By late April, the days had grown long.

The corridor was bathed in lingering twilight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Today the weather was clear, and the almanac favored wealth-seeking, business opening, and blessing acceptance. Everything seemed auspicious and fortunate, with good omens everywhere.

Shen Qianzhan looked at the sunlight with delight, not bothering to argue with Ji Qinghe, that libertine rogue. She simply adjusted the long hair pinned behind her ear and shot him a coquettish glance: “President Ji is still too young.”

She stepped through the doorway into the elevator area, her long dress with its fishtail hem flowing like ocean waves, rising and falling in graceful movement.

When this woman flirted, every gesture became pure allure.

Yet Shen Qianzhan remained oblivious to her irrepressible charm. When Qiao Xin caught up, she released the elevator’s hold button and gracefully stepped back: “I won’t have time to entertain you tonight.”

Ji Qinghe remained noncommittal.

He was particularly low-key today—neither in a business suit nor eye-catching attire. Dressed in casual clothes typical for someone his age, if not for that face whose radiance couldn’t be concealed, he might have looked like an accountant—refined in appearance but calculating at heart.

Shen Qianzhan couldn’t help stealing a few more glances at him: “Where’s Ming Jue?”

“He didn’t come. With me here, Beijing can’t be left without someone to hold things down.” Ji Qinghe paused, adding matter-of-factly: “Also afraid he’d be in the way if he came.”

“In the way? In the way of what?” The crew had so many people—they weren’t short one mouth to feed or one bed.

Ji Qinghe chuckled softly, glancing at her through the elevator’s floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Though he said nothing, that look conveyed ambiguity and indulgence from head to toe.

Shen Qianzhan made eye contact for just a moment before hastily looking away—at the elevator ceiling, the surveillance camera, the handrail—anywhere but at Ji Qinghe.

Soon, the elevator reached the lobby.

Like her pants were on fire, Shen Qianzhan was first to step out of the elevator.

Outside the hotel entrance, business cars lined up in rows—from Team A to Team B, the entire crew stood ready and waiting for passengers.

The production assistant and unit manager were organizing arriving personnel into cars. When Shen Qianzhan arrived, she naturally took priority. Ji Qinghe, being an honored guest, joined the two screenwriters in Shen Qianzhan’s vehicle, departing first for Ji Chun’er Bay ten kilometers away.

Ji Chun’er Bay Hotel was built lakeside—Wuxi’s most luxurious five-star hotel in recent years.

Due to the expensive accommodation costs, when Shen Qianzhan allocated funds, she hadn’t considered it at all, stingily arranging the launch banquet only in Ji Chun’er Bay’s reception hall.

When they arrived, Su Zan, having caught wind of their arrival, was already waiting at the entrance.

He stood before the Time concept poster hanging outside the hotel, resplendent in a floral shirt and beaming with joy.

The doorman stepped forward to open the car door. Ji Qinghe, seated on the outside, got out first, followed by Shen Qianzhan.

She wore a long dress with a narrow hem opening. Just as she wondered whether to jump down elegantly or ungracefully sidestep out, Ji Qinghe extended his hand—one gripping her palm, the other around her waist—and lifted her out without allowing refusal.

Once her feet touched ground, he withdrew his hands as if nothing had happened, the entire sequence flowing smoothly without a hint of awkwardness.

Shen Qianzhan was still processing what had happened when Su Zan applauded twice from the side, clearly enjoying the show. The moment laughter escaped his throat, Ji Qinghe’s penetrating gaze forced him to swallow it back.

He cleared his throat, pretending he’d seen nothing as he stepped past the pair toward Qiao Xin, extending his hand: “Come, come—big brother won’t let you go without a hug.”

Still digesting that display of affection, Qiao Xin saw Su Zan airdrop a pile of dog shit and swept him away with a leg sweep: “You, you, you—go cool off somewhere else.”

There weren’t many people in the hotel corridor, so aside from those involved, no one paid attention to this little episode.

At a time like this, Shen Qianzhan didn’t act coy either. Once inside the hall with no one around, she lightly raised her eyes to glance at Ji Qinghe: “President Ji is so skilled—you must have helped many girls out of cars these past few months.”

Ji Qinghe withdrew his gaze from surveying the reception hall and looked down slightly. When their eyes met, he said in an ordinary tone: “I had Ming Jue send you my schedule—where I am each day, who I meet, what I’m busy with. You can wrongfully accuse me with your eyes closed?”

Schedule?

Shen Qianzhan looked puzzled: “Where did Ming Jue send it?”

“Email.” Ji Qinghe glanced at her coolly. Seeing her obviously clueless expression, he knew she hadn’t noticed at all: “Sending a private WeChat would be too deliberate—without any official relationship, it wouldn’t be appropriate to be so direct, so I took a slightly roundabout approach.”

Shen Qianzhan’s earrings swayed as she momentarily didn’t know what expression to make.

Part of her wanted to laugh.

His humble little calculations, his careful probing—yet she neither received nor noticed any of it.

Part of her felt shy and annoyed.

She’d been so busy lately that even her skin had thinned, constantly blushing and feeling flustered. Previously she could maintain composure while making risqué jokes with Ji Qinghe, but now when he spoke seriously without innuendo, she found herself unable to cope.

Was she still the same Shen Wuqing who dominated Beijing’s nightlife, famous throughout pleasure districts?

Acting coquettish wouldn’t work.

Just imagining herself tugging Ji Qinghe’s sleeve while stamping her feet and whining “Who told you to send people schedules?” made her shudder with revulsion—too disgusting, she couldn’t do it.

Cold elegance wouldn’t work either.

If she hurt President Ji’s precious, proud little ego, that wouldn’t be good either. She couldn’t very well look down disdainfully like some heartbreaker, coldly mocking his fussy, unmanly behavior of sending her schedules while hotly ridiculing that this was all he knew about chasing girls.

That would definitely be a pyrrhic victory.

After much consideration, scumbag Shen could only avoid Ji Qinghe’s gaze and say matter-of-factly: “Someone’s coming. We’ll chat later.”

Her topic change was abrupt. After speaking, she turned to leave. She’d barely turned around when Ji Qinghe’s damn hand lightly clasped her left shoulder. He leaned down, whispering in her ear: “Hold up your neckline. However many inches you expose, I’ll go that many inches deep.”

What the hell?

Shen Qianzhan was shocked, turning to glare at him: “Shameless bastard.”

After cursing, she felt her heart trembling, her mind filled with beautiful images of “going inches deep” from his single sentence.

She shrugged slightly, shaking off his hand, but feeling it wasn’t satisfying enough, she turned back to glare at him fiercely: “Damn pervert.” But that final glance, shy and timid, not only lacked any intimidating power but appeared charming and flirtatious, quite playful in its teasing quality.

After leaving the hall and reaching the entrance.

Shen Qianzhan pressed her chest, taking a deep breath.

Her mind was full of memories of how many low-V evening gowns were in her wardrobe. There seemed to be one that barely covered her chest—a deep ink-colored flowing sand dress with a deep V down to her lower chest measurement. Years ago she’d bought the haute couture piece wanting to go for a sexy style to overshadow that damn girl Jian Xin, but unexpectedly Jian Xin caught a severe cold before the film festival and was directly absent.

If not for Jian Xin’s disappointment, her producer career might have had another highlight moment.

When Shen Qianzhan realized what she was thinking, she held her forehead in frustration, nearly wanting to smash her own skull with a palm strike.

She took a deep breath, swept away the improper thoughts filling her mind, straightened her spine, and then stepped forward.

At six o’clock, everyone including Song Yan had arrived.

The launch banquet officially began.

Ji Chun’er Bay’s flower hall could accommodate hundreds of people. The hall had a stage—not large, but fully equipped with podium, backdrop, lighting, sound and other equipment.

Directly below the stage was a prominent main table seating twenty, with name cards pre-placed for assigned seating.

Shen Qianzhan sat in the center position, with Ji Qinghe to her left, and Shao Chouxie, the assistant director, Fu Yang, Song Yan and other lead actors arranged to her right. Jiang Juanshan and Lin Qiao sat adjacent to each other, seated below Ji Qinghe.

The table of core creative personnel was extremely eye-catching.

Su Zan was tonight’s launch banquet host, spending a full day memorizing lines from opening to crowd-warming.

Originally Shen Qianzhan hadn’t had Qiao Xin prepare a script for him. Launch banquets were ultimately just the crew having a closed-door meal, rallying morale before official filming began and seeking good fortune. With Su Zan’s silver tongue, what grand occasion hadn’t he experienced? As long as he remembered the necessary procedures, warming up the crowd would be effortless.

But Su Zan was extremely ritualistic, begging Qiao Xin to write lines and a script. Early this morning he’d found excuses to rehearse, adjust lighting—putting on such airs as if attending a major satellite TV gala.

Fortunately, all the crew members were kindhearted beauties. After initially laughing at Su Zan’s affected seriousness, which completely contradicted his usual playful image, they cooperatively cheered and applauded throughout.

Su Zan wasn’t fazed either. After finishing his scripted lines, he began improvising. When introducing Time’s creative personnel, he suddenly became emotional, gesturing for lighting to focus the beam on Shen Qianzhan.

The latter was half-distracted, discussing tomorrow’s opening scene filming location with Shao Chouxie. When the spotlight enveloped her, the Time concept poster on the stage backdrop receded, cutting to her shot.

She instinctively looked up—that glance upward with brilliant eyes was unexpectedly stunning.

Shen Qianzhan took a few seconds to realize the launch banquet had reached its second segment. She smiled gracefully, contentedly listening to Su Zan introduce her with a string of flattering words.

As the crew’s highest decision-maker, the producer enjoyed supreme glory and prominence.

The entertainment industry was a very realistic place—whoever had power and money was the boss. Whether you were proudly principled and incorruptible or opportunistically good at networking, everyone had to be polite to those in power.

Initially Shen Qianzhan wasn’t accustomed to such customs, but after weathering many storms, she understood. Many people’s respect wasn’t for Shen Qianzhan the person, but for Producer Shen.

If she declined modestly, people would think her petty and unfit for great responsibility. If she accepted graciously, she’d earn respect and make everything easier. People were born equal, but economic strength, work capability, and family background naturally divided people into different classes—complete fairness didn’t exist.

Bearing the position meant accepting both its glory and bitterness—adored by thousands during glorious times, with only oneself knowing the bitter times.

She lowered her head and listened quietly. However long Su Zan spoke was how long the camera remained on her.

When Su Zan finished and invited her to speak on stage, thunderous applause erupted below like a long-awaited tide, making listeners’ blood boil.

Shen Qianzhan didn’t decline politely, her face not even reddening as she calmly stood and stepped onto the stage from the stairs. The overhead spotlight was like a water curtain, making her diamond-studded hem appear smoky and misty—breathtakingly beautiful.

The narcissistic, vain Producer Shen appreciated her stage entrance effect, very satisfied as she took the microphone to encourage all crew members.

Her words weren’t many, but every sentence was classic.

From how difficult and honored it was to facilitate Fu Yang and Song Yan’s collaboration, to how capable and hardworking Su Zan was, from praising Shao Chouxie’s overflowing talent to all crew members’ dedicated efforts—she didn’t even overlook the supporting actors, mentioning each one by name without being tedious.

No wonder people said Shen Qianzhan was the essence of a Chinese thesaurus—her word choice was precise, perfectly targeted, without a single superfluous word, skillfully stirring the launch banquet atmosphere to its peak.

After finishing her speech, she lifted her hem and elegantly descended the stage.

The spotlight had moved to Shao Chouxie. Shen Qianzhan discreetly returned to her seat. With the formalities over and nothing requiring her attention, she picked up chopsticks to quickly eat something to line her stomach for the upcoming rounds of toasting.

Though Ji Qinghe conversed quietly with Jiang Juanshan, his peripheral vision never missed her every movement.

Wherever her gaze fell, he unhurriedly placed food in her bowl.

Once or twice, Shen Qianzhan had no adverse reaction, but as it continued, gradually all eyes at the table began quietly gathering.

She ate with lowered head, her hand under the table lightly tugging Ji Qinghe’s sleeve. Originally meaning to hint he should stop serving food, whether Ji Qinghe misunderstood or did it deliberately, he leaned closer, bending his ear for her instruction.

Shen Qianzhan glanced at him. Unable to make a scene publicly, she could only lean close and say through gritted teeth: “President Ji, there are many people here. Please restrain yourself.”

Ji Qinghe remained composed: “Qiao Xin told me to watch you and feed you more food.”

As he finished speaking, sudden laughter erupted below stage, startling Shen Qianzhan. Looking up, she saw Shao Chouxie, who’d been doing stand-up comedy for half an hour and refused to leave the stage, directing his gaze toward her. Not knowing what his previous line had cued her with, the entire crew laughed until they swayed like flowers in the wind.

Indeed, being absent-minded was inadvisable.

This applied regardless of age.

Shen Qianzhan instinctively asked Ji Qinghe: “What did he just say?”

She still gripped Ji Qinghe’s sleeve. In her urgency, she tugged again, pulling Ji Qinghe’s shoulder toward her side, followed by another round of kind, benevolent laughter of varying pitches.

Ji Qinghe, usually unflappable even if Mount Tai collapsed before him, seemed infected by the atmosphere and smiled silently: “If you don’t let go, there really will be a spectacle.”

Shen Qianzhan: “…” She immediately released him like the fabric had burned her hand.

By now, if Shen Qianzhan still couldn’t see that Shao Chouxie was making fun of her, she might as well die. She turned and unceremoniously retorted: “Director Shao has been standing on stage like a stake for half an hour. Don’t tell me tomorrow when filming starts that your lips are worn thin and you can’t direct anymore.”

The entire venue burst into laughter.

Having won back a round, Shen Qianzhan waited for Shao Chouxie to return to his seat before vindictively grinding his foot with her heel: “What did you just say about me?”

Shao Chouxie’s face went from green to red after being ground by high heels. Looking past Shen Qianzhan to Ji Qinghe, he gave a pitying look that said “this woman isn’t to be trifled with, brother, you’re on your own.”

Before Shen Qianzhan could explode, he surrendered first, respectfully toasting with a small cup of white liquor: “How could I speak ill of you publicly? I just said ‘there’s a woman here who probably won’t know what I talked about even after I get off stage.'”

Then his gaze turned to Shen Qianzhan. The photographer’s camera followed, capturing her small actions. Thus, everyone in the crew knew she was distracted by male beauty and neglecting her duties.

Innocently ambushed, Shen Qianzhan could only threaten: “…Just wait. This matter won’t end well tonight.”

The consequences of offending Shen Qianzhan were undoubtedly painful.

Initially Shao Chouxie didn’t take it seriously, until he accompanied Shen Qianzhan table by table to toast, finally experiencing what regret meant.

Launch banquets were always crew-wide celebrations.

According to Chinese drinking culture, Shen Qianzhan was definitely not going home sober tonight. Besides her needing to toast crew members table by table, representatives from each table also came to toast her.

Fu Yang and Song Yan could manage small sips for show, but she alone couldn’t remain uninvolved.

Even with Shen Qianzhan dragging along Shao Chouxie as a scapegoat to block many toasts, by the time of the crew group photo, she was already dizzy with intoxication.

Qiao Xin helped her back to feed her sobering medicine. Seeing her unable to sit steady and just about to support her waist, Ji Qinghe first steadied her shoulders, letting her lean against the chair back: “I’ll handle this.”

Qiao Xin didn’t insist, bringing the pre-prepared sobering soup to Shen Qianzhan’s lips: “Sister Shan, drink some sobering medicine. After the group photo I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

Shen Qianzhan was extremely dizzy, all sounds seeming distant as if through a membrane. Unable to hear clearly, she leaned into Ji Qinghe’s embrace while groping for his ear: “What did you say?”

His earlobe was slightly cool and comfortable to touch. Shen Qianzhan couldn’t let go, kneading it twice before wrapping one arm around his neck and hugging tightly: “I’m dizzy from drinking and want to sleep.”

As she burrowed in with her head, her hair brushing his temples, Ji Qinghe froze momentarily but couldn’t bear to push her away. He reached for Qiao Xin’s teacup, bringing the sobering soup to her mouth.

Shen Qianzhan stuck out her tongue to taste it, then disgustedly pushed it away: “Tastes awful.”

Ji Qinghe’s hand was splashed with the sobering soup she’d pushed away. Frowning slightly, he looked up at Qiao Xin: “Have Su Zan gather everyone for the photo, then I’ll take her upstairs to rest.”

Though he didn’t drink, he knew that mixing red and white wines was most intoxicating.

Shen Qianzhan’s current state clearly showed retained consciousness but lack of self-control. If she wasn’t sent to rest in her room soon, who knew how she might embarrass herself.

Qiao Xin naturally realized this too.

Shen Qianzhan’s drunk behavior was always random. When lucky, she’d sleep like a lamb when dead drunk and unconscious. When unlucky, she’d clung to male actors wanting hugs, sympathizing with their difficult survival and pitying their unrecognized talents. If Su Zan hadn’t covered her mouth in time, who knew how much industry gossip she might have revealed.

In the end, Qiao Xin could only coax and drag the intellectually-reduced-to-three-years-old Shen Qianzhan away by force. Even so, three-year-old Shen had scared that male actor badly, fearing he’d have to sell his ass, avoiding her until wrap-up.

Even recently, Shen Qianzhan had embarrassed herself while drunk.

Last year when Jiang Yecheng was stirring up trouble, wanting to replace Shen Qianzhan with Jian Xin, she and Su Zan accompanied Shen Qianzhan to meet Shao Chouxie at Ji Chun’er Bay. Unexpectedly, Director Shao was trapped by Jian Xin’s scheme and wouldn’t be released. Shen Qianzhan battled two old foxes all evening. She didn’t get drunk at the dinner, but on the way back she was so drunk she talked in her sleep all the way.

Things like “dog waist” and “can’t afford diamond-studded ones”—full of vulgar language and fragrant mouth.

Thinking of this made Qiao Xin’s face burn with shame and her heart race. She dared neither look directly at Ji Qinghe nor Shen Qianzhan, rushing off like an escape to find Su Zan with a burning face.

Ji Qinghe glanced at Qiao Xin’s fleeing figure, then turned Shen Qianzhan’s chin to study her thoughtfully for a moment before quietly confirming: “Drunk?”

Shen Qianzhan stubbornly replied: “Not drunk.”

Ji Qinghe curved his lips in a silent smile: “Good, not drunk.”

“It’s good you’re not drunk.”