Chapter 1: Death by Spotlight
The late July sun was blazing hot, like an over-salted duck egg—so harsh it made everyone wince.
An Ting had slept in her photography studio the night before. The air conditioner broke down halfway through the night, and by morning, the suffocating heat dragged her out of deep sleep.
After washing up, her client for the day arrived on time.
Wearing pajamas and carrying a DSLR, An Ting waved a sweet-looking couple into the studio.
She was a professional photographer who ran her own studio, specializing in high-priced commercial shoots.
The couple were good-looking and clearly well-off. According to the booking notes, they were internet celebrities. They planned to film content here, post it online, and hopefully gain more followers on Weibo.
While her assistant arranged props, An Ting adjusted the equipment. Her mind, however, was stuck on the novel she'd stayed up all night reading.
Queen of Pop.
Now that she was older, with a mortgage and car loan weighing her down, An Ting had developed a soft spot for novels about rising through the ranks and getting rich overnight.
She didn't remember much about the female lead's actual work. What stuck with her was the money.
One day—several million yuan from a variety show.
The next—tens of millions from a concert.
The day after—hundreds of millions in shares after starting a company with her lover.
Just thinking about it made An Ting feel dizzy with envy.
In a city where housing prices were absurd, she'd bought a 100-square-meter apartment last year. It had drained all her savings—and she still owed her gay best friend several hundred thousand yuan. Making money had become an urgent matter.
Meanwhile, the heroine in the book earned the price of An Ting's apartment with a single performance.
No wonder she couldn't forget it.
So when An Ting looked at the couple in front of her, all she could think was—
Walking Alipay accounts.
The next second, the woman leaned over and whispered, "Is this place reliable?"
"I checked," the man replied. "She's one of the top photographers in the industry."
An Ting's hearing was excellent. She suspected she was being discussed—but had no proof.
The woman continued, "But she looks so sloppy. Pajamas? Is her aesthetic really okay?"
The man hesitated. "She's shot a lot of celebrities and major ads. She's well-known. It should be fine."
An Ting: …
She considered herself an industry benchmark, thank you very much. She'd at least done her eyebrows. Some photographers didn't even wash their faces before shoots.
Besides, a photographer's fashion sense had nothing to do with their aesthetics.
Indoor shoots were easy. Outdoor shoots meant squatting, lying on the ground, running, even rolling around. By the end of the day, no makeup survived, and no expensive clothes remained intact.
She'd learned that lesson early.
The first time she shot a celebrity portrait, she wore Gucci from head to toe. The shoot was on a beach. She lay on rocks all day.
When she got home, her clothes were ruined beyond saving.
She cried until her voice gave out. Her gay best friend took pity on her and bought her two replacements of the same brand.
After that, An Ting understood one truth:
A photographer could look terrible—but the client had to look perfect.
The couple were still whispering when An Ting smiled and walked toward them.
She was always patient. Clients could question her skills, her taste, anything they wanted.
But prices were non-negotiable.
She'd barely taken two steps when her assistant screamed behind her.
Before An Ting could react, something slammed into the back of her head.
A spotlight fell.
She didn't lose consciousness immediately. Instead, she felt it clearly—the pull of death.
Her eyes widened. Using her last strength, she shouted at her assistant rushing over.
"If I can't work anymore—when Ah Jie comes to collect debts—sell my equipment if you have to, but don't touch the house!"
She died the moment she finished speaking.
…
When An Ting opened her eyes again, she was sitting in a coffee shop.
Cold air from the AC vent blew straight onto her head, making her shiver—and washing away the suffocating despair she'd felt moments ago.
She looked up.
A young man sat across from her.
The first thing she noticed was a discreet Versace logo on his coat. A closer look revealed luxury brands from head to toe.
Rich.
The second thing she noticed was his face.
Clear skin, sharp features—more photogenic than most celebrities she'd worked with.
The man, Song Qian, finally lifted his head after finishing his drink and flattening the straw between his teeth.
"How long are you going to think?" he said impatiently. "I told you yesterday—we're breaking up. So why did you ask me out today?"
An Ting froze.
She distinctly remembered being hit by a spotlight.
She thought she'd died.
So why was she here? And why was a handsome man breaking up with her?
A terrifying thought crossed her mind.
Did I… become a vegetable?
Maybe she'd woken up mentally, but her body was still unconscious. And that scoundrel Ah Jie, desperate for money, had sold her off to a rich guy—who later realized she was brain-dead and dumped her.
The logic seemed airtight.
She didn't blame Ah Jie. He'd already taken care of her long enough. He'd even found her a rich, handsome man.
An Ting glanced sadly at the Versace logo and sighed.
Well. It was fate.
Just as she was about to speak, unfamiliar memories flooded her mind.
She couldn't resist. She could only receive.
When it ended, An Ting sat silently for a long time.
She really had died.
Killed by a falling spotlight—possibly the first photographer in history to die that way.
And she had transmigrated into the novel she'd finished reading last night.
Queen of Pop.
She had become a supporting female character—also named An Ting.
The novel's female lead, Ye Qianqian, was a singer with a special ability: an adoration buff.
It worked only on men.
Once applied, men would see Ye Qianqian as flawless—filtered, idealized—and fall deeply in love.
With this cheat, she collected influential men, debuted with massive popularity, and eventually dominated the music industry, taking it onto the international stage.
As for An Ting?
She was the ex-girlfriend of the wealthy second-generation heir Ye Qianqian first targeted.
Once buffed, the heir found An Ting "impure" by comparison and dumped her without hesitation.
The original An Ting later died from depression.
The current scene was exactly that breakup.
Song Qian frowned at her silence. "Are you mute? We agreed to separate peacefully. I told you the moment my feelings changed."
Still shocked, An Ting remembered the original owner's personality—gentle, kind, pure.
For now, she played along.
"Ah Qian…" she asked softly. "Did you never like me?"
Song Qian hesitated, then shook his head. "I feel comfortable with you. But I can't fall in love."
"I like clean, pure girls," he said. "When I first saw Ye Qianqian, I knew—she was someone I could only dream of. Her eyes were so pure."
An Ting: …
She looked at him complicatedly.
If anyone in the book was truly pure, it had been the original owner.
Raised in an orphanage. Poor. Never asked him for anything. Worked part-time just to buy him gifts.
She lost—not to another woman—but to a cheat.
Just then, Song Qian misunderstood her gaze. Thinking he'd hurt her, he sighed and pulled out three items.
A check.
A car key.
And an apartment key.
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "Choose one as your breakup compensation."
Here it comes.
An Ting's eyes lit up.
She knew this scene.
The check was worth five million yuan.
The car was a BMW.
The apartment was inside Beijing's Third Ring Road.