(super-casual, full English, ~2 k words)
1
Beijing is roasting—37 °C—and Jiang Lianping finally lands.
He drags his suitcase into the penthouse, chucks his jacket on the couch, and yells, "Jian Ning, ice Coke!"
Crickets.
Oh. Right. She's gone.
On the coffee table is that beat-up copy of *The Sorrows of Young Werther*. He flips it open and—**plop**—divorce papers slide out.
Page one, in her neat handwriting:
"Jiang Lianping, I'm letting you go.
PS: don't forget the twenty grand a month. Be on time."
He snorts, signs like he's autographing merch.
"Wants cash and a clean break? Cool. Contract's up—see ya."
He tosses the papers at Old Chen, the family lawyer, who's already waiting by the door.
"Get it stamped. I've got Xiaoman's promo shoot tomorrow—no drama."
By the front door, Jian Ning has one tiny carry-on.
Her voice is soft but steady. "Chen, the medical bills—contract says twenty a month. Will it hit my account?"
Old Chen flashes a plastic smile. "As soon as Mr. Jiang signs, it's automatic."
Study door **slams**. Just one more sentence: "Don't bug me."
Jian Ning looks at her shaking hands—veins popping, skin like paper.
She sucks in a breath, stuffs the half-finished gray-blue scarf and her battered copy of *Jane Eyre* into the suitcase, and rolls out.
The click of the door is softer than a sigh.
2
One week later, shoebox apartment.
Su Xiao kicks the door wide open. "Girl, you need to see this!"
Jian Ning is on the floor pasting pain-relief patches on her stomach, face white as chalk.
"What now? Did the sky fall?"
Su Xiao slams the laptop open. Bank statement:
Jiang Lianping's "support-money account."
Every 2nd: 20 k drops in.
Every 3rd: 20 k zips straight out—receiver: Lin Xiaoman Studio.
Su Xiao explodes: "That scumbag never meant to pay your chemo! Let's go scalp the witch."
3
Evening, fancy downtown high-rise.
Lin Xiaoman, silk robe, red lips, twirls a wine glass.
Old Chen pushes a folder across the table.
"Ms. Lin, the 'financial custody' agreement is signed. You control the money now."
**Ding-dong.**
Su Xiao storms in, phone already recording.
"Lin Xiaoman, you're pocketing her chemo money—where's your shame?"
Lin Xiaoman laughs like sugar-coated poison.
"Don't be ugly. Lianping *gave* me the cash to relaunch my career.
Half goes to my private 'Xiaoman Foundation,' the rest? Think of it as tip money for the knock-off."
Security escorts Su Xiao out before she can flip the table.
4
Midnight, tiny rental.
Su Xiao plays the recording; Jian Ning listens without blinking.
Finally she chuckles—dry, hollow.
"I don't blame him for trusting her. I blame him for never once asking, 'Are you okay?'"
She tears the cancer-check ticket into confetti.
"I'm done begging."
Opens her battered laptop, starts typing a résumé:
Name: Jian Ning
Skills: costume design, makeup, set runner, runs on iced coffee and pure rage
Expected salary: whatever pays the chemo
Note: Available 24/7, no drama—okay, some drama.
Su Xiao bawls.
Jian Ning slaps a tissue on her face.
"Stop the waterworks. I ain't dead yet. If Jiang won't fund my life, I'll hustle it myself—one sunrise, one paycheck."
5
2 a.m., pain gnawing her gut.
She pops a painkiller, phone dings—job app notification:
[Costume assistant needed—$70 a day, meals included, interview tomorrow 7 a.m.]
She hits apply instantly.
Moonlight slices through the blinds.
She grins at her reflection in the black screen:
"Jane Eyre crawled out of the ashes; so will I."
She picks up the half-done scarf, knits the final stitch, then snips the yarn.
"New life, new rules. From now on, the only thing I wrap around my neck is cashmere I bought myself."
6
Same night, film set.
Jiang Lianping wraps a night shoot, scrolls Insta, lands on Su Xiao's throwaway post:
"Some dudes are worse than dogs—at least dogs guard their food."
Pic: shredded hospital papers.
His chest tightens.
He turns to his assistant.
"Did… Jian Ning go to the hospital today?"
Assistant shrugs: "Boss, you said don't report 'Mrs.' stuff anymore."
Jiang crushes the empty water bottle in his fist, water spraying everywhere.
Lin Xiaoman click-clacks over, all smiles.
"Lianping, remember—7 a.m. sharp for my shoot tomorrow."
He nods, but for the first time that smile looks… plastic.
7
5 a.m. next day, studio gate.
Jian Ning drags her little suitcase, face pale but spine steel.
Security grandpa squints: "Kid, why so early?"
She flashes a grin: "Gotta make money for meds. Early bird gets the paycheck."
She tips her head back, sunlight kissing her face.
"Jiang Lianping, you owe me—and I'm collecting. Just not from you."
Wheels rumble behind her like a drumroll.
She walks forward, suitcase rolling, heart thumping.
Let's play.