Zou Weijun never mentioned a specific fee, yet her words sent Detective Luo’s heart racing.
High rewards match high effort, just like high-paid managers who strive for degrees and certifications.
If this one case could grant him “freedom of choice,” Detective Luo felt many challenges could be overcome. Despite being thoroughly tempted, he didn’t agree immediately, as a question lingered.
“Ms. Zou, why choose me? Even if private detectives are scarce in China, there are plenty abroad. Hiring one there would be much simpler.”
Some women’s gentleness is affected, but Zou Weijun’s was a resolute strength. Every decision was carefully considered, and choosing Detective Luo was no whim.
“Detective Luo, trust sometimes outweighs ability. You’re trusted by Xie Qian and Wen Ying, so I trust you too. If you decide to take my case, contact me.”
Leaving him her card, Zou Weijun gracefully departed. Detective Luo stood holding it for ages.
His heart felt warm and full.
He puffed out his chest with pride.
He wasn’t great at business, but he poured his all into every case.
Ms. Zou, truly Xie Qian’s mother, had the same keen eye.
“Editor-in-Chief, Chengdu Literary Publishing House.”
The card bore only this simple title, revealing nothing of her status as a wealthy man’s wife, mirroring the impression Zou Weijun gave.
Though he hadn’t formally accepted, Detective Luo was already curious about Xie Jinghu’s mistress.
What kind of “wild flower” could so enchant Zou Weijun’s husband?
Was Zou Weijun, as a wife, not perfect enough, or Xie Qian, as a son, not outstanding enough?
Some men truly don’t cherish the blessings they’re given.
If fate takes those blessings back, it’s only fair.
Pocketing the card, Detective Luo knew meals are eaten bite by bite, roads walked step by step. First, he’d tackle Xie Qian’s case, investigating the “incident” at Wen Ying’s signing.
…
Neither Wen Ying nor Xie Qian knew Zou Weijun had met Detective Luo alone.
The day after dining with him, Wen Ying left for Hangzhou. Thanks to the media, the incident at her first signing was widely discussed, even reaching her parents in Chengdu.
Online noise was louder than reality. Fans rallied to support Wen Ying, while detractors, long resentful, gloated and badmouthed her.
Her friends were furious, and Wen Ying’s phone was flooded with consoling calls, including one from her old class monitor, Song Shao, who rarely contacted her. It was his first message this summer. Wen Ying replied to all, and then Chen Ru called.
Chen Ru bluntly asked what happened. Wen Ying said it was an overzealous reader.
“Writing books is a high-risk job now?”
“It’s probably just a one-off.”
In her past life, Wen Ying often saw readers jokingly threaten to send blades or splash red paint at authors’ doors for delays, but it was just talk. No one actually did it. Beating an author wouldn’t help; it’d give them more excuse to rest. Smart readers knew this.
Wen Ying didn’t think her novel warranted splashing dirty water. Someone was clearly stirring trouble.
She couldn’t tell Chen Ru the truth, or the remaining four signings would be canceled.
Chen Ru wanted to say more, but Zou Weijun took the phone, stepped to the window, and spoke softly.
Whatever Zou Weijun promised, Chen Ru reluctantly agreed to let the signings continue, but with a condition: the publisher must ensure Wen Ying’s safety.
If this happened again, Chen Ru would demand Wen Ying terminate her contract with the publisher.
What good was fame or money? Writing couldn’t be worth more than her life.
If the publisher knew of dangers yet pushed Wen Ying to continue, such a profit-driven publisher wasn’t worth working with.
“That’s a reasonable request.”
Chen Ru was fiery, but Zou Weijun’s gentleness disarmed her.
As Xie Qian predicted, media attention halved after Wen Ying left Shanghai. Persistent reporters followed to Hangzhou, cornering her at the signing with readers waiting for autographs.
When a reporter pressed Wen Ying about online criticism, fans grew red-faced with anger. One shouted, “Little Fish’s books are the best. I love her. I don’t know why anyone would hurt her, but it’s not her fault!”
“Right! Interview the troublemaker. Ask if they’ve reflected or realized their mistake!”
“Little Fish’s new book is amazing!”
The fans were fired up, and the reporter pressed on, seeing great material.
Wen Ying waved for calm and faced the aggressive reporter gravely. “After the signing incident, I did reflect on myself.”
The reporter’s eyes gleamed.
“Are you reflecting on being too high-profile? I hear online criticism has followed you since you judged the essay contest—”
“Of course not!” Wen Ying interrupted, looking shocked. “I don’t do interviews or TV shows. Besides writing, I study. That’s high-profile? The Shanghai signing was my first, meant to support the publisher and meet fans face-to-face. If that’s high-profile, what’s low-profile?”
“Then what’s this reflection?” The reporter was thrown off.
Wen Ying didn’t follow the script. “I think my writing’s too good, blurring reality and fiction, causing readers to lose control. So, for future books, I’ll suggest the publisher print ‘This is fiction, don’t apply to reality’ on the cover. Is that reflection deep enough?”
The reporter was nearly choked.
What kind of reflection was that?
Calling her thick-skinned? The fans were already cheering.
To them, Wen Ying was perfect, talented, and witty. They adored her.
Some even wanted her to write a book teaching how to handle such situations, as many in real life, like this reporter, loved rubbing salt in wounds or being pushy. With Wen Ying’s quick wit, they’d fear no bullying.
Amid the fans’ cheers, the reporter found an exit. “Little Fish is indeed a confident young writer!”
He squeezed out of the crowd. The Hangzhou signing went on unaffected.
Little Carp, stationed at the exit, stopped the hurrying reporter with a smile. “Sorry, you showed your press pass for the interview. Now, please cooperate and register your contact details.”
