She Got Revenge on Her Ex-Girlfriend Through a Kiss Scene - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

3:07 AM, an apartment in Chaoyang District, Beijing.

Xi Jisheng sat on the carpet by the floor-to-ceiling window, her back pressed against the cold glass.

Outside was a slumbering Beijing. A few scattered lights flickered among the distant high-rises like the blinking eyes of insomniacs.

She had just turned twenty-nine—if the lonely cream cake sent by her assistant, Xiao Tang, three days ago counted.

On the coffee table, the cake remained untouched in its transparent box, the edges of the frosting already beginning to dry. Beside it lay several empty melatonin blister packs, the foil torn to shreds.

This was her third night of insomnia following the conclusion of fifteen consecutive performances of Teahouse at the National Theatre of China.

The television was muted, playing a replay of the Cannes Film Festival. On the screen, Lou Ningyu was walking the red carpet.

Dressed in a red haute couture gown by Georges Hobeika, she looked like a blossoming flame.

Her long hair was swept into an elegant French twist, revealing a slender neck and collarbone.

Facing the barrage of flashing lights, she smiled, turned, and waved with composure; every angle was as precise as a geometric calculation.

Xi Jisheng stared at the screen, her fingers unconsciously stroking the cotton fabric of the old T-shirt over her knees.

The grey T-shirt was washed thin and faded, the neckline slightly deformed—it was a birthday gift from Lou Ningyu seven years ago. It bore the logo of an independent band that had disbanded five years prior.

Her phone vibrated.

A Weibo notification: #LouNingyuCannes# Sets Foreign Media Ablaze: Oriental Beauty Stuns the Crowd.

She tapped it. The top comment was glaring:

@JadeCarvedPerfection: Ningyu slays the whole field! Certain washed-up “peers” should stop trying to leach off her fame @XiJisheng.

32,000 Likes.

Xi Jisheng scrolled down expressionlessly. More praise, more comparisons, more of the same old “Two Queens Can’t Share a Throne” and “Battle of the Two Jades” clichéd rhetoric.

Seven years. Internet memory was like a gluttonous snake, forever chewing on the same stale past.

Her fingertip hovered over the screen for a few seconds before she finally tapped the familiar avatar—Lou Ningyu’s WeChat. The conversation had ended seven years ago:

Lou Ningyu: Jisheng, we need to talk.

Lou Ningyu: Please pick up the phone.

Lou Ningyu: At least tell me why.

Scrolling further up were even older records:

Jisheng: Rehearsal ends at ten tonight. I bought you roasted chestnuts.

Lou Ningyu: Wait for me! Last scene now!

Jisheng: Meet at the old spot.

Those words were like needles, pricking the silence of her twenty-ninth birthday at three in the morning.

Xi Jisheng closed WeChat and opened her encrypted photo album. The password was Lou Ningyu’s birthday. There were only seventeen photos in the album, all of them seven-year-old relics:

The first: Opening ceremony at the Film Academy. They stood in white shirts among the crowd, not yet looking at each other.

The third: A rehearsal hall during sophomore year. Lou Ningyu was asleep on her back, still clutching a script.

The seventh: Graduation trip by the sea in Qingdao. A snapshot of Lou Ningyu turning back to smile, her hair caught in the sea breeze.

The last: A week before the breakup. They were huddled on the small sofa of their rented room watching an old movie. Lou Ningyu leaned on her shoulder, her eyelashes casting thin shadows in the dim yellow light.

Every August 30th, Xi Jisheng would open this album once.

It was a ritual of self-punishment, a reminder of what she once possessed and what she had personally pushed away.

She exited the album and looked toward a dark brown wooden box on the top shelf of the bookcase.

Peachwood, palm-sized, with a small brass lock.

In seven years, she had never opened it. A layer of dust had settled on the surface, glowing with a matte finish under the faint light from the window.

The phone suddenly vibrated again. The name “Lin Wenxun” flashed on the screen.

Xi Jisheng stared at the name for three seconds, took a deep breath, and answered.

“Sister Lin.” Her voice was slightly raspy, a lingering trace of her consecutive performances.

“Jisheng, still not asleep?” Lin Wenxun’s voice came through the line with the typical alertness of a manager, despite it being 3:00 AM.

“No. Is something wrong?”

“Director Peng Ke has a new script, Echoes. A dual-female-lead arthouse film. I just sent it to your email.” Lin Wenxun paused, her pace slowing. “The other lead… the production side is in contact with Lou Ningyu.”

The air froze.

Xi Jisheng felt her breath hitch for a full three seconds.

Her heart felt as if it were gripped by an invisible hand, then suddenly released; blood rushed to her ears, humming.

“Sister Lin,” she heard her own voice sounding unnervingly calm, “You know that she and I…”

“I know.” Lin Wenxun interrupted. “Seven years ago you ‘broke up due to personality clashes’ to avoid affecting each other’s careers. That’s the official story.”

The sound of a lighter flicking came from the other end, followed by a long exhale.

Lin Wenxun was smoking—a habit she had when under high stress.

“But Jisheng,” Lin Wenxun lowered her voice, “I’m your manager, and I’m your friend. I know more than just that. I know your mother was sick and needed money back then, I know you felt you weren’t good enough for her, I know you…”

“Sister Lin.” Xi Jisheng cut her off, her fingers mindlessly picking at the carpet fibers. “It’s all in the past.”

“In the past?” Lin Wenxun chuckled lightly, laden with fatigue. “Then why haven’t you dated for seven years? Why do you turn down every event where you might share a stage with her? Why won’t you even go to her premieres?”

Xi Jisheng remained silent.

Outside, a night bus drove through the empty street. The headlights swept across the room, illuminating her tense profile.

“I’ve read the script,” Lin Wenxun continued. “For the role of Shen Su, Director Peng asked for you by name. She said that among those under thirty, you’re the only one who can handle this level of complexity.”

“Is it… certain that Lou Ningyu will take it?” Xi Jisheng asked, her throat feeling dry.

“Not certain. But Peng Ke said that if you accept, she’s confident she can convince her.” Lin Wenxun took another drag of her cigarette. “Jisheng, this is Peng Ke. A Venice Golden Lion winner who spends five years on one script. If you miss this, there might never be another chance.”

“I need to see the script.”

“Read it now. Give me an answer by 10:00 AM.”

The call ended.

Xi Jisheng stared at the darkened screen for a long time before standing up and walking to her desk.

The laptop was still on. The screensaver was a vast galaxy—Lou Ningyu loved the starry sky; she used to say every star was an echo of the universe.

She opened her email. The latest message was titled: “Script ‘Echoes’ _ Director Peng Ke _ NDA Signed.”

The download progress bar crawled slowly. Xi Jisheng went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. By the time she returned, the script was open.

The first page was the character profile:

Shen Su (Aged 29 → 49)

A small-town librarian. Taciturn, accustomed to building high walls with books.

The bravest thing she ever did was let go; the most cowardly thing was using “it’s for her own good” as an excuse.

Xi Jisheng’s finger stopped on the phrase “it’s for her own good,” her nail leaving a faint scratch on the trackpad.

She scrolled down.

The script opened in a small-town library in 2003. Nineteen-year-old Shen Su, while organizing old books, bumped into a new transfer student, Zhou Yin.

Zhou Yin was holding a stack of philosophy books and knocked One Hundred Years of Solitude out of Shen Su’s hand.

“Sorry.” Zhou Yin knelt to pick up the book. When she looked up, her eyes were bright, as if filled with starlight. “You like Marquez too?”

Then came a long montage of twenty years:

2005: They shared a pair of earphones in the corner of the library, listening to Canon.

2008: On the eve of graduation, Zhou Yin received an offer from a prestigious overseas school, while Shen Su became a permanent staff member at the town library.

2010: A postcard from New York sent by Zhou Yin. On the back, it said: “The moon here isn’t as bright as ours.”

2018: Zhou Yin returned home, married, and encountered the unmarried Shen Su in the town. An argument erupted in a deep alleyway:

[Scene 42: Deep Alley · Night · Exterior]

Zhou Yin (Eyes red): Why didn’t you come find me?

Shen Su (Avoiding her gaze): I did. I went to New York three times. I saw you and him…

Zhou Yin (Interrupting): That was fake! It was all fake!

Shen Su (Voice trembling): I was afraid to hear the answer. Afraid you’d say “I’m truly happy”… then what would these eight years of mine have been for?

When Xi Jisheng read this part, she felt a cramp in her stomach.

It was too similar.

It was too much like seven years ago when she hid behind the dormitory building of the Film Academy, listening to Lou Ningyu’s repeated calls but never having the courage to pick up.

She continued to scroll, her fingers turning white from the pressure.

The final scene was set in 2023. Forty-nine-year-old Shen Su and fifty-year-old Zhou Yin reunited on a stone bridge in the town.

Their hair had turned grey, and wrinkles lined the corners of their eyes, but the way they looked at each other was the same as it was twenty years ago.

[Scene 78: Stone Bridge · Day · Exterior]

Shen Su: You’re here.

Zhou Yin: Yes, I’m here.

No hug, no bitter weeping—just two simple lines of dialogue that felt as though they had drained the strength of twenty years.

Xi Jisheng closed the document, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

The light from the computer screen reflected on her face, casting faint blue shadows under her eyelids.

At twenty-nine, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes were becoming faintly visible—the result of years of late nights and heavy makeup.

Compared to the twenty-two-year-old Xi Jisheng who radiated brilliance on the graduation stage, she was now more like a precision instrument—knowing how to control every inch of muscle, how to calculate every glance, and how to use technique to perfectly mask true emotion.

But this script was like a dull knife, slowly and firmly prying open the shell she had so carefully maintained.

“I used ‘it’s for her own good’ as an excuse, but in reality, I was afraid to carry the weight of love.”

That monologue of Shen Su’s from the script echoed repeatedly in her mind.