“Who… who’d want to reward you.” Emotion hit first—Shuyao Qin’s cheeks bloomed like peach petals, her words tripped like startled sparrows, then she fled on the excuse of discussing promo with Boss Zhang.

Nana Toki watched her retreating back like a scattering of autumn leaves, and didn’t notice how her own lips had curved into a bright crescent.

If every version of Nesting Phoenix were this adorable, the sky would stay spring-blue forever.

She rose, smoothing her clothes like a hand over calm water, glanced at her watch like reading the sun’s shadow, and gauged Shuyao Qin wouldn’t be back soon; she decided to go “watch” Her Majesty the heroine.

Of course, watching wasn’t just watching; in her mind, a wicked supporting actress should appear like thunder after days of clear weather.

Chi Mu was the kind of woman who used her golden cheat like a blade of wind. Since the shoot of “Chen Yu, Frostlike” ended, even though Nana Toki pressed her inside the crew like a tightening net, once they stopped collaborating, her growth shot up like a kite in a tailwind.

Morning, she filmed with Chen Ke to bump his affection meter; noon, she took a sweet “puppy” shopping to bump it again; night, she slept at Chu Jinghe’s villa and the meter climbed like a rising tide—winner at life, right?

Not to brag, but she felt it in her bones like rain before it falls: give her half a year and she’d step into A-list light, then press hard toward Best Actress. Ever since she engineered a night with Chu Jinghe, the resources flowing from his conglomerate were a river in flood.

If his affection meter hit the threshold, crowning her Best Actress would be as quick as a spark catching dry grass.

But Chi Mu was greedy the way spring is greedy for flowers—cold CEO, puppy schoolboy, roguish youth; every type pricked her taste for men like needles of light.

So yes. If fate allowed, she wanted a harem—just as men like many kinds of women, she liked many kinds of men—and she’d raise her own film dynasty like a palace from red clay.

For now, urgency ran on twin tracks: grow her career like bamboo and, in parallel, level up the three other men’s affection. Like today—claiming boredom between ad shots, Chi Mu called the puppy out to keep her company.

The puppy was a second-year high schooler she’d met while shooting at a school, named Bai Jing—clean face and clean soul, like rain-washed stone.

He was easy to win; give him a sliver of candy and he’d glow for days like a lantern kept from wind. Seeing him sit upright yet visibly tense, Chi Mu felt laughter rise like bubbles.

She’d only worn a short skirt and let a hint of cleavage peep like moonlight through clouds; his eyes fluttered with nowhere to land, like bees without a flower. If she pushed deeper, would his shyness spill like tea?

While the coordinator droned about notes like a cricket in grass, her sidelong gaze rested on Bai Jing the way dew clings to a blade.

She was twenty-two, a blossom at full color; playing with a boy five years younger didn’t feel exactly like robbing the cradle. R-rated flashes slid across her mind like lightning behind a screen, then she pressed them down like a lid on boiling water.

Too eager, and she’d spook him like a deer.

“Miss Chi Mu, did you catch what I said?” The coordinator saw the blush rise like a wine stain and the eyes soften like silk; concern edged his voice. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. When do we roll?” Desire tugged like a hidden current; Chi Mu drew a long breath like pulling air through bamboo, buried the dirtier thoughts, and offered the coordinator a bright, painted smile. She’d wait to make a move on Bai Jing.

The coordinator gave her a few odd looks, then let it slide like dust off a sleeve; some actresses were simply strange. “If you’re ready, you can change now. I’ll alert the crew to prep.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll wait for you backstage.”

If she stayed beside Bai Jing any longer, she feared hunger would snap like a fox’s jaw; work first, she decided, like tying a boat before the tide.

She followed a staffer to the dressing room. Before the door even swung, a familiar face rose like a mountain in fog.

“Chen Ke? What are you doing here?” Seeing the unexpected, Chi Mu’s calm cracked like thin ice. “Didn’t you say you had another scene this afternoon?”

“That’s not important.” Chen Ke’s worry ran like a storm over a lake. “I heard you were being stalked. Are you okay?” He reached for her hand, warmth like sunlight, but she slipped away like a fish; his handsome face darkened like clouds at dusk.

“A stalker? Who told you that?” Chi Mu froze a beat, then forced ease like a fan opening. “I’m here to shoot an ad I took last month. What stalker?” She thought—right now, you look more like one.

“No stalker?” Chen Ke’s brows knotted like twisted twine. “Was Qiao Wan messing with me?”

He’d been filming nearby when, out of the blue, Nana Toki called, saying a pervert had tailed Chi Mu. He ditched the scene and rushed over like a horse at whip’s crack—only to find clear skies.

His face went black as ink. Qiao Wan, up to no good as always.

“What was that?” Chi Mu had guilt beating in her chest like a drum; she barely heard him.

She stood by the dressing-room door, eyes darting toward where she’d come from like swallows searching eaves. She hadn’t told Chen Ke about Bai Jing; if this blew open, it would be a messy showdown with blood-red sunset.

“Go change. I’ll wait out here.” Chen Ke caught the soft day makeup on her face and read the scene like script. “I already cleared it with the crew. I’ll stay and see your ad through.”

“That so… Then wait just a bit, Chen Ke-ge. I’ll go change.” Chi Mu pasted on a smile thin as gold leaf; luckily, his mind was still hooked on Nana Toki’s call, and he missed the crack beneath.

Damn it, why did Chen Ke show up here?

Inside the dressing room, her mask slipped like a curtain. If those two ran into each other, forget building a harem—both might walk away like tides pulling back from shore.

She couldn’t even text Bai Jing to leave; to exit the venue, he’d have to pass her door like a river under a bridge. Even if Chen Ke didn’t see him, Bai Jing would see Chen Ke waiting like a stone lion, and no excuse would patch that cleanly.

What to do?

Standing before the mirror, anxiety buzzed like trapped flies. If she wanted Bai Jing to leave unseen, she had to move Chen Ke from the doorway like shifting a boulder. But how?

Her gaze met itself in the glass like moon over water, and a wild idea flashed—pull Chen Ke into the dressing room.

The space was big enough to hold two like a shared pavilion. But with his old scandals clinging like burrs, this was playing with fire, and fire jumps.

If she didn’t, the outcome would likely be just as bad—a choice between two storms.

After several minutes of muddled thought like fog on a ridge, Chi Mu found no better path. She clenched her teeth like biting a plum, changed quickly, checked everything twice like a seamstress, then sent Bai Jing a private message.

Go back first. The makeup artist ran into trouble here. Might take a while. I’ll find you after evening self-study.

Message sent, she drew a breath deep as a well, then turned to fetch Chen Ke from the doorway like guiding a guest through a screen.

…

Meanwhile, under the shade pavilion, Bai Jing read her text as cool as leaf-shadow. He felt a flicker of doubt like a moth, but he didn’t pry; in his bones, Chi Mu wouldn’t toss him a clumsy lie. If something happened, she’d tell him straight as bamboo.

He replied with a simple “Mm,” light as a nod, and rose to head back to school like a quiet stream taking its path.

Then—

“Wait.”

A pleasant voice rang behind him like a chime in wind.

“I need to talk to you.”