With Ji Mingshu’s generous giveaway boosted by Junyi’s extravagant add-on, the promotional video quickly rose to popularity, with reposts rapidly exceeding ten thousand.
When the staff of “Old Street Impressions” came across this Weibo post, a row of comments seemed to flash across their screens at double speed: “Wuwuwu, the lively budget is burning away! Save the children!!!”
The art and post-production team marched into the producer’s office, asking indignantly why the budget was being spent on such pointless things!
The producer was momentarily confused, then issued a triple denial: “I didn’t do it! I’m innocent! Where would we even have that kind of budget?”
Everyone calmed down and thought about it, realizing that they truly didn’t have such funds.
So this promotion was done by the designer herself? That wasn’t impossible, after all, everyone knew this designer was the CEO’s wife of Junyi.
The CEO’s wife loves art so much, she respects it.
Other staff members quickly accepted this explanation and rejoiced at the unexpected popularity, but the producer still found it hard to believe, so he specifically called Ji Mingshu to confirm.
He simply couldn’t understand why Ji Mingshu—a designer who had sent her legal team to haggle over recording fees, design fees, and specific contract terms four or five times before barely reaching an agreement, afraid that the production side would take even a penny of advantage—would willingly “cut her wrist and bleed” so selflessly after filming ended. This could almost be listed in the annual awards for most puzzling behaviors.
During the call, the producer tactfully expressed his confusion, and Ji Mingshu responded equally tactfully.
The producer fell silent, finally understanding. If her words were put plainly, they would be something like: “I don’t care about those recording and design fees, but about my worth. Do you think I care about your paltry money when even my giveaways cost more?”
Yes, the CEO’s wife truly loves art so much and respects it.
In ancient times, great rewards would bring forth brave men.
In the 21st century, great prizes would bring forth great attention.
Ji Mingshu’s promotional Weibo post went from 10,000 to 100,000 reposts in less than half a day, and was racing toward 200,000, with comments growing rapidly.
[AWSL! The CEO’s wife is in motion!]
[Beauty warning! Birkin warning!]
[Wuwuwu! It’s just a documentary! I’ll watch it! Waiting for the CEO’s wife’s next post! (Pitiful.jpg)]
[A woman who has beauty and intelligence, and she even has money!]
[You’re wrong, she also has a devoted CEO husband. /dog face]
Though Ji Mingshu wasn’t a celebrity or internet influencer, she naturally generated topics. Posting only once in half a year, her post was not only reposted repeatedly on Weibo but also sparked discussions about socialites and rich women on various forums.
There were even insiders who couldn’t help but reveal: Ji Mingshu is truly a massive spender!
That short three-minute-plus video on Weibo—a rough version could be filmed with just a phone stand, and a more refined one would only need an additional ring light.
But our CEO’s wife hired a filming team of more than a dozen people, covering makeup, lighting, angles, editing—a complete package—ensuring every second on screen was truly meticulously crafted from hair to toenails!
Gossip consumers clutched their hearts and said: I’ll never again say I’m a delicate princess girl. So humbling.
Ji Mingshu had only intended to post a promotional Weibo for the program, but unexpectedly, supported by various derivative revelations, the buzz continued for a full two to three days.
By the weekend, the popularity was finally starting to decline when some industry insider suddenly jumped out and leaked a photo of Cen Sen attending the Asia-Pacific Financial Asset Management Summit some time ago.
In the photo, Cen Sen sat in the front row, wearing a tailored formal suit, thin gold-rimmed glasses, legs crossed, leaning against the chair back, exuding elite charisma, with a dignified and aloof aura that seemed to spill out of the screen.
[Okay! This CEO I accept! From now on, all the “overbearing CEO falls in love with me” stories I read will have a face!!!]
[What kind of celestial beauty is this couple? Wuwuwu, the CEO couple is so shipworthy!!!]
[Seriously, can the CEO couple just debut as a CP? This face, this aura, this physique—not debuting would be a waste of heavenly gifts!!]
Some people even dug up Ji Mingshu’s New Year’s Eve affectionate Weibo post, placing the picture of them holding sparklers together with this leaked front-facing photo, repeatedly brainwashing: [Look at our CEO! Cold-faced during meetings, but holding sparklers with both hands when home, pampering his wife! It’s sweet, sisters!!!]
Some went even further, turning his meeting photo into a meme: [Hurry up and finish your blabbering, I need to go home and watch fireworks with my wife.jpg]
Suddenly, various forums were filled with “fireworks warnings.”
This front-facing photo came out so suddenly, and not through any media outlet. By the time Cen Sen knew about it, it had already spread very widely.
He indeed didn’t like exposing private information to the public, but with the lesson from Ji Mingshu’s second uncle trying to forcefully control public opinion at a critical moment, he didn’t want people to make any big moves. He planned to wait a few days for the popularity to decrease, then slowly clean up the traces.
After hearing his plan, Ji Mingshu looked at him with new appreciation.
She had thought this old-fashioned man’s understanding of the internet was only slightly better than her second uncle’s, but now she saw that he understood quite well.
Speaking of being old-fashioned, Ji Mingshu had some preconceived misconceptions about Cen Sen.
Although Cen Sen wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about social media, he wasn’t entirely ignorant of internet dynamics.
The fact that Junyi’s official Weibo could immediately add to Ji Mingshu’s giveaway was with his approval.
Moreover, these past few days, he had also been looking at Ji Mingshu’s Weibo and had carefully read the comments below.
One comment, though not particularly highly liked, caught his attention.
[Why is the number of the CEO’s wife’s Weibo posts different from the actual number we can see?]
Someone replied below: [That’s because she set some posts to “Only visible to friends” or “Only visible to myself.”]
Cen Sen silently noted this new knowledge point.
Coming back to the topic, Ji Mingshu’s promotional effect was very significant. “Old Street Impressions,” previously almost unknown, attracted a large number of young viewers because of her.
Everyone originally just wanted to admire Ji Mingshu’s divine beauty in the program, but after one episode, they discovered that the documentary’s content wasn’t so boring after all.
Moreover, in the field of interior design, Ji Mingshu wasn’t just a decorative figurehead randomly raising the tone.
From the program, it was evident that she really had ideas and opinions. Most valuable of all was that from “Design Home” to this documentary, she had learned to consider others.
In “Design Home,” Ji Mingshu completely dominated, being very assertive with team members.
In this program, she was also the leader of the renovation design, and the other designers, with less outgoing personalities than hers, would unconsciously be led by her. But whenever this happened, she would stop and switch roles to become a listener, consulting others’ opinions. This greatly increased her likability.
The premiere broadcast two episodes back-to-back. If the content of the first episode was relatively hardcore, the second episode was more lifestyle-oriented, as it focused on the residential building renovation.
This episode began with real-life footage of Shanghai Street neighbors shopping, bargaining, playing mahjong, etc. Once the renovation theme began, conflicts arose.
The aunties and uncles argued heatedly over the purpose of half a square meter of public space.
Their arguments were quite dialectical, each holding their views and unwilling to yield. Ji Mingshu, as the interior designer, stood in the corner, unable to interject for a long time, her face clearly showing she felt small, pitiful, and helpless.
The bullet screen comments suddenly surged during this segment:
[Why is the CEO’s wife suddenly so cute hahahahaha!]
[I’ve discovered that this is a dry humor documentary, manual dog head.]
[CEO’s wife: I’m a bit confused. Who am I? Where am I? What did I do wrong?]
[CEO’s wife: Aunties and uncles, stop arguing. I’ll buy this half square meter!!]
After the premiere, the program received quite good reviews, with viewing rates and discussion levels much higher than the production team had expected.
And Ji Mingshu again gained fans on the spot, silently reaching three million followers.
At the same time, the amateur dating web show that Gu Kaiyang participated in had already broadcast its third week.
Dating shows naturally had more topics for discussion than documentaries, and the internet buzz was quite good after the first episode aired.
In the first two weeks’ episodes, Gu Kaiyang was neither favored by the male guests nor particularly welcomed by the audience.
Because Gu Kaiyang didn’t talk much, he often silently observed. The other female guests would either openly or subtly express their interest in the men they fancied, but she exhibited a completely “I don’t need a boyfriend,” “I’m not interested in any of them” bystander attitude.
But after the latest third episode broadcast the background reveal segment, Gu Kaiyang’s image instantly underwent a 180-degree transformation.
This quiet, unassuming lady turned out to be the deputy editor-in-chief of “Zero Degrees”!
People also discovered a little surprise in the highlights and easter eggs—in the next episode, Male Guest #4 would appear, seemingly with a romantic storyline with Gu Kaiyang.
Online, everyone enthusiastically dug for clues and discussed details, but the program’s progress was far behind real-time events.
By the end of filming, Gu Kaiyang had not successfully paired up with anyone; she rejected Zhou Jiaheng’s final confession.
Of course, the actual situation wasn’t like that—
Gu Kaiyang had quite good feelings toward the newly joined Male Guest #4, old acquaintance Zhou Jiaheng. However, Zhou Jiaheng didn’t click with Gu Kaiyang.
Zhou Jiaheng liked gentle, petite girls, while independent, strong career women like Gu Kaiyang completely went against his mate selection criteria. They could be friends, but couldn’t become lovers.
As for the male confession and female rejection at the end of the show, it was a script pre-arranged with the production team to save face for the female side.
After the program ended, Gu Kaiyang was emotionally low for a few days because of this.
Jiang Chun couldn’t understand: [Why follow the script? When he confesses, just accept it! Completely confuse him!!!]
Gu Kaiyang: [?]
Gu Kaiyang: [Sister, that’s too brutal.]
Ji Mingshu, like Jiang Chun, also couldn’t understand. Her best friend was the best woman in the world! How could any man not click with her?! Especially someone like Zhou Jiaheng! She couldn’t comprehend it and secretly planned to go to the company to find trouble with him.
Gu Kaiyang was like a worm in her heart—before Ji Mingshu could take action, she directly forbade her from seeking private revenge against Zhou Jiaheng, saying things like feelings can’t be forced and so on.
Ji Mingshu was dissatisfied. Since she couldn’t cause trouble for Zhou Jiaheng, she had to cause trouble for Cen Sen instead.
Cen Sen, unaware of Zhou Jiaheng and Gu Kaiyang’s developments, was inexplicably provoked for two days and thought Ji Mingshu was in a bad mood because her period was approaching.
Ji Mingshu’s period could drag on for a week. Thinking about not being able to get close for a week, Cen Sen arranged intensive aerobic activities before her period.
Having dug a hole and buried herself alive, Ji Mingshu felt she was truly amazing.
In the morning, she was completely powerless. Even after Cen Sen had prepared breakfast, she was still in a paralyzed state, needing him to help her brush her teeth, wash her face, and get dressed.
Even going downstairs for breakfast, she habitually acted spoiled and wanted to be carried, and she was carried downstairs in an embarrassing face-to-face position with her legs wrapped around Cen Sen’s waist.
Since they had already reached this level of clinginess, she didn’t mind being even clingier. Throughout breakfast, she sat on Cen Sen’s lap, playing with her phone while letting him feed her.
Originally eating well, Cen Sen also seemed to enjoy the feeding process, but after Ji Mingshu took a sip of plain milk, she suddenly felt a bit lightheaded. That faint milk smell instantly made her stomach churn. Without any explanation, she put down her phone, hurriedly got off his lap, and rushed into the bathroom.
Cen Sen didn’t think much of it, assuming she had a stomachache. Noticing her phone left on the table, he picked it up and glanced at it.
At this moment, Ji Mingshu’s phone was on her Weibo interface, showing she had just posted a new Weibo post visible only to herself.
[I love my husband so much! I love him hugging me! /shy /shy /shy]
Cen Sen paused, remembering the question he had seen in her comments before, and instinctively scrolled down a bit further.
[How can that pig’s trotter not like our Gugu! Angry! Birds of a feather flock together, so Cen Sen is also a pig’s trotter!]
[Ah, why haven’t I conceived a baby yet? qvq]
[Third day of business trip, missing him missing him missing him tvt]
[Sometimes I feel I’m very lucky. Hope we can always be together o.o!]
…
The earliest private Weibo post visible only to herself could be traced back to when she confessed during the New Year, right next to her publicly visible, somewhat restrained New Year’s Eve affectionate Weibo post.
[Ahhhhhhh, he said he likes me! This must be the happiest day of my life! I, Ji Mingshu, must be the most fortunate little fairy in the world!!!]
Seeing this, Cen Sen smiled.