Xie Qian had never been so eager for his 18th birthday to arrive.
Turning 18, legally an adult, would open up many possibilities for him.
But before he could exercise shareholder rights, he needed a way to make Xie Jinghu willingly hand over the film company.
Approaching it like solving a problem, he had to crack it first!
Putting himself in Xie Jinghu’s shoes: when would he give up the film company? Neither helping in a crisis nor adding to success would do—it had to be a burden, something that distracted or harmed him. Then it’d be a sure thing.
But how to get the message to Xie Jinghu?
Not directly, of course.
It had to reach his ears through other channels.
Xie Qian thought it over and targeted Zhao Dong in Shanghai. A lackey’s words carried more weight than a son’s—ironic, but that was their “father-son bond.” Xie Qian was used to it!
With a plan, Xie Qian acted fast. Even if he succeeded, he likely wouldn’t boast to Wen Ying. So, she had no clue about his schemes, focusing her spare time on the essay competition.
After reviewing the 30 entries, Old Fu gathered Wen Ying and Zhang Guangzhen to finalize the first round’s short-story finalists.
Zhang Guangzhen joked, “Each of these three stories is worth at least 20,000 yuan!”
The short-story group would select 12 pieces, with prizes from 200,000 yuan for first place to 20,000 for excellence. All finalists were guaranteed a prize. Zhang Guangzhen wasn’t wrong—these three were worth at least 20,000, with a shot at 200,000!
He regretted saying it, fearing it sounded crass in front of Old Fu.
But Old Fu laughed. “No need to hide in front of me. Speak plainly. Your selection process is novel. Literature is created by writers, but once published, it belongs to readers, to the masses. Anyone can judge a public work!”
That was Old Fu.
Wen Ying had felt his magnanimity before, but for Zhang Guangzhen, it was a first, and he was thrilled.
An emotional middle-aged literati, Zhang Guangzhen could barely contain himself. He held it together before Old Fu but gushed afterward.
To Song Foxiang and Editor Wan, his teary enthusiasm was blatant bragging!
Editor Wan hadn’t dreamed of being a judge, so he wasn’t too sore.
Song Foxiang had!
Without the ghostwriting scandal, he could’ve volunteered as a judge, meeting Old Fu easily. Wasn’t he better than the weepy Zhang Guangzhen?
—Damn Zhao Dog, all his fault!
Song Foxiang sorted new second-round entries while cursing Zhao Dong inwardly.
Little Minnow didn’t care what he thought. Thoughts are free; she didn’t demand loyalty, just work. The judge snub was a sting for Song Foxiang, and it worked—Little Minnow found the right nudge made even a salty fish hustle.
Catching one fish brought Editor Wan along. Little Minnow was winning!
*Spark* had released two issues, with the third coming soon. From just contestant submissions to real reader letters, Little Minnow was pleased.
*Spark*’s circulation grew each issue, its buzz and quality earning market praise. Little Minnow was thrilled, though other magazines likely weren’t.
Especially her old employer, *Aige*. Through Liang He, the author who nearly perjured herself, Little Minnow poached several core *Aige* writers—ones under Han Qin’s tenure. Losing a few shouldn’t have hurt much, but *Aige*’s earlier actions left other writers uneasy.
They might not face Upstream Fish’s bad luck.
Losing the lawsuit humbled *Aige*’s editors, a win for writers.
But with other magazines to submit to, why risk *Aige*?
A thousand-mile dam crumbles from an ant’s hole. Reputation is hard to build, easy to ruin. The defamation lawsuit’s fallout was just starting to show. Like the hospitalized veteran writer, the bigger Wen Ying’s fame, the more people recalled *Aige* and his villainy!
Rumor had it Han Qin’s boss, disciplined and demoted, now often chewed her out for dragging him down. Little Minnow just laughed it off.
Regretting now?
What were they doing earlier?
Han Qin’s actions didn’t fool a rookie like Little Minnow, let alone seasoned veterans.
As a newbie, Little Minnow refused to collude with Han Qin. Her boss turned a blind eye, failing to stop her. Now, for launching *Spark*, Little Minnow was the industry’s youngest major editor—justice rewarded!
Over the weekend, Xie Qian flew to Shanghai to quietly play the house thief.
Wen Ying visited the *Starry River and You* set, filmed at a Rongcheng college. Leaving the campus, she ran into Aunt Zhu Meiqun on the street.
Chen Ru told her to ignore it, so Wen Ying, busy, hadn’t followed up. The family didn’t mention it, and she assumed Zhu Meiqun had quit selling roasted sweet potatoes. Seeing her again was a shock.
Zhu Meiqun hadn’t stopped; sweet potatoes weren’t her main gig anymore. On Rongcheng’s chilly streets, her mobile stall wafted aromas of seaweed, shrimp, scallions, and chili oil—she was selling wontons now?
Wen Ying didn’t disturb her.
She watched quietly; Zhu Meiqun’s business was doing well. Then Wen Ying returned to the set, flagged a crew member, and offered to treat everyone to wontons.
“Everyone’s working hard!”
“No, no, how can we let you pay…”
The crew member wasn’t just being polite—Wen Ying was the most prominent screenwriter he’d seen. With mega-star Li Mengjiao trailing her like a puppy, lead actor Yun Chen’s kindness, and Yuan Fenghui’s clear favor, Wen Ying’s status rivaled guest star Hua-language diva Hu Man. He couldn’t be too respectful.
At her insistence, the crew member took her money to arrange the wontons.
