Ying Chan crossed her arms in refusal: “No need to find a new bodyguard. Having Jin Si is enough. He lives right downstairs from me, so he can come up quickly if anything happens. Besides, Heshan Bay is already one of the best residential areas for security, and I’ve lived here for years—I’m used to it.”
Sister Wei thought for a moment before reluctantly accepting her reasoning.
She sat back down: “…I didn’t know you’d encountered another illegal break-in, so I thought it was just a text message—vague and out of nowhere, not worth making a fuss over. Besides, you have a bodyguard with you now, and you’re protected when you come and go, so nothing much can happen.”
“But now that you’re saying this, it’s clearly not that simple. If you insist on investigating, I’ll go find some connections.”
Ying Chan felt she had a point. With just one cryptic text message, even if they made a big show of dragging the person out, there was nothing they could do to them.
“Not for now. Let’s see if the other side makes a move first.”
Sister Wei looked frazzled: “I’ll go to the property management office later and tell them to have the security guards patrol around your building more often.”
Ying Chan poured her a cup of tea: “Don’t be so tense. You’re a veteran agent—what storms haven’t you weathered?”
Sister Wei said: “This really is the first time I’ve seen such crazy sasaeng fans. It feels like they’re organized and premeditated…”
Ying Chan felt somewhat helpless too, wondering how she’d managed to attract this swarm of flies.
Sister Wei thought it would be safer for Ying Chan to join a production. Before, when she’d been on set, nothing had happened.
So she said: “You haven’t taken on a new drama in six months. Your fans have practically cursed out the studio’s ancestors for eighteen generations. Don’t you have any thoughts about a new project?”
“The scripts you sent me are all either period romance or xianxia. I’ve already done too many of those.” Ying Chan was getting tired of them.
Her first drama in the industry had been xianxia—she was only nineteen then, playing a fourth female lead.
“The market isn’t good right now, so capital will definitely prefer projects with higher returns. Xianxia and period romance are safer bets. But I respect your opinion—what do you want to shoot?”
Ying Chan said: “I want to try realistic drama.”
“You want to transition?”
Sister Wei smiled: “Realistic drama is hard to come by. The requirements for the production team and screenwriter are very high, and good productions are hard to find. Look at how many realistic dramas have flopped over the years. But since you have that idea, I’ll keep an eye out for solid scripts for you.”
Ying Chan nodded.
Sister Wei sat down beside her: “Right now, grounded period romance is also popular—like house intrigue dramas. You haven’t done that type yet. Coincidentally, there’s a production team with a good lineup recently. I’ve already sent the script synopsis to your email. Take a look and see if you’re interested. If you think it’s good, I’ll go deeper into discussions.”
Ying Chan picked up her tablet, logged into her email, and opened the script to look at it. It was indeed a relatively new genre, and both the director and screenwriter had solid reputations with good past works.
“This one’s not bad.”
“Right?” Sister Wei breathed a sigh of relief seeing her interest. “Their director really likes you. He’s approached me several times, wanting you to play the female lead. Since you think it’s good too, should I get in touch with them?”
Ying Chan agreed.
Sister Wei had nothing else to discuss, so she left.
Ying Chan walked her to the door, closed it, and turned around with a contemplative expression.
Actually… she felt Sister Wei had been a bit strange lately.
In the past, even just a text message would have made her very alert, thinking through all the possibilities for her.
But this time, her handling of the message had been somewhat perfunctory—she hadn’t even considered the potential danger hidden behind it.
Yet Ying Chan didn’t think Sister Wei cared about her any less. Rather… she simply didn’t have the energy to think things through, which was why she’d overlooked the details.
Ying Chan was lost in thought.
·
After going downstairs, Sister Wei got into her car and called the director of that house intrigue drama: “Director Wang, it’s me.”
“Little Wei, calling me at this hour—could it be you have good news for me?”
Sister Wei gave a polite laugh: “You’re truly clairvoyant. I do have good news for you. A-Chan was very interested after reading the synopsis.”
Director Wang was delighted: “A-Chan is willing to take on ‘Song of the Pepper Flower’?”
“Yes, she’s willing. But we do have conditions on our end.”
“Is it about the pay?”
“It’s not about the pay… Laine—Director Wang, do you have any impression of this artist from our company? Recently, she starred in a B-grade campus drama that performed at S+ level when it aired. The market is very optimistic about her right now.”
Director Wang paused, thought for a moment, and said: “I’ve heard of this actress… What does Little Wei mean?”
“Director Wang is a straightforward man, so I won’t beat around the bush. A-Chan’s condition for taking the female lead is that Laine plays the second female lead. If you have no objections, let’s find a time to have dinner together and discuss the project in detail.”
Director Wang looked somewhat troubled. “But we’ve already cast another actress for the female lead role… We still have a female fourth lead that hasn’t been cast yet. Though the screen time isn’t much, the character is very distinctive—also the quirky and clever type. She’d actually suit Laine better than the female lead.”
Sister Wei tapped her other hand lightly on the steering wheel. Her tone remained polite, but the firmness in her attitude left no room for negotiation.
“If that’s the case, then Ying Chan will have to reconsider. After all, even for palace intrigue dramas, quite a few producers have been sending her scripts.”
The implication was clear—if they wouldn’t give Laine the female lead role, Ying Chan would take a similar script from another production.
Since they were airing in the same period, it would inevitably become competition for his drama.
Director Wang didn’t need much deliberation to weigh the pros and cons. “Alright, alright. As long as Ying Chan can come, everything else can be arranged.”
Ying Chan wasn’t just a guarantee for ratings—she was a guarantee for attracting advertisers as well.
“I’ll be heading to Hucheng in a couple of days. Let’s have a meal together then. Xiao Wei, bring Ying Chan along.”
Sister Wei added, “And Laine too.”
“Fine.”
After hanging up with the director, Sister Wei sent a WeChat message to Shang Lübai: “President Shang, Ying Chan is willing to take the female lead in ‘Song of the Pepper Blossoms.’ I’ve already discussed it with the director—Ying Chan plays the lead, Laine plays the second female lead.”
Shang Lübai didn’t reply.
Sister Wei brought up another matter: “Ying Chan said she encountered another illegal break-in on the night she moved back to Heshan Bay. Fortunately, her bodyguard protected her. Also, yesterday at the TV station, she received a threatening text message. The sender used a virtual number, so we can’t trace who it is for now.”
After a moment, Shang Lübai replied with a second message: “I’ll handle this matter.”
“Very well, President Shang.”
Putting down her phone, Sister Wei started the car.
Before driving off, she looked out through the window toward the 16th floor where Ying Chan’s apartment was, her gaze somewhat complicated.
…
After Sister Wei left, Ying Chan turned on the television and spent the entire afternoon practicing lines along with a stage play performance.
She wasn’t a trained actress and had never gone through systematic study. Her acting relied mostly on natural talent, supplemented by whatever she could learn from hired tutors or self-study in her spare time.
She was about to practice another piece when her phone rang.
Ying Chan picked it up casually, and the booming voice of Yue Jingchun, the famous rich heir from Hucheng, came blasting through the receiver:
“Ah Chan! My dear sister Ah Chan—where are you?!”