Chapter 413: Attack the Heart! This Director’s Trick Is a Bit Cruel!
The callback screen on his phone kept flashing.
Jiang Ci’s palms were sweaty around the device, his breathing a little ragged.
If his actions caused his mother’s life to be upended by those media outlets with no bottom line chasing traffic,
he would never forgive himself in this lifetime.
“Ring—”
Just as Jiang Ci was about to call back for the third time, the screen lit up.
Incoming caller ID: Empress Dowager.
Jiang Ci answered in an instant, voice tight: “Mom? Are you okay? Did someone come bother you? I’ll have someone—”
“What’s with the shouting, lost your soul?”
On the other end, Chu Hong’s voice was full of energy, “I didn’t pick up because I was downstairs moving things, my hands were full.”
“Moving things?” Jiang Ci blinked, “Moving what?”
“Milk, eggs, and two big boxes of walnuts.”
Chu Hong sounded a little vexed, “A few young girls came to the door, looked about Li Li’s age,”
“they left the things and ran off, couldn’t stop them no matter what.”
“They even left a letter at the door saying… thank you for giving birth to such a fine son, these are for brain health.”
Chu Hong paused, her tone carrying a bit of disdain:
“Do they think you played Shen Qingyuan like an idiot and are giving walnuts to mend your brain?”
Jiang Ci: “…”
The heart that had been lodged in his throat dropped back into his stomach with a loud clunk.
Of course.
Although his fans sometimes went overboard, when it came to right and wrong, they were famously protective.
“Mom, that’s just the fans’ intention, you should keep them,” Jiang Ci leaned against the window, sliding down onto the carpet as if completely spent, “Nobody’s blocking the door taking photos, right?”
“A few with cameras are hiding by the flower bed.” Chu Hong snorted.
Jiang Ci: “…”
“All right, don’t fret over nothing.”
After speaking, Chu Hong cut the call briskly.
Jiang Ci listened to the dial tone and forced a smile.
As long as Ms. Chu was fine, he could weather anything.
…
But the sky didn’t fall—trouble came calling.
Spark Media, Lin Wan’s office.
Jiang Ci sat on the sofa, his cap pulled low, those signature long legs stretched casually,
radiating a clear “keep out” vibe.
Across from him sat a middle-aged man in black-rimmed glasses who smiled like a laughing Buddha.
Wu Tong.
The head director of the nation’s top variety show, “Romantic Trip with Family.”
“Teacher Jiang, don’t reject so quickly.”
Wu Tong pushed his glasses up and slid a contract the size of a brick toward Jiang Ci,
“S-Class contract, fixed cast for the whole season, pay at this rate.”
He made a gesture that would stop a second-tier star’s heart.
“No.”
Jiang Ci didn’t even lift an eyelid, “Sister Wan, see them out.”
Lin Wan sat in the boss chair, twirling a pen in her hand, her expression not great:
“Director Wu, Jiang Ci’s stance is the company’s stance. We don’t want to overexploit an artist’s family privacy, especially civilian elders.”
Wu Tong had expected this outcome. He wasn’t angry; he leisurely sipped his tea.
“Teacher Jiang, actually this is an opportunity.”
Wu Tong set the cup down, his gaze turning meaningful,
“You’ve seen the online chatter. Everyone’s curious about your mother, and all sorts of speculation are flying.”
“Rather than letting the marketing accounts make up nonsense, why not publicly bring your aunt on the show,”
“satisfy the fans, clear up rumors, and establish a filial public image—what’s not to like?”
“My mom doesn’t need clarification, and I don’t need an image.”
Jiang Ci rose, hands in his pockets, tone chilly, “I act with skill, not by selling my mom.”
Seeing Jiang Ci so resolute, a flash of light crossed behind Wu Tong’s lenses, but he didn’t press further.
He stood with a pleasant smile and calmly smoothed his suit:
“Since Teacher Jiang insists, I won’t trouble you.”
At the door he looked back and added pointedly, “Say hello to your aunt for me.”
…
Below the Spark Media building in the capital.
Inside an unassuming black entourage van,
Wu Tong leaned back in the aircraft-style seat, his smile unfazed by Jiang Ci’s refusal.
“Director Wu, Jiang Ci’s status ranking is exceptional now,” the assistant director in the passenger seat flipped through the proposal, “his rejection was to be expected.”
Wu Tong put his glasses back on, a sly glint flickering through his habitually narrowed eyes.
“The more he refuses, the more there’s something to this.”
“In the office earlier, when we mentioned the words ‘selling mom,’ his look could’ve eaten me alive.”
“What does that mean? It means that’s his touchstone.”
The assistant director smirked, “Then that makes it impossible, right? Who dares touch someone’s touchstone?”
“Young people, too small a frame of mind.”
Wu Tong opened his phone photo album—there was the blurry candid of Jiang Ci’s mother, Chu Hong,
though unclear, her bone-deep resilience and loneliness came through the screen.
“A touchstone isn’t something to strike; it’s something to stroke the fur of.”
Wu Tong’s fingers tapped the screen in a rhythmic “tat-tat.”
“This kid seems rough-around-the-edges, but his heart is softer than anyone’s. Especially where his mother is concerned.”
“If we can’t take the front road, we’ll envelop from the countryside to the city.”
Wu Tong sat up straight and issued orders with decisive force: “Xiao Liu, find me this ‘Empress Dowager’s’ personal contact within half an hour.”
“Remember, not a phone call, a social account. Older folks distrust calls but often have no resistance to written words.”
Half an hour later,
Tech returned with a Weibo ID: Peace is Blessing.
The avatar was a blooming lotus, stereotypically parent-generation tasteful.
The following list had only one person: Jiang Ci.
“Tsk, ‘Peace is Blessing,’” Wu Tong looked at the ID and sighed, “they’re worried about their son.”
He dismissed the copy team lead who wanted to ghostwrite, then opened his laptop himself.
“Delete all your mentions of ‘traffic,’ ‘exposure,’ ‘appearance fee.’ Talking money with elders who’ve weathered storms? That’s insulting.”
Wu Tong’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
This wasn’t a variety show invite at all; it was a finely targeted psychological appeal aimed at empty-nest elders’ tender spots.
…
Star City, an old residential compound.
The afternoon sun felt a little lazy.
Chu Hong had just finished mopping.
She wrung the mop dry, hung it on the balcony hook, then carefully wiped the water from the handle.
The house was frighteningly quiet.
Only the old wall clock ticked monotonously.
Chu Hong walked to the tea table, lifted a somewhat worn thermos and drank a sip of warm water.
Then she put on her reading glasses with the red string and lit up her phone screen.
Habitually she opened Weibo and tapped into Jiang Ci’s Super Topic.
It was her daily required reading.
To see what her son ate today, where he was filming, whether anyone bullied him.
At that moment the little red dot on her private messages lit up.
Chu Hong frowned.
Since being exposed last time, strange people messaged her often—insurance sellers, loan sharks, even some abusive messages.
She had thought to clear them, but when her finger touched the screen she hesitated.
The ID had a yellow V verification: Director Wu Tong, Head Director of “Romantic Trip with Family.”
Below was a preview line: Hello Sister Chu, sorry to bother you.
She opened the message.
No flowery pleasantries.
It was a long, sincere passage.
“Sister Chu, we sincerely invite you and Jiang Ci to participate in ‘Romantic Trip with Family.’”
“I know you don’t want to burden Jiang Ci. But what is the greatest regret for a child who drifts away for years?”
“Not failing to win Film Emperor, not failing to earn enough money.”
“But that after seeing the world’s splendors, when he looks back, the person who loves him most is still stuck in place, watching his back through a cold screen.”
Chu Hong’s fingers trembled slightly.
She read on.
Attached was a PPT titled “Take Mom to See the World.”
Wu Tong clearly invested heavily and rewrote the copy overnight.
A hand-drawn map.
From the snowy Changbai Mountain to the azure Sanya seas;
from the lonely desert smoke of the northwest to the gentle waters of Jiangnan.
Beside each scenic spot were two little drawn figures.
One was a son holding his mother’s hand, the other was a mother smiling with satisfaction.
Caption: When I was little, you showed me the world; now I hold your hand.
Chu Hong took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
She looked up over the empty living room and onto the black-and-white photo above the TV cabinet.
In that picture Jiang Yanjun wore a police uniform and smiled with determined strength.
“You rascal…”
Chu Hong murmured to the photo, “do you think this is like pyramid selling?”
The photo, of course, gave no answer.
Only the clock continued ticking.
Chu Hong rose and went to the entryway calendar.
It was an old tear-off calendar.
She drew a red circle on it.
Then she flipped back through the torn pages and rubbed her finger over the faded red circles.
The last time she’d seen Jiang Ci in person was on the morning of the sixth day of the Lunar New Year.
She counted on the calendar.
The next day Jiang Ci might return would be about that day…
“Thirty-two days…”
Chu Hong sighed.
She sat back on the sofa and picked up her phone.
The PPT had reached its final slide.
This is not just a program; it is a once-in-a-lifetime undisturbed parent-child time for you and Jiang Ci.
You don’t need to do anything, just be his mother, and let him be your son.
Chu Hong’s heart clenched.
To be her son again.
Not the actor observed by cameras.
Just her son.
Even if only for a few days, even if only to share a meal or take a walk.
Chu Hong opened the reply box.
She typed and deleted and typed again.
Finally she tapped the phone down on the tea table with a crisp sound.
“Enough.”
She stood and slapped her apron decisively, “I’m too old for this fuss. What if those people write nonsense again…”
She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
It was full of cured meats and sausages Jiang Ci liked, saved for when he next returned.
But how long would that be?
…
Night fell.
The old neighborhood’s soundproofing was poor; from upstairs came the intermittent notes of a child practicing piano—twinkles of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
Chu Hong lay in bed but couldn’t sleep.
Moonlight cut a cold streak across the floor through the curtains.
She sat up and opened the bedside drawer.
From the bottom she pulled out a thick photo album.
The cover had yellowed with age and the corners worn through to the cardboard.
She flipped to the first page.
There was a color photo.
A young Jiang Yanjun in civilian clothes with a two- or three-year-old boy rode on his shoulders.
The little boy held a string of candied fruit, grinning wide, syrup smudging the corner of his mouth.
That was Jiang Ci at three.
Back then Jiang Yanjun could still be an ordinary father, promising to take them to the capital to watch the flag-raising, to collect shells at the seaside.
“Liar.”
Chu Hong’s fingertips traced her husband’s face in the photo, her eyes warm with tears,
“You said you’d take us traveling, but you traveled yourself into a box.”
Her gaze moved to little Jiang Ci riding on his father’s shoulders.
How happy her son had been then.
Not like now, eyes always hiding worries, smiles tinged with exhausted ache.
“Mom, I want to be closer to him.”
That line from the cinema doorway echoed in her ears again.
Chu Hong closed the album and hugged it to her chest.
The album’s cool cover pressed to her chest but couldn’t warm the room’s solitude.
That director Wu Tong was right.
The world was big.
In her life she’d never had a proper photo taken together with her son.
Chu Hong picked up the phone again.
The screen lit, highlighting the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.
This time she didn’t type.
She reopened the PPT and, from start to finish, read it carefully.
…
The next morning.
Capital, Jiang Ci’s apartment.
Curtains drawn, the room dim.
Jiang Ci lay buried in the soft quilt, sleeping deeply.
These past days he’d barely slept dealing with the media and business; this was crucial recovery sleep.
“Ding—!!!”
Without warning, the system’s alert tone exploded in his mind.
Jiang Ci shot awake.
“System, damn you! Don’t you know waking me early ruins the whole day?!”
Rubbing his throbbing temples, he about to curse.
On the pale blue light screen before him, a line of text snapped him instantly alert.
Warning! Detected dramatic mood fluctuation in a related person!
Source: Mother (Chu Hong)
Heartbreak Value: +188!
Jiang Ci’s pupils shrank.
“Mom…”
He didn’t even bother with shoes, barefoot he leapt from bed and grabbed his phone.
Please, don’t be in trouble.