Shen Qianzhan didn’t take Ji Qinghe’s phone call seriously.

She took time to carefully review all the actor profiles submitted to Qiandeng, screening a batch of quality actors for Shao Chouxie to arrange auditions.

The cast of a TV drama, from leads and supporting actors to extras, required at least dozens of people, not to mention epic-scale period dramas like Spring River, where a single grand scene could involve hundreds.

So many actors were usually divided into three categories.

One group consisted of artists favored by investors, another was contracted actors from production companies, and the third was professional actors who submitted resumes for recruitment—rootless and stemless.

As a tribute drama personally selected from above, one could imagine how valuable Time was.

Almost as soon as audition news got out, Shen Qianzhan’s recently cleared inbox filled up with dozens more pages of resumes. Besides those submitting resumes, there were also agents with whom she had some acquaintance, making appointments to meet and promote their talent over meals and afternoon tea.

Never mind Shen Qianzhan—even Su Zan had to attend appointments after work, not returning home before midnight for a full week.

This day.

Shao Chouxie scheduled auditions and called Shen Qianzhan to the scene to interview together.

The audition location was at a photography studio in Beijing’s suburbs. Shen Qianzhan brought Su Zan along.

Shen Qianzhan had been making big moves lately—first Time’s filing was announced, then auditions to select actors. The entire team had gradually expanded from initially just a few core creative personnel to hiring cameramen, production assistants, script supervisors, and art directors.

When she arrived, many business cars were already parked outside the photography studio. Traffic flowed continuously with people coming and going—the scene looked quite lively.

Shen Qianzhan observed through the car window for a while. When it was nearly time for her appointment with Shao Chouxie, she and Su Zan entered together.

White cloth was hung inside the photography studio as backdrop, with display boards sectioning off a closed room for auditions. A long queue of actors auditioning today lined up outside the display boards.

The moment Shen Qianzhan entered, girls at the end of the line turned to look, some with curious expressions, others puzzling over which company she might be from. She kept her gaze straight ahead, leading Su Zan directly into the interview room.

Shao Chouxie sat behind a temporarily set up desk, flipping through resumes one by one.

His assistant was half-lying on the table, providing commentary when he saw familiar faces: “This one’s from Yihai Talent Agency—we’ve worked with them before. All their actors are career-changers who think highly of themselves and are difficult to work with.”

“This actor—President Chen called to recommend them…” Before finishing his sentence, he looked up to see Shen Qianzhan entering and quickly stood to greet her: “Producer Shen is here.”

Shen Qianzhan smiled politely, slightly lowering her chin in greeting.

She and Su Zan sat in empty seats behind the desk. Soon someone brought tea. She casually flipped through the stack of resumes at hand and asked: “Director Shao, do you have any favorites?”

“A few.” Shao Chouxie selected several from the resumes: “I’ve worked with these few before and called them for auditions today. You can take a look later.”

Shen Qianzhan glanced through them and had a rough idea.

She was decisive in her actions. After one round of auditions, she and Shao Chouxie had screened through most of the resumes. With some time still before filming began, she didn’t need to rush decisions. After wrapping up, she arranged dinner with Shao Chouxie and they returned to Beijing city center together.

When the proposed lead cast list was discussed that day, Shao Chouxie hadn’t spoken. Now with only Shen Qianzhan and Su Zan present, he finally brought up: “I’m wondering if it’s possible to use all newcomers for the cast.”

Shen Qianzhan had guessed he might have this idea, which was why the lead roles remained undecided without consulting Su Lanyi.

Shao Chouxie was undoubtedly an excellent director, but highly talented people were also unconventional, especially loving to challenge impossible things.

Her face showed no emotion as she served herself tofu soup. After setting down the serving spoon, she asked: “Do you have suitable candidates in mind?”

“Don’t laugh at me when I say this.” Shao Chouxie’s old face reddened as his gaze became evasive: “Half of our male lead’s character design references Master Ji Qingzhen’s experiences. Right now there’s a ready-made heir, so…” Before he could finish, Shen Qianzhan sprayed first.

She nearly choked on that mouthful of tofu soup, coughing for quite a while before asking incredulously: “Who did you say?”

“President Ji—Ji Qinghe.” Shao Chouxie looked innocent: “I don’t have a concrete, three-dimensional concept of the lead actor, so Su Zan showed me a work photo of President Ji a while back for inspiration.”

He presented the printed photo like a treasure: “Look, President Ji’s temperament is so fitting. His natural noble bearing is simply innate. Most importantly, he already does clock restoration work—you wouldn’t need to spend time training him.”

Shen Qianzhan took the photo.

The photo was taken in Beijing, in Time Hall’s workshop.

Ji Qinghe sat at a desk, head lowered as he repaired a pear wood clock with carved decorations. Light from the window fell perfectly on his glasses frames. The faint golden arc made his face appear jade-like. His eyelashes drooped slightly, his focused gaze falling on the clock face’s mechanism. He seemed to be smiling, the sharpness at his eye corners softened, quietly drooping like warm black obsidian—breathtakingly beautiful.

The face-obsessed Shen immediately lost it. She couldn’t bear to look away for even a second, only kicking Su Zan with her foot: “Where did you take this photo?” She didn’t even have one, yet this little rascal dared to secretly hoard it!

“President Ji’s workshop.” Su Zan picked up a piece of cherry goose liver, his eyes slightly narrowing with satisfaction as he fed it to himself: “New Year’s Eve you dumped me on him. When I woke up the next day and found the workshop, I secretly took a candid shot.”

Shen Qianzhan licked her lips: “Just one photo?”

Su Zan chuckled, dabbing his lip corners with a wet towel without directly answering. His gaze moved past Shen Qianzhan to Shao Chouxie beside her: “Director Shao, I advise you not to think about it. President Ji doesn’t have that hobby, and our Producer Shen wouldn’t agree either.”

“I know I’m being quite fanciful.” Shao Chouxie furrowed his brows, looking dejected: “But seeing President Ji gives me creative inspiration. I was hoping Producer Shen would help me push for it—why wouldn’t she agree?”

“I thought choosing Fu Yang was already very bold.” Shen Qianzhan finally looked away from the photo: “Turns out there’s someone even bolder here.”

She pressed the photo face down and declared righteously: “Confiscated.”

Over the following days, Shen Qianzhan first contacted Song Yan to confirm her schedule.

Song Yan’s contract with Spring River ran until late March. After the snow in Wuxi melted a few days ago, Spring River resumed filming. To catch up on previously delayed progress, she started work at six and finished late at night. Her contact with Shen Qianzhan was intermittent—they could barely finish discussing one complete matter over several days.

After Shao Chouxie brought up the absurd idea of having Ji Qinghe as the lead that day, he pestered Shen Qianzhan for several more days until Su Zan tattled that Shen Qianzhan favored Song Yan and was working on securing Fu Yang. Only then did he give up.

Shen Qianzhan’s process of signing Song Yan and Fu Yang wasn’t smooth sailing. First, Jiang Yecheng opposed it. This old fox appeared kind but wasn’t—he didn’t come at her directly, only persistently targeting her, hiding behind the scenes stirring up trouble and creating obstacles.

Ai Yi didn’t cause problems. After recommending artists to Shen Qianzhan a few times only to be politely declined, she simply stopped interfering.

When the overall situation was nearly settled, Shen Qianzhan called Ji Qinghe to inform him of the lead actors she was contacting: “Song Yan is basically confirmed. Fu Yang is still in negotiations. If you have no objections, I’ll start the hard push.”

Ji Qinghe was noncommittal: “Your decision is fine.”

“Before finalizing the leads, there was an interesting episode.” Shen Qianzhan laughed: “Director Shao suggested having you as the lead actor. What do you think?”

People seemed to be bustling around him with noisy, chaotic background sounds. He covered his phone with his hand, retreating to a quieter corner before responding: “Would you bear to watch me being lovey-dovey with another woman?”

Shen Qianzhan thought about it and said: “That would be okay.” Sensing the change in atmosphere on the other end, she immediately added: “It’s just the exposed shoulders, back, and intimate scenes I couldn’t accept.”

Ji Qinghe chuckled softly, “I think so too—better for you to appreciate alone.”

Shen Qianzhan inexplicably felt her face heating up. Following his lead, she asked: “Filming starts in April. When are you coming back?” After speaking, realizing her tone carried some resentment, she tried to cover up by adding: “When we signed the contract, you demanded to personally review scripts and required car service. We’ve held dozens of script meetings, and you haven’t attended once.”

If Ji Qinghe weren’t free labor, she would have already come demanding breach of contract compensation.

Ji Qinghe turned around, glancing at the date on the display screen—March 20th.

He’d been trapped at headquarters for nearly two months for Bu Zhong Sui’s new timepiece collection. He’d returned to Beijing twice during this period, each time so busy his feet barely touched ground, without even time to take her to dinner—quite the melancholy helplessness of passing by home three times without entering.

Ji Qinghe pinched the bridge of his nose and removed his glasses.

Before the floor-to-ceiling window lay half a city’s lights. Standing above this constellation of stars, overwhelming longing suddenly flooded down like a tide.

“I’ll definitely be at the launch banquet.”