have no immediate ideas for the painter, but I already have a visual for Hiro. I actually drew something recently that fits well.”

Tu Jian: “…”

This seemed like a rejection of emotional involvement from the start.

Li Baixi pulled out the stack of costume sketches he had shown Cheng Ping before, and from the bottom, he found a drawing, took a photo, and sent it to Tu Jian.

In the 19th century, ukiyo-e prints were introduced to Paris with trade ships, causing a small trend for kimonos among painters. Many had their models wear kimonos. In this story, there’s a scene where Hiro, dressed as a woman, poses in a furisode for the painter.

Li Baixi: “What do you think of this one? Does it capture the essence?”

Tu Jian: “…Is this Cheng Ping?”

Li Baixi: “The face isn’t important, it’s the costume that matters.”

Despite saying the face wasn’t important, the final design drafts he submitted retained Cheng Ping’s face for Hiro’s everyday look, model pose, and later formal wear. The painter’s face, however, remained vague.

Tu Jian raised an eyebrow: “Did you hear the director hasn’t decided on Hiro’s casting and want to take a chance?”

Li Baixi: “I hadn’t heard. Now I know.”

Tu Jian: “…”

The director initially wanted a Eurasian actor but struggled to find one with the right schedule and style. Considering more options, he saw Li Baixi’s drawings.

Li Baixi’s design drafts weren’t just mechanical displays of costumes. The person in the drawing wore a slightly worn furisode, with drooping eyes, a heavy wig tilting to one side, a few strands of hair falling to the cheeks, reflecting the character’s destitution. Only the bright red lips stood out like a bloodstain, strikingly vivid, seemingly possessing their own will, breaking free from the picture’s confines, flying into a dream world.

Li Baixi had only a tiny hope, almost waiting for a miracle.

He didn’t expect Tu Jian to return with the news: “The director praised your understanding of Oriental aesthetics, especially Hiro’s design. The painter’s design needs more discussion, but he believes you’ll work well together.”

She paused: “Also, he asked about the model in your drawings, if he would be interested in auditioning.”

Li Baixi was caught off guard: “They’re really considering him? Wasn’t it supposed to be a Eurasian actor?”

“Well, the movie will be in English throughout, and actors from China, Japan, and Korea have auditioned. As for being mixed-race, the director’s options were just actors with prominent features, and makeup can do the rest.”

Li Baixi hadn’t mentioned this to Cheng Ping because he didn’t want to raise false hopes. Now, he had to say, “Don’t respond to the director yet, I need to ask Cheng Ping first.”

He delayed his work in New York by a few days to wrap things up and return to China, planning to discuss it with Cheng Ping over a meal.

Cheng Ping waited at his door, bewildered as a luxury car pulled up. Li Baixi got out, opened the door for him gracefully, “Please.”

Cheng Ping: “…What’s this about?”

“Well, I am seriously pursuing you,” Li Baixi said with a smile.

To avoid paparazzi, they followed Cheng Ping’s suggestion and went to a private restaurant known for its confidentiality.

The place was frequented by celebrities and had no public dining area, only separate private rooms. A server greeted them in the underground parking, guiding them straight to their private room via elevator.

Both wearing sunglasses, they stepped out of the luxury car, tall and imposing, their eyes darting around under the sunglasses.

The server led them to their room, offering tea and menus.

Li Baixi had never dated a public figure and never needed to worry about paparazzi, so it was his first time in such a place. Trying not to show his inexperience, he subtly observed his surroundings and Cheng Ping’s reactions.

Cheng Ping had been to similar places for work meetings, but he was busy checking his reflection in any reflective surface, ensuring he looked good.

No problem.

Looked quite good.

The server, noting their orders, kindly reminded them before leaving: “You can take off your sunglasses, gentlemen.”

Li Baixi: “…”

Cheng Ping: “…”

Li Baixi briefly explained the script, and Cheng Ping said: “I’ll do it.”

Li Baixi paused.

Cheng Ping: “?”

Li Baixi seemed to want to smile lightly and agree, but halfway, he changed his mind and seriously said, “Think it over. Let me analyze it for you. To work on this film, you’ll need to brush up your English intensely, or you might not even pass the audition.”

Cheng Ping, having taken the college entrance exam, once had decent English, but years of disuse had eroded his skills. Moreover, acting required more than memorizing lines; he needed to convey emotions through the language, a level he wasn’t currently at.

Cheng Ping: “I’ll take lessons.”

Li Baixi: “I know you will. But it will take a lot of time and effort, costing you other opportunities. Is it worth it? Also, this film won’t be released in China, and being an art film, it might not significantly boost your career unless you win an award, which is still uncertain…”

Cheng Ping interrupted: “I want to act.”

The more he persuaded, the more rebellious Cheng Ping became. Knowing his temper, Li Baixi decided to be direct: “If you’re doing this to be with me on set—”

Cheng Ping frowned: “Don’t underestimate me. Emperor Lu said I have great talent but need more experience and challenges. The harder the role, the more I need to tackle it

. I can’t back down because it’s difficult.”

Li Baixi initially felt some guilt about convincing Cheng Ping to join the project. But hearing Cheng Ping’s firm denial, he couldn’t pinpoint why he felt uneasy.

At that moment, Cheng Ping gave a faint smile: “The secondary reason is for you.”

Li Baixi: “?”

This kid is learning to be cheeky fast.

Cheng Ping’s audition was scheduled for a week later.

His preparations involved two parts: improving his English and losing weight.

Cheng Ping had a well-proportioned young man’s physique, but the role required a slender look, which wasn’t achievable overnight.

So, his friends saw him starving himself, running on a treadmill, sweating profusely, and practicing English with a tutor, looking as sullen as a dried chili pepper.

His manager, upon learning the reason, also opposed it.

Her reasons were similar to Li Baixi’s, with one addition: “Can we talk about Li Baixi now?”

The assistant, knowing Cheng Ping was already a ticking time bomb, tried to signal the manager that it wasn’t a good time.

The manager, however, stood her ground, knowing there wasn’t another opportunity.

Manager: “To be honest, learning about his background initially changed my attitude, thinking he could help you a lot. But after seeing those photos…”

Cheng Ping: “I don’t see any problem with those photos. He’s an adult; having exes is normal.”

Manager: “Have you considered why all his exes are women?”

Cheng Ping hated thinking about exes, impatiently saying, “He’s bisexual.”

Manager: “Can you really call someone bisexual if they’ve never dated a man?”

Cheng Ping, suppressing his anger, asked: “What are you trying to say?”

The manager dropped a bombshell: “I suspect Li Baixi has always been straight.”

Cheng Ping froze. Discrepancies in their interactions surfaced, but he forced them back down.

Cheng Ping scoffed: “Are you serious?”

Manager: “Based on current information, it’s a reasonable assumption. No one thought about it before because of his appearance.”

Cheng Ping: “I’ve heard of closeted gay men, never closeted straight men.”

Manager: “That’s because you don’t understand the beauty industry. In that world, being seen as gay can be better than being straight. His artist parents always prided themselves on being avant-garde, and he gained fame through cross-dressing. But he recently switched back to male clothing; did you ask why?”

Cheng Ping recalled a voice: “…An apple wanting to know how much it could sell for without its wax coating…”

He pushed down those thoughts, saying, “So you think he’s never liked me and has been deceiving me?”

The manager, enduring his murderous gaze, delivered the final blow: “It’s possible. I just can’t figure out what he could want from you with his background…”

Cheng Ping exploded: “Get out!”

Cheng Ping, truly enraged, refused to see the manager and even went to the audition without his team.

He quietly booked an international flight, drove to the airport alone, and only felt slightly relieved upon seeing Li Baixi waiting in the VIP lounge.

Li Baixi frowned: “You’ve lost weight too fast; you look pale. What’s wrong with your team?”

Cheng Ping looked at him deeply, then averted his gaze: “It’s nothing.”

Li Baixi sensed he was suppressing something but didn’t want to affect his mood before the audition, so he casually changed the topic: “It’s fine. Anyway, the makeup artist is here, and my assistant will handle the rest.”

Cheng Ping instinctively said, “Your assistant is quite quiet today…”

He glanced at the person next to Li Baixi and froze.

Yang, the assistant, looked back at him innocently.

Cheng Ping: “Why did you only bring her?”

Yang: “Ma Koukou went to a show.”

Recently, a makeup artist talent show had started, and Ma Koukou wanted to strike out on her own, so she decided to gain some recognition through the show.

Li Baixi wasn’t the type to hold back his apprentices, so he let her go when she asked.

Li Baixi: “The beauty market is huge. Teaching my apprentices won’t leave me starving. If you guys succeed, I also gain face.”

Yang praised him: “You’re like an empress.”

Li Baixi lovingly patted her head: “Of course, stick with me, and you’ll do well.”

Cheng Ping’s eyelid twitched, observing their interaction.

Li Baixi felt his gaze and ruffled his hair too: “Want to feel some motherly love too?”

Cheng Ping: “…No, thanks.”

Li Baixi wouldn’t be dismissed so easily, his mischievous hand moving to Cheng Ping’s ear, giving it a pinch. Cheng Ping’s ears turned red, and he slapped his hand away.

Li Baixi chuckled.

Now it was Yang’s turn to have her eyelid twitch.

That night, they arrived at the hotel, each with their own room.

After a shower, Li Baixi selected a bottle from the minibar, wrapped himself in a bathrobe, and sat by the window, sipping his drink in the night breeze.

He knew this interruption-free time was rare and considered going to disturb Cheng Ping. But remembering the audition the next morning, he restrained himself.

Just as he decided not to, someone knocked on his door.

Li Baixi opened it, thinking: Don’t get your hopes up; it’s not Cheng Ping.

Cheng Ping stood outside, clutching his script, looking hesitant.

Li Baixi: “.”

Cheng Ping: “I’m a bit nervous and wanted you to review the audition scene with me.”

Li Baixi let him in: “My pleasure.”

Cheng Ping’s nervousness was genuine as he read the lines with some stumbles.

The lines were Hiro’s monologue after his mother’s death, spoken while the painter took him out to drink. The dialogue was heavy and obscure, like a burdensome confession or a hopeless declaration.

Li Baixi watched from the window, occasionally checking the script.

Cheng Ping: “How was it?”

Li Baixi objectively critiqued: “Your pronunciation still needs work. But for just a week of practice, you’re doing well.”

Cheng Ping sighed: “The coach said the same.”

Li Baixi gently corrected a few pronunciations and softly said: “Again?”

Cheng Ping took his position and began the long monologue again.

“But I’ve already come to learn that love is an illusion, and truth is a lie.”

Li Baixi picked up his drink again.

His hair was loose, the bathrobe loosely tied, holding the glass with a casual grace. His gaze was complex and inscrutable.

Cheng Ping didn’t know what to think.

Did he come just to rehearse?

Did he expect something to happen?

Seeing Li Baixi’s eyes, he realized: No, he just needed to capture this moment again.

This moment of immersion and tenderness.

Cheng Ping mentally cursed his manager: If this gaze is from a straight man, I’ll gouge my eyes out for you.