Chapter 13
Jiang Shangwan had always thought that last night they had simply gone to sleep separately in their own bedrooms. She never expected such a complicated development. She should have realized earlier—if they really were in two separate rooms, how could he have heard her talking in her sleep?
However, one thing was certain: he definitely hadn’t crossed any boundaries. Otherwise, she would have woken up long ago, and her clothes were completely intact with no strange feelings on her body.
…But she wasn’t sure if she herself might have crossed some line.
Shi Yu smiled. When he smiled, his eyes curved gently, showing the tender awkwardness of youth. He no longer pressed the issue.
“You fell asleep after that, sleeping very soundly,” he said.
The two parted ways at the company entrance. Jiang Shangwan returned to her office to sign a few documents, then was about to rush to the airport. These past few days were a rare break for her, but the mountain of work awaiting her seemed endless.
Since last parting with Jiang Shangwan, Shi Yu had only one thought: he must work like crazy to make money, improve himself, and become stronger.
The glaring white light of the computer screen shone on his face as he checked the stocks he had held before. The long-buried signals had finally triggered the market close.
The profit from selling was considerable—he gained nearly 200,000 yuan—but it was still far from enough. His principal was too small.
With his account balance doubled, Shi Yu celebrated his 19th birthday and completed his first year at Jiang University. Entering his sophomore year, he had taken many programming and development courses and was already able to build a basic small app model and some not-too-complex mini-programs.
He had some new ideas.
Instead of obsessing over joining a prestigious securities firm, the seed of entrepreneurship had taken root and was growing in his heart.
Because his schedule was so packed, Shi Yu hadn’t had time to intern at Jiang Corporation or do odd jobs for a long time. He also hadn’t seen Jiang Shangwan for a while and could only search for keywords about her on social media, catching glimpses of her in headlines or trending topics from major events.
The sudden closeness they once shared, the brief, ambiguous moments they experienced together in a confined space, all felt like an illusory dream.
And illusions are meant to shatter.
They seemed like strangers who accidentally brushed past each other, briefly touched, then pulled away again, returning everything to the very beginning.
Shi Yu didn’t take the initiative to message her. Maintaining a relationship felt like balancing on two ends of a scale—only by keeping it balanced could it last long and stay stable. When one side far exceeds the other’s limits, the scale tips heavily and falls.
And he knew deep down that he didn’t even qualify to stand on their scale.
April in Jiangcheng was gradually warming up, but the days had been continuously overcast lately, as if a layer of gloom covered everyone’s hearts.
His roommate, Lin Chuan, who had been playing games, suddenly answered a call and threw off his headset irritably. He grabbed his phone, seeming to argue with family on the other end.
“I know, okay? Stop giving me so many suggestions, it’s really annoying. Everyone knows what’s right, but the problem is I just can’t do it.”
His tone was frustrated: “I just don’t have the mind for investing. I don’t want to exhaust myself in this [efn_note]”rat race” is an English idiom that means a tiring, competitive, and endless struggle—usually referring to working hard just to keep up or get ahead, often in a stressful or meaningless way. [/efn_note]rat race. Can’t I just live comfortably? I even studied finance because you wanted me to. Why do I have to get involved in all this family business? Can you stop making me attend those useless events and meetings? I don’t want to go, I don’t want to socialize—it’s exhausting.”
Lin Chuan was a local of Jiangcheng. When Shi Yu first entered university and saw Lin Chuan’s box of limited-edition sneakers, he knew his family was well-off. But as they got to know each other, Shi Yu found the reality was even better than expected.
“Alright, alright, stop talking—I’m really annoyed. Fine, I’ll do it, okay?”
After hanging up, Lin Chuan grumbled and returned to his game keyboard, only to find his game character lying on the ground, having been killed by the opponent multiple times.
“I’m really done,” Lin Chuan muttered, utterly speechless. “Why do calls always come at the worst times? Just when I was leading economically, I’m falling behind again.”
His gaming enthusiasm vanished completely, so he went to bother Shi Yu in their dorm room, the one person he was closest to in the whole room. The other two roommates spent all their time in the library or running to the advisor’s office and the faculty office—three of the four were hardcore overachievers, while Lin Chuan was the most laid-back. He hated the endless competition, but oddly, he really liked Shi Yu.
Mainly because of his looks.
“Bro, I’m about to cry,” Lin Chuan said, almost tearing up. “Why don’t you talk to my mom and become her son? You’re so driven, she’d definitely love you to death.”
Things that come too easily are always the ones people don’t want. Shi Yu thought that if he had started life the same way as Lin Chuan, he might not have had much motivation either. When everything comes too easily, desire and attraction greatly diminish.
He thought of Jiang Shangwan, who clearly had everything yet remained so disciplined and driven, constantly rushing around for work and rarely having a life of her own. That kind of persistence, which goes against human nature and instinct, is not something ordinary people have.
“That probably wouldn’t work. I’m too boring, she probably wouldn’t be used to it,” Shi Yu spoke honestly. Lin Chuan’s lively, outgoing personality was usually something only a wealthy and loving family could nurture—he was truly lovable.
His mother nagged a lot but also gave him plenty of money. Lin Chuan once mentioned he had a six-figure monthly allowance. His family owned several apartments right across from campus, but he found living alone boring and preferred the lively dorm atmosphere.
“I’m dizzy,” Lin Chuan suddenly had an idea. “Bro, I’ve noticed you’ve been trading stocks every day recently and always doing great—I think you’re a natural talent at investing. There’s a film investment meeting I know about, an insider event from my family. The return on investment is way faster than your own stock trading.”
Lin Chuan mentioned a shockingly high figure.
Shi Yu’s eyes flickered slightly.
“How about this,” Lin Chuan grew more confident, “You attend under my name, and act like it’s me going. My family will fund the investment for you. After it’s successful, you get 70% and I get 30%.”
He was laid-back and hated competition or socializing, but he wasn’t stupid—stupid people don’t get into Jiang University’s finance program. Lin Chuan’s trust in Shi Yu was extremely high. Usually, this kind of funded investment was very risky and could lead to total loss, but Lin Chuan believed Shi Yu was a genius.
He rejected top schools like Tsinghua and Peking University, started dating a wealthy woman right after freshman year—who else could compare? And the key point was that Lin Chuan thought Shi Yu had a very fortunate look—someone destined for great wealth and success.
Seeing Shi Yu’s subtle change in expression, Lin Chuan patted his arm: “Bro, I know you’re tempted. You want to make money, right? Leave it to me. Just trust me and go for it. It’s settled.”
“Okay.” After some thought, Shi Yu slowly nodded.
—
Jiang Shangwan was scrolling through messages and found several short voice messages from Qiao Yuqing.
She tapped to listen and heard her lively voice: “Hey Shangwan, let me tell you something. Do you know Wang Jie? The director who just recently won the lifetime achievement award? He’s raising investment right now. I looked at his script—the screenwriter did a solid job, but it’s an original work by an unknown junior writer, with no built-in IP buzz at all. I don’t know if it’s worth investing in.”
“And didn’t he just come out last year with a mental illness? The reputation isn’t great. I’m afraid his unstable mental state will affect the quality. Also, there’s an investment meeting coming up, and actually, many good projects have already been taken. I’m hesitating now. If I’m going to invest, I need to get the new talent I recently signed in early. If we join too late, it’ll be too late to get involved.”
Jiang Shangwan pressed the voice recording button and spoke in a calm tone: “What script? Send me the screenplay.”
Qiao Yuqing quickly sent several files, along with specific time and location details, and the reserved business class flight ticket information.
“Please show your invitation letter,” the security guard asked politely, until a thin letter was placed into his palm.
Jiang Shangwan had just entered the venue when some familiar people eagerly came over to greet her. She casually picked up a glass of champagne at the booth and gave a slight nod to each person, only stopping when she saw someone worth her time.
“Long time no see.”
Jiang Shangwan politely shook the outstretched right hand in front of her. “President Wang, long time no see.”
The man before her wore a white suit, was about her height, with scholarly features—said to have been refined by studying philosophy. This was Wang Yi, son of Wang Qun, the richest man in Kuanshi and owner of Hongwang Technology, as well as the local power broker hosting this investment meeting. She had met him before at a property launch event.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, and you still remember me,” Wang Yi showed obvious fondness for her, smiling as they clinked glasses. He thoughtfully held his glass slightly lower than hers. “I saw a good script yesterday—it’s a period piece. Looks promising. I wonder which one President Jiang is interested in?”
“What a coincidence.”
The script Qiao Yuqing had introduced in detail was very likely the same period piece, directed by Wang Jie, telling the story of family affairs in the 1980s, reflecting the changes and reforms of that era. When done well, period dramas can be huge hits with a solid audience base.
But this script was an original work by a junior screenwriter, not yet tested by the market. Whether a script can be a hit depends primarily on the core story framework, and only secondarily on the directing and acting.
“Oh?” Wang Yi listened to her brief pros and cons analysis and found her increasingly clear and logical, which deepened his liking for her.
“Indeed, President Jiang, I think the same. There’s no intention for a big investment yet, there’s still some risk of failure.”
Jiang Shangwan’s view was almost identical. The only difference was that if she wasn’t the main investor, trying to put her company’s new talent into the production was unthinkable. Wang Jie was notoriously stubborn in the industry. It would be impossible without a big cost.
Qiao Yuqing’s suggestion also had another meaning—bringing in new talent.
So, for now, it was still an unknown, needing further consideration.