Chapter 35: If This Is Performance

“I hope you didn’t reach out just to break up with me…” Chris blurted the moment the call connected.

Yang Yi paused, all her doubts dissolving like mist in an instant, her unease instantly turning into an uncontrollable secret joy: “Of course not, why would you think that?”

She adjusted her posture, leaning comfortably back in her chair; outside the window, a vast expanse of red, crimson, and pink roses filled her view, their sweet fragrance flooding her nostrils—utterly invigorating!

She derived from his unease a euphoric pleasure—yes, she had to admit, if he valued this relationship more than she did, if he was more anxious, if he was more lost, then she would gain immense, unspeakable delight from it.

It was a pleasure of control, of dominance; it was the pleasure of commanding another’s emotions and fate—this pleasure brought her joy, yet also shame. But even this shame, she found, brought her pleasure too.

What an extraordinary man was he? Strikingly handsome, two-time winner of the world’s most handsome man award, a globally renowned actor, countless women—and perhaps men—lined up willing to bear his children, not to mention his magnetic charm…

Even before tasting the sweetness of love, she had already reveled fully in this vanity.

She felt like she’d found a new toy, eager to start playing with it.

“Intuition. And you’ve been making excuses about being busy these past two days!” Chris nearly complained, then instantly realized how his emotions had shifted, how deeply she affected him; a self-protective instinct flared up, and he cleared his throat, steadying himself: “Were you really that busy these past two days?”

“Wait a moment.” Yang Yi hung up the call.

Chris stared at the disconnected phone, momentarily bewildered.

But the ensuing hurt and anger filled his chest like a wad of cotton—swollen, suffocating, impossible to release. What did this mean? A manipulation tactic? Playing hard to get? Or some new way of toying with emotions?

Then the video call rang—he answered instinctively, and Yang Yi’s face appeared on screen, smiling shyly: “Hi! I… I just wanted to see you…” Before she finished, her cheeks flushed.

The hurt and anger vanished instantly, as if they’d never existed; Chris walked under the bright hallway lights, ensuring she could clearly see his face—he knew this was his advantage.

Sometimes he hated that people saw only his face and ignored everything else, but now he was grateful his appearance had sparked her interest.

It was their first video call, the first since becoming a couple; given they’d only met once and were barely more than strangers, both felt awkward, silently gazing at each other—until, without realizing it, they both burst out laughing.

“Hello, boyfriend. I’m Yang Yi.” Yang Yi waved, pretending it was their first meeting.

“Hello, my girlfriend. I’m Chris Norton. Very pleased to meet you!” Chris said, bit his lower lip, then couldn’t help smiling.

They smiled at each other, not quite sure why—like two fools.

Yang Yi leaned back in her chair; the face on screen was still the one she’d known for four and a half years—the face she’d used as her phone wallpaper, her desktop background, and, shamelessly, as her dream lover. Once, that face had loomed above her like a dazzling, unattainable diamond in a display case—visible, but forever out of reach. Now, though still separated by thousands of miles, she knew: from now on, this man belonged to her.

It was unbelievable.

“Are you in your office? Still working?” Chris spoke first.

“Mm, just finished.” She felt a twinge of guilt—she hadn’t been that busy; if she’d wanted to call or text, she could’ve found time. She quickly changed the subject: “Are you at home? Is this where you grew up?”

“Yes.” Chris deliberately ignored the flicker of guilt on her face, flipped the camera around, and enthusiastically showed her his childhood home: “This is the garden—my mom planted all these flowers and plants. When I was little, I loved playing with friends, catching insects here…”

He showed her his garden, his house, then entered the living room to film it for her.

It was a typical middle-class family home in Arkha—nothing grand or luxurious, with a slightly rustic country style; some furniture clearly showed years of use, the sofa and curtains were both floral-printed, vividly colored yet perfectly matched, revealing the owner’s excellent taste—warm and inviting.

His childhood must’ve been carefree and joyful. Yang Yi thought this, her mind drifting slightly.

Chris filmed everything familiar in his home, telling her stories from his life there.

“Look, this is what I made in craft class as a kid—my mom still uses it.” Chris pulled a misshapen cup and spoon from a display cabinet, his tone amused yet proud.

“What a special gift—unique. If I received something like this, I’d treasure it deeply,” Yang Yi said. Her expression was serious, her smile polite and restrained, but her eyes seemed to speak something else.

Chris watched her on screen; she was smiling, yet he thought he saw melancholy in her dark eyes—a deep, enduring quality that had long clung to her. There was also a complex, ever-shifting, hidden trait about her—impossible to describe, even unsettling, yet profoundly mysterious; he felt himself drawn to her, wanting to draw closer, to uncover her.

“Are those your family?” Yang Yi asked, spotting them chatting in the garden behind him through the window.

“Yes. Would you like to meet them? They’re all curious…” Chris said cautiously; when he saw her slightly uneasy expression, “Of course, this might be too soon…” He gracefully offered her an out.

“It really is too soon…” Yang Yi blinked, joking: “In our Xia country, couples only bring each other home to meet the family when they’re planning to marry.”

Chris pressed his lips together: “Alright!” Then suddenly he invited: “Want to see my bedroom?”

Yang Yi instantly sat up straight. “I’m ready.”

Chris laughed and headed upstairs; as they climbed, they kept smiling foolishly at each other, and Chris nearly tripped on the same staircase he’d walked for nearly thirty years.

As soon as he entered the room, he regretted it—he’d rushed back after finishing work, his luggage still unpacked, clothes scattered, the bed untidy.

“Wait a second.” He flipped his phone face-down on the desk and sprinted over, straightening the sheets, shoving his suitcase into the closet in one motion.

From the phone came Yang Yi’s cheerful voice: “Chris, I want to see your bedroom as it really is—don’t tidy up! Fulfill your fan’s pilgrimage fantasy—”

“No! Absolutely not! At least let me make a good first impression. Later, you can dig around all you want…” Chris picked up the phone; Yang Yi saw his face flushed from the rush.

On TV and in interviews, he seemed mature and magnetic—but in private, he was this adorable. Yang Yi felt she’d set out to mine a silver vein, only to strike gold.

His bedroom was a typical boy’s room: in the corner stood a display cabinet filled with vinyl records, game consoles, figurines.

“These are all from my childhood and teenage years. Most of my things are in Beverly Hills—I’ll show them to you when we get back.” Chris was excited, his lips curling upward uncontrollably. He knew: if a girl wanted to learn more about you, she was interested—and this sent his desire to impress soaring.

He completely forgot all romantic tactics, acting like a naive boy, desperate to show her every good thing about himself—like a peacock strutting to display his brilliant tail.

Only now did Yang Yi realize the man on the other side was a superstar living in Beverly Hills—not just an ordinary foreign boy. Yet during the entire call, she’d never once thought of it.

If he truly wanted to win someone’s heart, no one could refuse him. He could leave any impression he chose.

A sudden, inexplicable thought arose: How could you tell if his actions were real or fake? After all, he was an actor—he could perform any face he wished. Was he hiding something? Did he truly like her? What did he like about her? What did she have that made her worthy of his affection?

Aside from the lottery ticket she’d won—and the vanity and status it brought—what else could possibly attract a man who already had nearly everything?

Chris continued enthusiastically describing his collection of rock records, recounting how he’d worked as a teenager to buy them.

Honestly, it was fascinating: a successful, handsome, charismatic man recounting his teenage naivety, joy, despair, and growth—more poetic than any art film, and she was the heroine.

But suddenly, she lost the earlier thrill and anticipation; she even felt ashamed of her own heart’s flutter.

What if all this was a lie? A masterful performance? A lure to trap her? A mirage? A dream deliberately crafted for her? She’d been immersed, helpless, like a puppet following a conductor’s baton, offering her heart—only to find he handed her a blank sheet with one word: Fool, you’ve been had!

Perhaps every moment she’d felt moved and entranced, there were spectators laughing, watching it as a comedy—mocking, commenting, as she performed the most sincere farce before a shoddy set, while her co-star slipped glances to the audience, and only she was truly acting.

“I don’t know why, but back then I was obsessed with vinyl records—I spent most of my earnings from part-time jobs collecting them. Listen, this is my favorite: ‘Old Time Rock and Roll.’” He placed the record on the turntable, and a bold, rugged voice filled the room; his body swayed gently to the music: “This old record was bought at a secondhand shop—played so many times, the sound’s changed. But sometimes I still listen. Now, I’m not listening to music—I’m listening to how I felt when I was young…”

If this was acting, it was masterful—he deserved an Oscar.

But what if it was real? Could it be possible he didn’t care about her lottery ticket, or any external reason—but simply for her? For her alone… even if it was just the tiniest possibility… could that be true?

Watching his profile, lost in memory—its sharp, sculpted contours, deep and serene like rugged mountains, drawing her to lose herself in their steepness—he was like a flame in the dark; when he appeared, people could see nothing else, willingly rushing toward him like moths to their death.

So beautiful. If he used this face to deceive, no one would doubt him—even if they knew he was lying, they’d still choose to be deceived, perhaps even longer, never wanting the truth revealed…

Four and a half years of obsession—how long is that, a thousand six hundred nights strung together? Is obsession love? Or longing? Or merely self-delusion, unrelated to anyone else?

Should she try it? Even if it meant being deceived once?

“I feel sorry for you! No—I feel sorry for myself. Why did I end up stuck on you, this cowardly waste?” it suddenly spoke.

“Yes, I’m a cowardly waste,” Yang Yi replied calmly. “Then leave me, this waste. Don’t you think this body’s too crowded? Three consciousnesses crammed into such a tiny shell—it’s just… too cramped.”

“This is my body too!” it raged, furious: “Weakling! Coward! Fool! You can’t drive Him out—but you want to drive me out? I tell you, this body is mine too! I’ve waited for you to die so long—when will you die? Why won’t you just die?!”

“When I’ve lived enough,” Yang Yi said.

Chris noticed Yang Yi had been silent for a long time. He lifted the needle from the vinyl, stopped the music, and sat at his desk, watching her: “What are you thinking?”

His blue eyes were pure, untainted; when he looked at someone intently, it felt like being deeply gazed upon. Especially now—he sat half-turned toward the light, shadows painting his face like a richly painted oil portrait, sudden and powerful; she felt her heart skip a beat.

“Coward! Snot-nose! You’re worse than a maggot! Even maggots wriggle for a pile of shit—why do you hesitate over everything? Just some ordinary Earth man, with no power at all! A fire demon could crush him like an ant! You could just kidnap him right now—he’d be yours, a pet or a plaything. If he tries to run, kill him! No—drain his life force—his only value is this!” it ranted, beside itself.

Yang Yi decided to be selfish—fulfill the wish she’d nurtured for four and a half years, a thousand six hundred nights. If he was acting, let him keep acting—until she grew tired.

So she said: “I’m thinking of you. Very much.”