Sayna walked beside Fan Cheng, her heels clicking a steady, confident rhythm on the polished floor.
"You look like you just survived a lion's den," Fan Cheng said, his voice dropping an octave as they passed a group of whispering interns. "Or maybe you were the lion?"
Sayna let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I was just doing my job, Cheng-ge. Some clients are just... more demanding than others."
"Demanding? Tian looked like he'd seen a ghost," Cheng chuckled, pushing open the heavy glass doors to the ground-floor cafe. "I've known him since we were trainees. I've seen him win awards and lose roles, but I've never seen him look unsettled. What did you say to him?"
Sayna stopped at the counter, her expression unreadable. "I told him I could make him look human."
Fan Cheng paused, then let out a sharp, appreciative whistle. "Ouch. Right in the ego. You really have changed, Sayna Wahid."
.
.
As they sat by the window, the Beijing sun streaming in, Sayna pulled up her references. But for a fleeting second, her eyes drifted to the reflection in the window.
She saw a woman who was no longer chasing a star, but one who had become her own light.
"Anyway," she said, refocusing the screen with a decisive swipe. "Let's talk about your matte finish. We need to make sure you don't wash out under the studio LEDs."
Behind them, through the glass of the lobby, she saw a black SUV with tinted windows pull up to the curb. Tian stepped out, surrounded by a swarm of assistants, his mask firmly back in place. But as he reached the car door, he paused. He didn't look back, but his shoulders remained stiff, as if he were bracing himself against a cold wind that only he could feel.
Sayna didn't look for long. She turned back to Fan Cheng, her smile genuine this time. The "Golden Boy" was just a client now—and she had work to do.
_______
____
The call time was 4:00 AM, a brutal hour that usually saw the Starlight Media vanity vans shrouded in a quiet, caffeine-fueled haze. But today, the atmosphere was electric. The air in the massive Hengdian studio smelled of hairspray, industrial heaters, and the sharp, metallic tang of artificial fog.
This was the first official day of shooting for The Jade Throne, and the tension between the two leads was already a physical weight in the room.
5:30 A.M.
Sayna moved with a precision that bordered on clinical. She had her brushes laid out on a sanitized black towel, her ring light positioned to catch every micro-expression on Tian's face.
Tian sat in her chair, draped in a heavy crimson robe. He was silent, his eyes closed as she worked. He didn't look like a nightmare today; he looked like a statue. When Sayna's fingers—cool and steady—touched his jaw to tilt his head, he visibly stiffened.
"Don't hold your breath, Mr. Tian," Sayna murmured, her voice barely a whisper over the hum of the air conditioner. "It makes the foundation settle into your expression lines."
Tian opened his eyes. In the harsh fluorescent glow of the trailer, his gaze was intense. "You're using the matte finish," he noted, his voice raspy from lack of sleep. "I usually prefer a dewy base for historicals."
"Not for this character," Sayna replied, not breaking her rhythm as she blended a deep, bruised shadow into the hollows of his cheekbones. "A tyrant shouldn't look like he sleeps well. He should look like he's consumed by his own ambition. Human, remember?"
Before he could argue, the trailer door swung open, letting in a gust of early morning chill.
The Disruption
"Morning, everyone! Who's ready to make a masterpiece and then get breakfast?" Fan Cheng bounced in, already half-dressed in his scholar's linen rags. He headed straight for Sayna's station, ignoring his own chair.
"Sayna! Look at this," Cheng said, leaning over her shoulder to show her a script change on his phone. "The Director wants more 'grit' on my face for the opening scene. Can we do the sand-textured look we practiced?"
Sayna's professional mask cracked just enough to show a hint of a smile. "I already have the sea salt and clay mixture ready, Cheng-ge. Give me ten minutes with Mr. Tian, and I'll prep you."
Tian's reflection in the mirror was a study in controlled fury. He watched through the glass as Fan Cheng rested a hand casually on the back of Sayna's chair—his chair.
"Is the makeup department's priority the lead actor or the second lead?" Tian asked, his voice low and dangerous.
The room went dead silent. Yueyue froze with a blending sponge halfway to Cheng's forehead.
Sayna didn't blink. She capped her eyeliner pen with a satisfying click.
"The priority, Mr. Tian, is the vision of the Director," she said, stepping back to inspect her work. The transformation was startling. She had turned the "Golden Boy" into something sharp, tragic, and terrifyingly beautiful.
"You're finished. Please don't touch your face until we get to set."
On Set: The First Take
The scene was a confrontation in the rain-slicked courtyard. Tian, as the Tyrant Prince, stood under a silk umbrella held by an extra, while Fan Cheng knelt in the artificial mud.
"Action!"
The cameras rolled. Tian stepped forward, his performance flawless. He looked every bit the monster Sayna had painted him to be. But as he looked down at Fan Cheng, his eyes flickered toward the monitors where Sayna stood, arms crossed, watching the playback.
He didn't just want to be the best actor on set anymore. He wanted to be the only one she bothered to look at.
The first shot was a wrap, but as the crew moved for a lens change, Tian caught Sayna's eye across the muddy courtyard.
He didn't scowl. He didn't command. He just stood there in his crimson robes, looking like a man who realized that for the first time in his life, his "Golden Boy" status was absolutely worthless.
The dust and artificial rain of the courtyard set created a chaotic backdrop as the Director shouted, "Cut! Check the gate! Reset for the close-ups!"
The moment the tension of the scene broke, the professional machinery of the crew whirred into motion. Tian stood tall in his heavy silks, his chest still heaving from the intensity of the dialogue. He expected—perhaps out of habit, or perhaps out of a lingering hope—that the lead artist would come to him first. After all, the "Tyrant Prince" was the focal point of the scene.
Instead, Sayna moved like a blur of efficiency toward the mud.
Sayna didn't just "fix" the makeup; she performed surgery on the character's aesthetic. She reached into her utility belt, pulling out a spray bottle of "sweat" (a glycerin mix) and a specialized sponge.
"Stay still, Cheng-ge," she murmured, her thumb brushing his cheekbone to smudge a streak of theatrical dirt further into his hairline. "The Director wants more struggle. The rain washed off the grit on your left side."
Fan Cheng looked down at her, a lopsided, tired grin on his face. "You're a lifesaver, Sayna. This wig is killing me, but at least the face looks good, right?"
"The face looks like a man who's about to change history," Sayna replied, her voice carrying across the quiet set. She didn't look up, but she was acutely aware of the shadow looming ten feet away.
The "Particular" Client
Across the gap, Tian's touch-up was going poorly. The junior assistant was trembling, intimidated by his "particular" reputation.
"Not so hard," Tian snapped, his voice cold as the assistant tried to powder his nose. "You're lifting the base."
He watched Sayna. He watched the way she laughed at something Fan Cheng whispered. He watched the way she tucked a stray hair behind Cheng's ear with a familiarity that felt like a physical blow to his ribs.
Six months ago, she would have been terrified to let him wait. Now, she was making him wait on purpose—not out of spite, but because he simply wasn't her priority anymore.
As the AD called for "Places!", Sayna stood up, dusting the mud off her black cargo pants. She turned to head back to the monitors, but her path took her directly past Tian.
The junior assistant had retreated, leaving Tian looking perfectly polished but emotionally frayed.
"Mr. Tian," Sayna said, pausing for a fraction of a second. She didn't offer a touch-up. She didn't check his eyeliner. She just looked at the way his jaw was set. "Your anger is reading well on the monitors. Keep that tightness in your mouth for the close-up. It makes the character look... desperate."
She didn't wait for a "thank you." She kept walking.
Tian stood frozen. She hadn't looked at him as a star. She had looked at him as a canvas—and a flawed one at that.
As the cameras began to roll again, the "Golden Boy" realized the terrifying truth: Sayna Wahid didn't hate him. Hate was a feeling. She was being professional. And in the industry, being treated with "pure professionalism" by someone you used to know was the coldest ending of all.