She Said: A Passionate Kiss [Entertainment Industry] - Chapter 9
“Hmm? What did I say?” Qiang Huai couldn’t recall what she might’ve said to Gu Pingwan.
“You said,” Gu Pingwan took a sip of coffee, “to the classmate behind you, that you wanted to study acting, but your family didn’t support you.”
Qiang Huai thought for a moment—yes, that had happened.
“You said, ‘I’m already eighteen. If I still can’t decide my own path, I might as well go back to the furnace to be remade, or shave my head and become a monk to pray for divine guidance.’” Gu Pingwan mimicked Qiang Huai’s tone from back then.
This was the first time in recent days that Qiang Huai had seen Gu Pingwan like this—perhaps she was trying to comfort her.
“You remember it that clearly.”
Gu Pingwan nodded. There was a bit of coffee on the corner of her lips, making them look moist and soft.
“Back then I thought, going back to the furnace wasn’t an option, and I probably wouldn’t look good with a shaved head anyway.”
Gu Pingwan put her coffee down. “At the time, I was tormented inside. The road ahead felt bleak, and I wanted to give up on my dreams countless times.”
“But seeing how you balanced school with modeling and short films, sleeping only five or six hours a day while still chasing your dreams—I thought, shouldn’t I also fight for mine?”
“So I resolutely chose the science and engineering path.” As she spoke, her eyes sparkled like diamonds.
Qiang Huai had never heard Gu Pingwan speak so much before. From high school to now, this was the most she’d ever said in one go.
“Actually, I said all that because I wanted to tell you—you are the best, most amazing Qiang Huai, always have been.” Gu Pingwan wasn’t sure if saying that crossed the line of friendship.
Qiang Huai bit her lip gently. “Thank you, Classmate Gu.”
Gu Pingwan looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. “I’ve never seen the view from such a high floor before. Classmate Qiang Huai, you’ve already braved the thorns to get here—keep going.”
There were still some things she didn’t say—now wasn’t the right time.
“I will,” Qiang Huai followed her gaze outside. “I’ll stand even higher… so you don’t need to search. Just look up, and you’ll see me.”
Today, Qiang Huai had done her best to stay calm. On the surface, she was composed, but inside she was anxious. Still, as the company’s boss, with so many people relying on her, she couldn’t show weakness.
She hadn’t known she held that kind of image in Gu Pingwan’s heart. If she had known, she wouldn’t have avoided her for so many years. She always thought Gu Pingwan saw her as nothing more than someone who once kissed her knee.
“Classmate Qiang Huai, I should get back to work now.” Gu Pingwan stood up, ready to leave.
Qiang Huai handed her a meal box. “Take this with you. I can’t finish it.”
Gu Pingwan looked at the box being handed over. “Thank you.”
Just then, Qin-jie came over with a laptop and saw Gu Pingwan. She nodded in greeting, then walked up to Qiang Huai.
“I found it. This person named Yu Lele—besides posting some smear content about you a few years ago—hasn’t shared anything recently,” she said.
“He’s only used personal accounts to repost some extreme views, and several of his accounts have already been banned.”
Qin-jie handed the file to Qiang Huai. “The only notable thing is that he followed an influencer and reposted some of her stuff.”
“Her name is An Linlin.” She pulled up the profile, showing An Linlin’s info on screen. But she didn’t say more, since Gu Pingwan was still in the room.
Gu Pingwan was tidying up the opened food containers on the table, getting ready to throw out the trash.
Qiang Huai scrolled through the screen a few times and asked, “Classmate Gu, can I ask you a technical question?”
Gu Pingwan paused. “Go ahead.”
“Can you trace an IP address from a photo?” Qiang Huai asked.
“That depends on which platform’s app the photo was uploaded to. If the backend grants access, you can usually find that data in the page’s source code module.” Gu Pingwan tied the trash bag and wiped her hands with a tissue.
Qiang Huai immediately motioned her over. “Could you help me take a look?”
“Of course.” Gu Pingwan walked over, and both Qin-jie and Qiang Huai made room.
Qin-jie moved the laptop in front of her.
Gu Pingwan leaned over, quickly hitting several shortcut keys. After a series of operations, she said, “This is the IP of the photo.”
“Is it accurate?” Qin-jie asked.
Gu Pingwan nodded. “People lie. Data doesn’t.”
Qin-jie quickly took a photo of the screen and stepped out to make some calls.
Qiang Huai stared at the code on the dark screen. “Classmate Gu, you’re amazing.”
“Everyone has their field of expertise. You’re amazing too, Qiang Huai.” Gu Pingwan smiled shyly.
“Do you still keep in touch with An Linlin?” Qiang Huai asked, though she knew it was probably a pointless question—why would Gu Pingwan still be in touch with her?
Sure enough, Gu Pingwan shook her head.
“Okay, I won’t keep you any longer,” Qiang Huai continued, “But if I have more questions later, can I ask you again?”
“I can even pay above the market hourly rate,” she added, “I don’t really trust outside consultants.”
Gu Pingwan thought for a few seconds. “You can, but no need to pay.”
“No way. I’m paying for the knowledge, not for you.” Qiang Huai made a silly face, smiling brightly.
“Mm… okay then.” Gu Pingwan knew she meant well—she wasn’t going to act ungrateful.
Qin-jie returned just as Gu Pingwan stepped out with the trash.
Qiang Huai had wanted to walk her downstairs but got turned down.
“You’re really trying to charm her—I could hear you from the hallway,” Qin-jie teased. “Be careful or you’ll end up doing all the work and getting nothing in return.”
Qiang Huai slumped into her office chair. “I want to ‘get nothing’ with her. I’d do it again and again, no problem.”
Qin-jie: “Qiang Huai! Please remember you’re a female actress!”
…
“How’s the trace going?” Qiang Huai switched back to serious mode.
“The IP traces back to Shanxi.” Qin-jie replied.
Qiang Huai nodded. “PR has suppressed the yellow-news articles. Reach out to a few media outlets and release some alternative fake blackmail rumors.”
“Then we’ll spin it that some guy tried to pursue me, got rejected, and is now slandering me out of spite.”
Qin-jie took notes. “Qiang-laoshi is getting more and more cunning.”
“Sinking to the bottom only to jump higher.” Qiang Huai smiled. “We don’t have conclusive evidence yet, so don’t involve the police or send a lawyer’s letter—don’t even explain.”
“I want to see if we can hook this big fish.” Qiang Huai spun her pen between her fingers.
Qin-jie closed her little notebook. “Those people just want to see us panic. Let’s not give them the satisfaction.”
After Qin-jie left, Qiang Huai sat back and pulled out her phone. The class group chat was full of comforting messages for her.
Scrolling up, she noticed something odd—no messages from An Linlin.
Strange. In the past, whenever there was gossip about her, An Linlin was always active in the group. But this time, not a word?
She stared at her phone, thoughtful.
…
Meanwhile, after finishing her meal, Gu Pingwan got back to debugging her code. Before she realized it, it was already 11 PM. She quickly packed up her laptop and rushed to the hospital.
Her mother was lying in bed, asleep. After undergoing chemotherapy, her complexion was poor—it was hard to tell if she was even alive without watching her breathe.
Gu Pingwan sat in the chair next to her, typing quietly. In the dim room, the only light came from her screen.
“Xiaowan, you’re still working?” Her mother had woken up thirsty and tried to sit up to get water.
Hearing movement, Gu Pingwan quickly set down her laptop and poured her some water. “Mm-hmm.”
Her mother drank a few sips and patted her daughter’s arm. “Ai… I told you to go home and rest after work. I’m doing just fine here—you’re running yourself ragged.”
Every day after work, Gu Pingwan would come to the hospital to be with her mom. Often her mom was asleep, and sometimes she’d just stay overnight on the folding bed in the room.
“I just want to spend more time with you,” she whispered.
Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. “I didn’t even take good care of you when you were in middle school.”
She started crying—fortunately, there was no one else in the room.
“It’s all my fault. I’m the reason you’re stuck like this.”
“Mom, don’t say that.” Gu Pingwan frowned slightly.
Her mother had once been a cheerful woman. But after her father died when she was twelve, she was overwhelmed by grief. She cried every day until it ruined her health—and affected Gu Pingwan deeply.
Even now, she still blamed herself. During those years, when Gu Pingwan was going through puberty, she barely got any maternal affection. Her mother did nothing but work mechanically and mourn.
It wasn’t until Gu Pingwan got into Tsinghua University that her mother finally saw a glimmer of hope. But her regret wasn’t resentment toward her daughter—it was self-directed.
She always felt she had failed as a mother. From middle to high school, she had never even cooked a proper meal for her child.
Now she wanted to make it up to her—but it might be too late.
“Xiaowan,” she clutched Gu Pingwan’s arm, “you should go back to your job at the institute! I can manage the treatments on my own.”
“I don’t want to hold you back anymore. I’ve already delayed your life too much.”
“It’s all my fault—if it weren’t for me, you could be living the life you really want.”
Gu Pingwan felt her nose tingle. She had never blamed her mother.
“Mom, just being able to be with you now is already enough for me.”
What she didn’t say was: she was afraid. Afraid that one day, she’d come home and her mother would be gone—just like her father.
“Then promise me,” her mother said tearfully, “once I’m discharged, you’ll go back to work. Please?”
Gu Pingwan held back her own tears. “Okay.”
After calming her mother down and watching her fall back asleep, she returned to her laptop and continued coding.
Strings of code rapidly scrolled across her screen as she meticulously checked every parameter.
She was using the K-Means clustering algorithm to analyze online public opinion. That afternoon, while helping at Qiang Huai’s company, she had glimpsed a webpage full of malicious posts about her.
The comments were vicious—overwhelmingly negative. And at least three key terms appeared repeatedly in several messages, indicating that the smear campaign was being orchestrated.
She wrote a web scraper to collect all content tagged with #QiangHuai, then built a K-Means clustering model to categorize public sentiment into positive, negative, and neutral groups.