The tea room had excellent soundproofing. When Ji Qinghe lifted the curtain to enter, it was like lifting a corner of this room, letting in some of the storytelling and ballad singing from the hall outside.

Ming Jue followed a step behind him, closing his umbrella. The umbrella surface was wet, and where the handle touched the ground, small water stains spread.

As he entered and the curtain closed behind him, the liveliness outside was also shut out.

Shen Qianzhan followed the umbrella handle with her gaze to Ji Qinghe’s shoulder—one side was dampened by snowflakes, saturated with moisture and carrying bone-cutting coldness.

Yet he seemed completely unaware, taking off his wool coat and handing it to Ming Jue, naturally sitting in the empty seat beside her.

Shen Qianzhan poured two cups of water, handing one to Ji Qinghe and one to Ming Jue: “Is it snowing outside?”

“Just started a while ago.” Ji Qinghe took the teacup and moistened his throat: “Quite good at picking locations?”

His tone rose slightly at the end, as if smiling: “The tea garden only has outdoor parking. After parking and walking over, with bridges and winding streams, it took nearly ten minutes.”

Shen Qianzhan had arrived early, and aside from the sky being somewhat overcast, nothing else had happened. She took Ji Qinghe’s comment as praise and accepted it graciously: “You flatter me. President Ji has high environmental standards, so I searched at home for a long time before settling on this tea garden. The environment is elegant and quiet, with good soundproofing. If you want liveliness, the outer tea hall has storytelling performances. If you want a rural experience, the tea garden has tea mountains. It’s a pity it’s snowing, otherwise if President Ji wanted to experience floating cups along a winding stream, I could arrange that too.”

Ji Qinghe, as usual, caught the key point in her words: “It does satisfy my soundproofing requirements.”

The words weren’t problematic—each character read separately was perfectly healthy and environmentally friendly, with no inappropriate connotations. But combined with his meaningful playful expression, Shen Qianzhan couldn’t help but think in the wrong direction.

She suddenly began to doubt whether there was something wrong with her thoughts—of all the colors available, she always picked the yellow ones.

Shen Qianzhan pretended not to understand, cleared her throat, and asked Ming Jue: “Assistant Ming returned to work so early?”

Ming Jue sat to Ji Qinghe’s left and very proactively took over the tea-brewing task: “Mm, I’m quite passionate about work.”

Whether this statement was insincere or genuine, it ended the topic incredibly quickly.

Soon, Su Zan and Jiang Juanshan also arrived.

The two had walked the same path one after the other, only discovering each other’s identities when they entered the same tea room.

With everyone present, Shen Qianzhan hosted and made introductions all around.

When introducing Lin Qiao, she added a couple extra sentences: “Lin Qiao has very solid fundamentals and rich scriptwriting experience. Of all the screenwriters I’ve collaborated with, Lin Qiao is the only one whose detail handling and shot styling are similar to Teacher Jiang’s, pursuing perfection to a high degree. Personally, I think her participation should bring fresh creative inspiration to Teacher Jiang.”

Jiang Juanshan smiled, rubbing the tea cup handle, saying softly: “Lin Qiao is my student.”

“Producer Shen needn’t worry that I’d be dissatisfied with Lin Qiao participating in script creation.”

Shen Qianzhan looked at both of them with some surprise: “I’ve never heard either of you mention this before.”

Lin Qiao had been obediently silent ever since being caught talking behind someone’s back earlier. Hearing this, she quietly explained on Jiang Juanshan’s behalf: “I haven’t graduated, so I’m ashamed to mention it.”

Shen Qianzhan wasn’t particularly interested in gossip about internal affairs, but she was pleased to see Lin Qiao and Jiang Juanshan had this foundational relationship.

Teams that could collaborate harmoniously always achieved twice the results with half the effort.

The script meeting started with finalizing the project name and ended with the script outline.

Su Zan served as temporary recorder, both recording audio and opening a document to neatly organize the meeting’s key points, providing everyone with an electronic copy before the meeting ended.

Seeing it was getting late, Shen Qianzhan didn’t want to keep people longer. Noticing no one seemed interested in a group dinner, they all left together.

Near evening, the storytelling outside the hall had long since ended.

The moment Shen Qianzhan stepped outside, she was startled by the dusky evening light.

The horizon was grey and heavy, misty and hazy, with garden lights already lit. The sky seemed to have stepped into night with one foot, unable to capture even the faintest glimmer of light.

The snow was falling heavier, with thick layers accumulated.

Under the garden’s covered corridors, all the green plants were wrapped in thick snow coats, a vista of silver and white.

Lin Qiao stamped her feet from the cold: “This year’s weather is a bit abnormal. Is there a snowstorm somewhere?”

Su Zan’s cotton shoes, soaked through on arrival, still had wet tips. He shook his frozen feet while muttering: “Probably been holding back too long. This snow is like someone dumping basins from above. A few degrees colder and we could probably join Ice City in hosting an ice sculpture exhibition, saving the travel money to Harbin.”

Shen Qianzhan waited at the front desk for the receipt, holding a handful of sunflower seeds, cracking them unhurriedly.

People left one by one. After waiting for the receipt printer to finish and collecting the receipt, when she came out, Ji Qinghe stood under the corridor with an umbrella, waiting for her.

She was somewhat surprised: “Everyone left?”

Ji Qinghe hummed: “The snow got heavy. Su Zan didn’t bring an umbrella, so I had Ming Jue take him to the parking lot first.”

Shen Qianzhan glanced at the heavy snow falling steadily and consciously walked under his umbrella: “Thank you for your consideration, President Ji.”

Ji Qinghe didn’t respond, tilting the umbrella more toward her side.

The wind was quite strong. Shen Qianzhan’s plan to walk while cracking sunflower seeds was ruthlessly crushed by the weather. She shrank her neck, her gaze falling on Ji Qinghe’s profile in the lamplight.

The shadow was slender, only an outline, details unclear.

Only that umbrella, its surface tilted slightly, blocked much of the fierce wind coming through.

This quiet made her mind wander somewhat. She looked up and, in the rustling wind through the bamboo grove, made conversation: “Is President Ji adapting well to this kind of script meeting?”

Ji Qinghe looked down at her: “You mean discussing for ages without reaching any substantial conclusions—you call that kind of tea party a script meeting?”

His criticism was merciless. Shen Qianzhan felt her knee hurt and explained: “Without a finalized outline, when screenwriters only have vague concepts about what story to write, you expect one meeting to produce substantial results?”

Ji Qinghe remained noncommittal. He still held some reverence for fields he didn’t understand and didn’t casually comment based on his subjective views: “How long does it take to finalize an outline?”

“Depends on the screenwriter.” Shen Qianzhan gave an analogy: “Just like Bu Zhong Sui developing new series and products—the preliminary preparation might take three to five years or even longer. If the screenwriter understands what we want, progress will be fast. Sometimes my thinking and the screenwriter’s are on the same wavelength, but my approval alone isn’t enough. Investors will intervene and provide modification suggestions. This is why I wanted you to participate. From now until the outline emerges, President Ji doesn’t need to participate—I’ll communicate with the screenwriter.”

Talking about work, she unconsciously became more talkative: “You might think each discussion isn’t very meaningful, but script creation is refined through repeated discussions. Maybe suddenly there’s a great creative idea and everything gets completely overturned. When your goals align with mine, the screenwriter suffers less. If you and I are at opposite extremes—say I want rich emotional lines to make characters fuller while you want scenes focused on professional aspects—we’d have disagreements.”

Ji Qinghe asked: “How are such disagreements usually resolved?”

“Depends on whether I can persuade investors or platforms. In the past, lacking influence, I often did things against my will. Though producers shoulder the entire production, they can’t completely do projects they want at will.” Shen Qianzhan explained: “I rarely seek investment without even having an outline—you’re an exception. Usually I work with screenwriters to create the outline and first five or ten episodes before approaching platforms and investors, minimizing early-stage project friction. But this usually requires existing source material or finished scripts. Original creation resembles our current situation—having nothing, building from scratch, perfecting bit by bit.”

“There are many types of disagreements with investors. For example, I want a scene with fireworks along the coastline, costing tens of thousands. Investors disagree, thinking there’s no money to invest in fireworks that disappear after being set off, requiring script changes to watching meteors from a rooftop instead.”

Ji Qinghe smiled: “I wouldn’t do that. If you want fireworks, any amount is fine.”

Shen Qianzhan was momentarily speechless.

Was she talking about fireworks with Ji Qinghe?

Just as she was about to sigh and conclude with “conversation doesn’t click, let’s not chat—just generously provide funding,” he laughed, his voice low and deep, especially appealing in this icy, snowy weather.

“I mean I’m willing to unconditionally support your creative expression on the project.” As the sky grew darker, he reached out to loosely guide her right shoulder, saying quietly: “Bu Zhong Sui has an internal assessment system. Before I decided to invest, the assessment team provided an objective evaluation report—it wasn’t blind.”

Shen Qianzhan was well aware of how impressive her performance record was. She proudly lifted her chin: “I never thought President Ji invested in Qiandeng for personal reasons.”

Ji Qinghe pondered for several seconds, then said: “You can still think that way.”

Shen Qianzhan: “???”

Ji Qinghe’s flirtation always stopped at just the right point—making you feel he had some interest while never being explicit or crude.

Shen Qianzhan felt somewhat disadvantaged. If she dared flirt with Ji Qinghe, she could give him a complete set of “108 Seductive Styles”—as seductive and flirtatious as possible.

Little wildcat, student girl, office lady—all personas available in abundant supply.

But to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings and bigger troubles, Shen Qianzhan could only laugh dryly twice and praise the financial daddy for being so humorous.

Ji Qinghe escorted her to her car.

Snow had already covered the car windows with a layer. He looked down at the wheels and frowned: “Leave the car here. I’ll take you home.”

Security guards were clearing snow in the parking lot, with two clear tire tracks visible on the main road.

Seeing the snow wasn’t deep, Shen Qianzhan politely declined: “It’s just snow. Going slowly won’t be dangerous.” Roads only became slippery when icy. Though Beijing had cooled down, it wasn’t cold enough for ice formation.

Seeing her resolute attitude, Ji Qinghe didn’t insist further.

Watching Shen Qianzhan get in her car and start it, he stepped back two paces with his umbrella, letting her go first.

The BMW’s wheels rolled forward a small half-turn, the car body shuddered, then stopped.

Ji Qinghe raised an eyebrow slightly, stepped forward, and tapped the car window.

Through the blurred window reflection, Shen Qianzhan lowered her window and handed him a brand-new thermal container: “My mom asked me to bring this to you.”

The sky had darkened, with only scattered cars parked sparsely in the parking lot.

He stood before the car holding his umbrella, tall and straight as a snow pine, emanating cold clarity.

Shen Qianzhan saw the light in his eyes shift from dim to bright, like a flickering flame, swaying and dancing.

This was a throbbing she knew intimately—like wildfire meeting wind, endless until exhausted.

Ji Qinghe reached out to accept it, the smile at his lips warm and clear: “Please convey my gratitude. I’ll visit another day.”

Shen Qianzhan’s face instantly turned the color of pickled vegetables: “…A visit really isn’t necessary.”