Chapter 8: Snagging a Deal

The next day after waking up, Jiang Zhizhou boarded a plane and flew to Hengdian Film City in Yiwu.

The day she joined the production crew, a light drizzle fell from the sky. It lent a melancholic air to the scene, foreshadowing tragedy and amplifying the crew’s righteous indignation.

—The female lead had breached her contract and walked out halfway through filming.

Producer He Bi’s booming voice hammered the reason for her defection into every ear on set. “What scheduling conflict bullshit! Don’t think I don’t know she ran off to audition for Director Wang’s Palace Intrigue! She’d rather play a lowly palace maid sweeping floors in Changchun Palace than be our leading lady—what kind of crap judgment is that, I, your father say!”

Director Zhe Teng took it in stride. “People climb higher. Director Wang’s drama is set to air on TV, while mine’s just a little web series. If that Miss Wang wants to join him, let her. If not, it’s because she lacks the fate for it. Hey, we’re not gonna fight his prime-time show for talent—we’d lose anyway. Just go with the flow~”

Producer He lit a cigarette and jabbed his finger hard on the table. “You think this suspense flick of yours is gonna make money? Everyone says you lose cash on every film. This one’s a guaranteed bloodbath—I can barely get advertisers on board! The budget we have now? I got it by wining and dining for months. I’m this close to puking blood from all the booze!”

Director Zhe Teng replied, “It’ll make bank, no doubt. Costume suspense crime dramas like this are tough to get approved these days, so we’re filling a market gap. Besides, I can’t keep churning out those cheesy soaps forever—the industry rags on me nonstop, calls my stuff a steaming pile of crap.”

Producer He spat on the ground. “What do they know? The masses love it—who the hell are they? Folks bitch about it being tacky, melodramatic, clichéd… doesn’t stop the views from skyrocketing! Don’t get me started on us—look at last year’s X Era. Total trash, right? And how much did it rake in? Piles of cash! What a fucked-up world!”

Director Zhe Teng clapped him on the shoulder. “Screw what others think. We make our film.”

Producer He stubbed out his cigarette. “The lead’s gone—how the hell do we shoot? You gonna play her?”

Director Zhe Teng said, “Don’t sweat it. Director Fu’s scouting replacements. We’ll audition a few over the next couple days, pick the best fit. Go with the flow, go with the flow.”

Jiang Zhizhou trailed behind Assistant Director Fu as he fielded call after call.

“Hey, Sister Li, it’s Xiao Fu! Sis, does Shen Shen have any openings lately? I’ve got a solid script here…”

“Good morning, Brother Zhang—long time no see. Got time for a meal? How’s Sister Lulu doing? Busy? I’ve got a great script that’d be perfect for her…”

Fu was an unlucky name for an assistant director. Even if he made it big someday, folks might still slip and call him “Fu the AD.”

In his early twenties, Fu was a warmhearted, earnest young guy. When Chen Lin asked him to look after Jiang Zhizhou, he took it to heart and personally picked her up at the airport—usually, that was the production coordinator’s job.

“Sorry about that, Miss Shen,” Fu said after hanging up, turning back to her with an apologetic smile. Chen Lin had specifically asked him to take good care of Jiang Zhizhou, and with her striking looks, he didn’t want to seem standoffish.

“No worries, go ahead with your calls.” After a pause, Jiang Zhizhou asked, “Is the crew short on any other roles? You seem desperate for people.”

Fu replied, “The female lead bailed halfway through—how could we not be? The producer’s been so frantic he hasn’t slept in two days.”

“And the director’s not worried?” Jiang Zhizhou pressed.

Fu spread his hands helplessly. “Director Zhe Teng’s into Buddhism. He says if the lead’s not fated for it, let her go. We’ll wait for someone with the right karma to show up.”

Jiang Zhizhou: “…”

She knew folks in the industry were a superstitious bunch—feng shui, luck, fate, all that jazz. But Director Zhe Teng was really reaching.

Someone fated?

Did fated people drop from the sky?

Would a fated person just show up at the door?

Could a fated person—

“Director Fu.” Jiang Zhizhou stopped in her tracks.

“What’s up? We’re almost there—the set’s just ahead,” Fu replied.

Jiang Zhizhou said, “You can tell Director Zhe Teng the fated one just walked in.”

In her previous life, besides acting, Jiang Zhizhou’s real talent had been picking up these kinds of leaks. Whenever she heard a director was desperate for talent and the script was decent, she’d scheme her way in. The entertainment rags had called her “ruthless social climber” for it.

Back then, young and famous, Jiang Zhizhou was like a freshly forged sword, all sharp edges. When she heard that label, she fired back without hesitation: “People climb higher. You expect me to hole up in a temple, chanting sutras and begging for scraps from the world?”

Ambition wasn’t a sin. But wearing it on your sleeve? That could be trouble.

In the era of print media, entertainment reporters wielded the pen, and society wasn’t as open-minded as it is today. Strong female leads, tough women, and straightforward personas weren’t in vogue. The mainstream still favored gentle, elegant women who embodied the three obediences and four virtues, the five stresses and four beauties. People generally couldn’t stomach women who were too competitive or sharp-edged—the more you showed your edge, the worse the backlash.

As a result, Jiang Zhizhou had plenty of dirt thrown her way. Tabloids chasing clicks often claimed she’d slept her way to the top—sleeping with lighting techs, producers, directors. Three hundred sixty days a year, she supposedly spent three hundred of them in someone else’s bed.

At first, those headlines stung. But later, as she counted the zeros in her bank account, the bitterness faded.

The joys of the wealthy were beyond their wildest dreams.

As the years went by, Jiang Zhizhou learned to temper her sharpness. Then she discovered the industry had swung toward the “candid and free-spirited” persona. Her agent, Su Guo, even teased her once: “You were born in the wrong era. If you’d smashed a paparazzo’s camera today, the media wouldn’t have ripped you to shreds like they did back then. Throw some PR at it to steer public opinion, and you might even have a mob of netizens tearing into the press for you.”

Talk about the times changing.

These days, Jiang Zhizhou no longer came across as aggressively ambitious, but she never passed up a chance to climb higher.

She’d asked Director Fu to introduce her to Director Zhe Teng. “Director,” she said, “I want the female lead. I can play this role well.”

In stark contrast to the balding, paunchy Producer He, Director Zhe Teng boasted a thick mane of hair—thick enough for a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. Tall and lean, he had that full-on artistic youth vibe.

He hadn’t even opened his mouth when Producer He burst out laughing. “Little Shen, I didn’t mishear you, did I? You think you can nail it? Everyone knows your limitations—don’t pretend otherwise. We only gave you that role as a favor to Sister Chen Lin. Don’t stir up trouble. Go memorize your lines.”

Producer He had collaborated with Star Source Entertainment’s artists several times before and had a decent read on Shen Xinghe, the resident pretty face. During their last project, she hadn’t bothered learning her lines, let alone acting them. If she’d had even a scrap of talent to go with that face, she wouldn’t have sunk to eighteenth-tier obscurity. Sky-high ambitions and a fate as thin as paper—that was her story.

Jiang Zhizhou didn’t get mad. She simply arched a brow. “I haven’t tried out for it yet. How do you know I can’t?”

Producer He chuckled. “Forget your nonexistent acting chops. Just look at you—the female lead, Liu Yun, is a fallen official courtesan. With that face of yours, like someone owes you millions, you think you can pull off a prostitute?”

Jiang Zhizhou had a cool demeanor and wasn’t much of a talker, which often came off as aloof and standoffish. It suited her fine, but on an eighteenth-tier star, it just looked like putting on airs—pretentious, in other words.

“You’ve got one thing right—Liu Yun is an official courtesan cast into the dust.” Jiang Zhizhou explained calmly. “She’s not your run-of-the-mill streetwalker; she doesn’t need garish looks. Her clients are nobles and officials—not just her body, but her skills in poetry, chess, calligraphy, and painting win them over. A character like that doesn’t call for heavy makeup. Elegant as a lotus is perfect. And Liu Yun didn’t grow up in the Court Brothel Bureau. She was demoted there at fourteen after her family fell in a raid. From an aristocratic background—her father a Hanlin Scholar, her mother the daughter of a prime minister. It’s only natural she’d carry that innate pride. Otherwise, how would she catch the male lead’s eye, right?”

“Exactly! You get it—spot on!” Director Zhe Teng nodded vigorously. He stood, circled Jiang Zhizhou twice, eyeing her appraisingly. “Liu Yun isn’t some flashy red peony blooming in the mud. She’s a white lotus rising pure from the muck. Just like you!”

Jiang Zhizhou: “…”

That sounded an awful lot like an insult…

Producer He’s main job was securing funding, not casting, so he didn’t delve as deeply into the characters as the director. He’d assumed a prostitute had to be all sultry seduction and charm—nothing like Jiang Zhizhou’s icy reserve. But now, hearing her break it down so thoroughly and seeing the director on board, he lit a cigarette and mumbled around it, “Little Shen, you’ve been putting in the work lately, huh? We toss you the fourth female lead, and turns out you know the lead inside out.”

Jiang Zhizhou replied, “The script’s excellent. I’ve read it several times.”

The fourth female lead shared plenty of scenes with the protagonist, and Jiang Zhizhou had an impeccable professional habit: she always studied her scene partners’ characters and backstories to inform her own performance.

Director Zhe Teng puffed up with pride and waggled his brows. “I wrote it. Impressive, right?”

Jiang Zhizhou nodded with a smile in agreement. Last night, she had looked up Zhe Teng’s background. He had graduated from Beidian’s photography program, shot a few music videos during university that won some solid awards, spent several years as a director’s assistant on various productions after graduation, then signed with Apple Video Website and joined their Youth Director Training Program. In recent years, he had helmed a handful of web dramas—some profitable, some not. The profitable ones were adaptations of purchased IPs; the flops were all originals penned by him.

The industry had ripped him to shreds over those IP adaptations, accusing him of selling out and tarnishing Beidian’s reputation. But his original failures had earned him a grudging respect, with insiders calling him a true talent from Beidian after all.

Investors seemed to have pegged this pattern perfectly, though they cared little for artistic merit and everything for turning a profit. That made funding for Injustice Cleared an uphill battle. Without Chen Lin quietly slipping some cash to the production crew, Jiang Zhizhou probably wouldn’t have even sniffed a chance at the fourth female lead.

Now Zhe Teng was offering her a shot at auditioning for the lead.

The audition called for filming a short video clip. Zhe Teng fed her a scene, and she ran with it.

With his photography roots, Zhe Teng naturally favored actors who looked good on camera from the right angles. Drawing on her experience from her past life, Jiang Zhizhou caught the lens position with her peripheral vision and positioned herself perfectly. Throughout the take, her facial expressions and body language were captured at their most flattering.

Zhe Teng and Producer He sat in front of the monitor, trading casual comments. At last, Zhe Teng sighed. “Miss Shen’s got a real cinematic face—one that’s born for the screen. And her acting feels effortless. Not nearly as bad as you made it sound.”

Producer He took a drag from his cigarette, frowning thoughtfully. “Doesn’t she remind you of someone?”

“Who?” Zhe Teng asked.

Producer He blew out a smoke ring. “Jiang Zhizhou.”

“Only about fifty percent facial resemblance,” Zhe Teng said, eyes on the monitor feed of Jiang Zhizhou, “but her vibe? At least seventy percent.”

Producer He inhaled deeply, flicked his ash, and gave a knowing smile. “Now that’s a publicity hook.”

Zhe Teng nodded, getting it immediately—a killer marketing angle. Cold Consort and Playful Prince had exploded thanks to hype like this, propelling its two leads to stardom. Now they had Shen Xinghe, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jiang Zhizhou. A few joint promo pieces and some bought trends later, buzz would be guaranteed. Especially since nothing had dominated headlines like “Jiang Zhizhou Wins Berlin Best Actress, Dies in Car Crash Three Days Later” over the past two months.

Zhe Teng took it further. “You’re tight with the execs at Star Source Entertainment. Why not feel them out? See if they want to push her. If we cast her as the lead, would her company kick in more funding?”

At that, Producer He stubbed out his cigarette with a grin. “Now that’s thinking ahead! Rip that audition clip and show it around to the rest of the crew. If no red flags, she’s in. I’ll head over to Star Source and talk investment. We can’t afford delays on this production—lock it in early, wrap it up early.”

Low-budget indie projects like this were prime for capital interests to muscle in. At this stage, raw talent and skill took a backseat to marketability. Jiang Zhizhou knew the score and hadn’t banked on nailing the role of Liu Yun through acting chops alone. So three days later, when Director Zhe Teng officially offered it to her, she was genuinely surprised. Was casting for these small gigs really this slapdash?

Truth was, it wasn’t carelessness on Zhe Teng’s part. Producer He had secured two million in fresh investment from Star Source Entertainment—specifically, a personal check from their publicity director, He Jia.

Producer He’s first swing at Star Source had been to pitch Jiang Zhizhou’s agent, Chen Lin, who at the time had the hot young idol Jiang Qingmeng in tow. He shared the audition news, floated additional funding from the company, and even dangled a cameo invite for Qingmeng. Chen Lin shot it down flat. Star Source’s higher-ups weren’t sold on Injustice Cleared; the initial backing had been a courtesy to their long-standing partnership, nothing more.

Producer He came away empty-handed. But the very next day, Star Source publicity director He Jia showed up at his door, offering two million out of her own pocket—with one condition: Jiang Zhizhou as the female lead.