What was Zhao Dong doing here?
Not only was Wen Ying shocked, but Song Foxiang nearly dropped the microphone in his hand.
No need to guess—this jerk was definitely here to make trouble!
Song Foxiang had already set the tone for Zhao Dong.
But on second thought, what could Zhao Dong do?
The million yuan was donated, and “Jinhu Group” was credited. No matter how you looked at it, the Xie family had been given their due.
If Zhao Dong wanted to disrupt the donation, he’d first have to ask the writers’ association members present if they agreed.
If he was here to expose Song Foxiang’s ghostwriting… Song Foxiang wasn’t scared. The one without writing skills who wanted an autobiography was Zhao Dong—he’d be the one humiliated!
Song Foxiang steadied himself.
But Zhao Dong didn’t come alone—he brought a cameraman with a camera on his shoulder!
“Such a grand event, how could Brother Song hog the spotlight? That’s no fun!”
Zhao Dong rushed on stage, shaking hands with Jiang Xuekun and several association reps, the cameraman capturing every moment.
With the camera rolling, no one dared lose face, even if they didn’t understand Zhao Dong’s intentions.
Writers valued reputation. One wrong word on camera would be disastrous.
Wen Ying had a bad feeling. She guessed what Zhao Dong was up to but was powerless to stop him. She was just a newbie author tagging along with an invitation, with no say here!
Zhao Dong finished shaking hands and naturally stood beside Song Foxiang, clinging to him like a long-lost brother.
“Brother Song, I owe you big time. You brought me into Rongcheng’s cultural circle, let me feel the integrity of its literati, and gave me a sense of belonging to my hometown. For such an event, I had to come and contribute my bit.”
Zhao Dong spoke of his family’s journey abroad, their struggles over generations, leading to his return to invest in China—a polished version from his autobiography. At emotional moments, he teared up.
Song Foxiang was dumbfounded.
—This Zhao jerk must’ve been a Hollywood extra, desperate to act but ignored by directors, only getting his stage back in China!
Zhao Dong, dressed sharply in a suit, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his tears, his eyes genuinely red.
After the performance, Zhao Dong revealed his purpose: inspired by Song Foxiang’s noble spirit, he’d personally donate 500,000 yuan.
Zhao Dong was here to give money!
The association reps, momentarily stunned, snapped to attention.
The donation was for a fund to support struggling writers, helping them focus on creating better works—a long-standing goal of the association.
Someone joining Song Foxiang in donating was a good thing.
The reps warmed to Zhao Dong instantly.
Earlier, Zhao Dong had initiated handshakes; now, they approached him.
Song Foxiang was gobsmacked.
Zhao Dong, with just 500,000, stole his thunder—he’d donated a full million!
Sure, it was Xie Jinghu’s compensation, but still a million!
“Old Song, when someone wants to do good with you, we can only welcome it,” Jiang Xuekun, ever the savvy publishing group GM, had figured it out: today’s star was Zhao Dong!
Zhao Dong had introduced himself during his emotional speech.
A returning overseas Chinese businessman!
A businessman like Zhao Dong had more money than a magazine editor like Song. Song Foxiang had lucked into this million for the association—where would he find another?
Zhao Dong was different.
Today, he donated 500,000, but he could give another, and another… as long as his business thrived, he was a golden goose to pluck endlessly.
What a pity—the stage built for Song Foxiang had crowned Zhao Dong!
Song Foxiang’s face turned green with rage.
If not for the crowd, he might’ve smashed the microphone on Zhao Dong.
Wait—Song Foxiang’s hands were empty; Zhao Dong had already taken the mic to speak passionately.
Song Chan worried for her dad, fearing he’d storm off.
But like Wen Ying, she was just a junior here, with no voice.
Even with one book published—or ten—Song Chan was still a young writer among seniors.
“Who is this Zhao Dong?” Song Chan moved to Wen Ying’s side.
She hadn’t planned to talk to Wen Ying, but they were the closest in age, and she had no one else to vent to.
Song Chan’s behaviour stemmed from anxiety; she didn’t expect Wen Ying to answer. Wen Ying’s faint suspicions were confirmed by Zhao Dong’s act.
“He found the right way,” Wen Ying murmured. “I mean Zhao Dong. He finally found the perfect timing, the right method, and his own advantage.”
Zhao Dong wanted a theme park franchise. He’d failed in the “Guanyin Tianxiang” project bid.
But he hadn’t given up, aiming for another shot.
As someone reborn, Wen Ying knew such a chance was coming. Besides “Guanyin Tianxiang,” Rongcheng would soon have a “Happy Valley.”
Zhao Dong was targeting that.
If Zhao Dong won this time, the “Happy Valley” from Wen Ying’s memory might get a new name.
Zhao Dong, flush with cash but clueless, had cozied up to Jiang Youjia for access to Rongcheng’s elite circles.
Culture and tourism were intertwined.
Never underestimate a local literary circle. A plainly dressed old writer’s connections could be vast. Living quietly in a rural hometown, they might still get visits from local leaders.
Retired cultural tourism officials often continued shining in associations like the writers’ one.
Zhao Dong had been clueless about this.
Money was useless if you couldn’t find the right door. These folks didn’t play with money-driven businessmen!
But today—or earlier, when Zhao Dong hired Song Foxiang to ghostwrite his autobiography—he’d gotten it. He’d learned to play the game.
Xie Jinghu had opened Zhao Dong’s eyes!
Xie Jinghu gave Zhao Dong this stage to perform.
Would Zhao Dong win the bid?
Wen Ying’s heart sank. She had no interest in watching Zhao Dong’s show and left the venue.
“Hey, you—” Song Chan stared at Wen Ying’s back.
Why was Wen Ying mad?
Her dad was the one upstaged, yet Wen Ying seemed angrier, muttering cryptic words.
