Shareholder rights!
The law clearly defines shareholder rights, allowing them to decide company policies and investment plans through general meetings. Xie Yuping always pressured Xie Jinghu to transfer shares, not other assets, paving the way for Xie Qian to eventually take over Jinhu Group.
With shares, you don’t need a position.
Without shares, even a general manager role is meaningless.
The shares Xie Jinghu was forced to transfer to Xie Qian amounted to three percent, with Old Lady Xie adding two percent, totaling five percent.
Five percent made Xie Qian a minor shareholder in Jinhu, not enough to challenge Xie Jinghu’s control.
Xie Jinghu’s concern was the three percent still held by his mother.
Her current plan was to split those shares among Xie Tang, Xie Qi, and others, uniting Xie Qian’s generation. But as long as she hadn’t distributed them, things could change. What if she gave all three percent to Xie Qian?
That would give Xie Qian eight percent of Jinhu Group.
Xie Jinghu couldn’t reclaim Xie Qian’s existing shares, but he was scheming to delay Xie Qian’s exercise of shareholder rights. Xie Qian saw through his intentions, finding them both absurd and laughable.
“I don’t agree.”
Xie Qian flatly refused, “I can take or leave Jiashin Film. Shareholder rights are my legal entitlement, something tangible I can claim at eighteen. You want to trade that for a vague ‘evaluation’? Do you think that’s fair?”
Evaluate his ability?
Grant more authority if he passed?
A joke!
Such promises, made with a flick of the tongue, were empty. Xie Jinghu could renege anytime. Even under Xie Yuping’s oversight, “authority” was too vague. Who knew what Xie Jinghu would use to fob him off?
Xie Qian was unyielding, infuriating Xie Jinghu, whose brows twitched.
“I’m offering you Jiashin Film. Isn’t that enough?”
“You said management rights, not equity. If I manage poorly, you strip my Jinhu shareholder rights. If I manage well, you reclaim Jiashin’s management. I’d just be working for you for free.”
Free benefits, fine.
Free labour, no way.
Looking at Xie Qian now, Xie Jinghu almost missed the old, less defiant version.
This kid was tough.
“What do you want then?”
Xie Jinghu’s patience was nearly spent. Assistant Qi, nearby, feared he might lash out at Xie Qian.
Xie Qian weighed his options briefly, “Give me Jiashin Film for real. If I manage well, I don’t need your so-called extra authority; Jiashin is my reward. If I fail, I admit I’m not capable and don’t deserve shareholder rights.”
Equity, not management rights.
So that was the kid’s plan?
Clever!
Xie Jinghu narrowed his eyes.
He offered Jiashin to distract Xie Qian, to slow him down.
A small film company, Xie Jinghu didn’t care for it, but he wouldn’t hand it over easily.
When Xie Qian demanded Jiashin’s equity, Xie Jinghu had Assistant Qi show him out.
Their first negotiation ended sourly.
Xie Qian took a recording pen to Xie Yuping, who listened with a persistent frown.
“Your father—”
Wants to tie you up with Jiashin Film.
Xie Yuping couldn’t finish the sentence.
Xie Qian shrugged, “We each have our needs.”
Now it was up to Xie Jinghu to negotiate.
Negotiation was a mental game; the anxious one conceded.
Xie Qian wasn’t anxious. Wen Ying’s Jiuding series was just starting, and Jiashin was for future plans, not urgent.
When Xie Jinghu had Assistant Qi contact Xie Qian again, he was already at the airport.
“Young Master Xie…”
“I’m boarding. Talk after I land.”
Qi was left stunned as the call ended.
Jiashin’s financials might be average, but it was a film company. To leave Beijing without settling such a deal?
Qi reported to Xie Jinghu, whose ashtray didn’t survive his fury, shattering into pieces, one grazing Qi’s hand.
Watching the enraged Xie Jinghu, Qi thought “tyrant.”
The boss’s emotional control was no match for Young Master Xie.
Xie Qian didn’t return to Rongcheng immediately. He flew to Qiongdao to visit his grandmother, joining Zou Weijun, who was spending the holiday there. They returned to Rongcheng together after her leave ended.
Zou Weijun’s first act upon landing was calling Wen Ying, “Teen Idol’s second-quarter sales data is out. The finance team was off for the holiday, but once they’re back tomorrow, your second royalty payment will be processed soon.”
Teen Idol launched in August, with royalties based on three-month sales. The first quarter’s payment in November was for 568,329 copies sold. Per Wen Ying’s tiered royalty contract, she earned 568,329 × 14% × 32, totaling 2.5461 million yuan before tax. But Wen Ying barely saw it; Yuan Fenghui took it for Star River and You’s production investment.
Now, the second sales cycle—November 2005, December 2005, and January 2006—was complete, time for another royalty payment.
During those months, the Tianjiao·Spark Cup essay contest brought Wen Ying heavy public scrutiny.
But it also boosted her.
The pressure drove Teen Idol’s sales to soar again.
Fans and critics alike bought the book for various reasons, piling up sales. Zou Weijun’s cheerful tone reflected this, “Guess how many sold in the second quarter.”
It must be good if Zou Weijun was joking.
Wen Ying was eager for the figures.
“Auntie Zou, don’t tease. How many sold?”
“Guess first. If you’re wrong, I’ll tell you.”
Up by 300,000?
No, probably more.
If 500,000, Teen Idol would hit a million sales in six months, a clear annual bestseller!
A million sales was glory for Wen Ying and tied to her income.
500,000 sales meant 14% royalties.
A million sales meant 15% royalties.
One percent seemed small, but on a large base, it was hundreds of thousands of yuan, no small sum for Wen Ying now.
Zou Weijun’s silence on the numbers left Wen Ying uneasy.
Urged to guess, Wen Ying boldly ventured high, “Sixty thousand?”
