Xie Qian possessed a maturity beyond his peers. The Princess’s New Clothes had just sold its copyright, and Yuan Fenghui was already thinking about the next drama.
The next drama would, of course, be based on Wen Ying’s script, an original work Tianjiao bought for 500,000 yuan, with Li Mengjiao as the undisputed female lead.
As for the male lead, Yuan Fenghui still wanted Yun Chen to star.
This time, Yun Chen would play a popular idol star. Yuan Fenghui figured that after The Princess’s New Clothes aired, Yun Chen would taste fame and be able to portray a popular idol star convincingly. Using Yun Chen had two reasons: he was handsome enough, and his mainland contract was already with Tianjiao, so naturally, the opportunity should go to one of their own.
As for whether constantly acting in idol dramas would typecast him, why would a twenty-something small-time model who hadn’t yet made it big worry about that? Getting a male lead role meant Yun Chen should thank Yuan Fenghui for her recognition. If he didn’t want to do idol dramas, he could go back to Taiwan and continue being a small-time model.
If Yun Chen refused, plenty of others in the industry would jump at the chance. If Yuan Fenghui let slip about casting, new actors would line up, offering anything for an audition!
When Yun Chen heard Tianjiao’s second drama would still pair him with Li Mengjiao, his unsettled heart found peace.
He was afraid his choice to sign with Tianjiao was wrong. If he signed but had no roles, that would truly be a waste of time.
Yun Chen continued taking acting classes, and recently, Yuan Fenghui arranged vocal and dance lessons for him.
Wen Ying’s original script was set in the entertainment industry, with the male lead as an idol star. There were plenty of singing and dancing stage scenes, and the drama’s soundtrack would be released simultaneously, requiring Yun Chen to sing. In Wen Ying’s memory, Yun Chen wasn’t much of a dancer. Male groups debuting in Taiwan during this period weren’t known for outstanding singing and dancing, unlike their Japanese and Korean counterparts. Wen Ying was stunned by Yun Chen’s stiff movements during dance practice.
She only remembered Yun Chen wasn’t great at dancing, but was he really this bad?
In her previous life, she must have been too focused on his looks.
Yuan Fenghui wasn’t aiming to train Yun Chen to the level of Japanese or Korean idol groups. Practising singing and dancing was about building stage presence. How could someone who’d never performed on a big stage dominate one?
In Wen Ying’s script, the main focus was on Li Mengjiao, with many scenes opposite female supporting roles. The male lead was written as very charming but had far fewer scenes than Li Mengjiao. If Yun Chen couldn’t convincingly play a popular idol star adored by thousands of girls, he wouldn’t even qualify as a pretty vase!
Yun Chen, of course, didn’t want to be just a vase. The Princess’s New Clothes gave him a glimpse into acting. Playing an elite rich young man felt natural to him, but playing a popular idol star was harder to grasp.
After all, Yun Chen came from a well-off background, giving him exposure to “elite rich young men,” but he’d never encountered a popular idol star, leaving him without a reference to emulate.
Yun Chen was too embarrassed to admit his struggles to Yuan Fenghui, fearing she’d replace him. The person in the company most likely and able to help him was probably Wen Ying.
Wen Ying wrote the script; she knew exactly what her male lead was like.
Yun Chen secretly contacted Wen Ying, inviting her out for milk tea. Wen Ying was doing homework with Wang Shuang when she got the call.
There was no helping it.
Yun Chen had his struggles, and Wen Ying had hers.
Yun Chen’s struggle was that Wen Ying knew he’d become a huge star, and Yuan Fenghui saw his potential, but Yun Chen himself was unsure. His acting, vocal, and dance teachers were pushing him to his limits, leaving him battered and doubting his talent.
Wen Ying’s struggle was that in her previous life, she was a moderately successful lawyer, a screenwriter Yuan Fenghui wanted to bind with benefits, the boss of Shrimp King, and a talented new author in the eyes of publishers. Her first book, Youth Idol, had been on sale for just three days, and bookstores in Sichuan were already requesting restocks, indicating strong sales. But in front of Xie Qian, whether as Lawyer Wen, Screenwriter Wen, Boss Wen, or Author Wen, none of those identities mattered. If her grades didn’t improve, she’d always be Student Slacker Wen!
When Yun Chen asked for her help, Student Slacker Wen’s eyes lit up.
Wang Shuang, the fellow slacker, was annoyed: “You’re going to meet him and leave me to do homework alone? That’s not fair. Yun Chen’s asking you out, does Xie Qian know?”
Xie Qian, of course, didn’t know!
Wang Shuang’s comment made Wen Ying feel a bit guilty: “Yun Chen’s meeting me about the script. I’m on Tianjiao’s payroll, so this counts as work.”
Wang Shuang’s eyes gleamed: “You’re Tianjiao’s screenwriter, and I’m a producer. If Yun Chen’s talking work with you, I should go too.”
The two slackers, feeling justified, asked Aunt Liu, their supervisor, for leave and left with their backpacks.
“Aunt Liu, we’ve got some business at Tianjiao.”
“Yeah, we’re done for today. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
Wen Ying was calm while requesting leave, but Wang Shuang’s eyes darted nervously. Aunt Liu didn’t say much in person, but as soon as they left, she called Xie Qian.
Aunt Liu didn’t see it as snitching but as being responsible for Wen Ying and Wang Shuang.
These teenagers didn’t understand the importance of studying. Xie Qian was strict with them now for their future benefit.
Slacking off was human nature—people weren’t machines, and it was normal to feel tired or bored.
But constant slacking wouldn’t do. Before heading to Shanghai, Xie Qian specifically instructed Aunt Liu to keep an eye on the two slackers.
Xie Qian got a headache when he took the call.
Yesterday, he was touched that Wen Ying, the little hamster, was willing to lend him all her earnings. Today, she was already slacking off, proving he couldn’t just manage them remotely—he needed to keep the slackers under his watch.
He had to wrap things up in Shanghai quickly.
“Aunt Liu, I understand,” Xie Qian said, hanging up.
He and Gong Sheng were in Pudong, where industrial parks had been developed since the 1990s with supportive policies, making Pudong’s manufacturing sector a leader in Shanghai.
Where there was manufacturing, there was logistics. Pudong had the Waigaoqiao Logistics Park, mainly for import-export transshipment. Xie Qian invited Gong Sheng to check it out, but Gong Sheng thought Xie Qian was moving too fast. Xie Qian, however, was planning ahead.
Since the land near Hongqiao Airport wouldn’t serve the logistics company forever, they’d eventually need a new location. Where in Shanghai was suitable for logistics, and where could they start? Xie Qian needed to see for himself.
Even if it wasn’t relevant now, securing a spot early was wise. It was easier to get in now than later when space and markets were already divided.
After touring Pudong, Xie Qian and Gong Sheng’s final stop was the Zhangjiang High-Tech Industrial Park.
This was also Xie Jinghu’s destination that day.
Xie Jinghu was invited by Dai Chenglan to visit the He family’s factory. The money Jin Hu Group invested had turned into a new production line, and Dai Chenglan’s invitation prompted Xie Jinghu to make the trip.
Unprepared, Xie Jinghu spotted Xie Qian, and so did Dai Chenglan. With Xie Qian’s looks, Dai Chenglan couldn’t pretend not to see him!
Dai Chenglan was shocked: Why was Xie Qian here?
Xie Qian held weight in Dai Chenglan’s mind. After all, their brief encounter in Macau had driven Sara Zhuo away.
So what was Xie Qian’s deal now?!
