“We have to find a way to get Su Zhi to sign. We can’t abandon the Loophole project. The company is already in a dangerous position. If we still can’t get involved in this project, things will get even worse.”
In the president’s office at Morningstar Entertainment, Su Zhi’s talent manager, Yang Liu, spoke after submitting the report on Su Zhi’s refusal to renew her contract.
She’d stayed fairly calm while talking to Su Zhi, but in truth she hadn’t been nearly as composed as she’d sounded on the phone.
If Su Zhi had just been a first-tier artist, that would have been one thing. But she was different.
To be precise, the entire state of Morningstar’s talent division was dire.
Compared with the other two industry giants, Morningstar hadn’t produced a Best Actor or Best Actress in seven or eight years. It still had plenty of first-tier and super A-list stars, but for an old entertainment empire like theirs, top acting awards were what kept them standing.
Five years earlier, as the talent division declined, the company had run into a serious crisis.
Then Su Zhi had burst onto the scene. Three movies with more than four billion yuan in combined box-office sales had given the talent division a much-needed lifeline.
If she hadn’t been so inexperienced when she made her third movie, she might already have won Best Actress.
But disagreements over her contract had driven the two sides further and further apart until they reached the point they were at now.
Morningstar’s talent division didn’t absolutely need Su Zhi to survive. But for the company as it stood, she was its only real option.
Most importantly, even after being shelved for three years, Su Zhi still had a huge pool of potential fans. Six months earlier, the company had held a sale of production guides for movies she’d appeared in.
There’d been fifty thousand copies of each edition. For the editions featuring characters played by Su Zhi, they’d printed an additional hundred thousand copies—and still had to reprint them three times to keep up with demand.
With more promotion, and with Su Zhi’s autograph or in-person sales, they might have doubled the number sold.
She had exceptional talent, a face that hadn’t aged a day in five years, and fans who might not be very active but were alarmingly willing to spend money.
She was the perfect blueprint for a top-tier star. No entertainment company would ever let someone like her go.
And most important of all was Director You Xin’s Loophole project, which he’d started three years earlier, not long after Su Zhi was shelved.
The public wasn’t paying much attention to the show yet, and its promotional campaign hadn’t really begun.
But according to the information they’d gotten from inside the project, Loophole had received official approval. As long as the show was good when it aired, the authorities would publicly support it.
Any company involved in the project would benefit.
Official goodwill was sometimes impossible to buy—especially for an entertainment company. If there was a chance to earn it, they couldn’t afford to pass it up.
You Xin had recovered from his career slump thanks to Su Zhi. He’d also written Loophole with her in mind, giving Morningstar an advantage. But that advantage was also a weakness.
Other companies could send an artist and invest money. Morningstar had to bring Su Zhi.
“What if we put in another fifty million? If he gives us the roles he promised, we can invest more.”
In this situation, Morningstar Entertainment’s CEO, Zhu Jianmin, looked troubled.
You Xin had worked hard to get Su Zhi cast in Loophole. He’d even offered Morningstar several important roles in the show.
If Su Zhi agreed to take part, Morningstar artists could play those roles.
For the company’s struggling talent division, it could be a lifeline.
But that all depended on Su Zhi joining the project, and they’d already failed to reach an agreement with her.
Asking Su Zhi to accept their terms now…he didn’t want to do it.
After all, he’d pushed the contract they’d offered her in the first place. He’d thought it would be the beginning of a new era for Morningstar. Instead, the company had sunk into an even longer slump.
He didn’t want to miss another chance to make a star.
“We’ve already brought that up. He said we could invest more, but without Su Zhi, there was no role for us. Rongtian Capital is the lead investor on the project. We won’t have any say.”
Yang Liu explained.
Loophole had a total budget of 260 million yuan. Rongtian Capital, one of the biggest investment firms in Great Xia, had put in 150 million. The rest had come from other entertainment-industry investors.
That put Morningstar at a disadvantage.
The company had accomplished almost nothing in the talent business aside from Su Zhi in recent years, so its investment division had increased its spending on film and television.
It had naturally invested in a project like Loophole, which had the potential to become a huge hit.
But perhaps because You Xin knew why Su Zhi had been shelved, he’d gone to Rongtian Capital for help.
Rongtian Capital often invested in film and television, but it wasn’t part of the entertainment industry. It didn’t own any entertainment companies. All it cared about was whether its investments made money. The advantage was that it rarely interfered with production. The drawback was that most of its deals were make-or-break bets.
If a project succeeded, the investors reaped the rewards. If it failed, they could lose everything.
Still, there was an upside for You Xin: Morningstar couldn’t use its industry clout to strong-arm the Loophole project. He had a great deal of control over his own production.
“Does Su Zhi know the Loophole project specifically asked for her?”
Zhu Jianmin realized that it would be difficult for You Xin to cooperate with the company. Their focus had to shift back to Su Zhi.
“She knows, but she hasn’t said anything.”
Yang Liu replied.
Su Zhi and You Xin had a good relationship. When the Loophole project was officially announced, You Xin even tagged Su Zhi’s private Weibo account. There was no way she hadn’t heard about it.
Yang Liu had tested the waters earlier and confirmed that Su Zhi knew.
“She’s smart. If she knows, she also knows this is the best time for her to come back. Give her a week to sweat, then go talk to her. Didn’t she ask for a B-Tier contract before? Fine. Give it to her. We can agree to a three-year term, too.”
Zhu Jianmin’s voice took on a cold edge.
“About that…the last time I spoke with Su Zhi, she asked for A+.”
Yang Liu replied.
When they’d first discussed changing her contract, all Su Zhi had asked for was a B-Tier contract—but only for three years.
To be fair, Su Zhi could have asked for A-Tier back then and no one would have blamed her. Instead, she’d offered to sign a three-year B-Tier contract, showing just how sincere she was.
But Zhu Jianmin had offered her a different deal and refused to budge. In the end, the two sides had fallen out.
At the time, Morningstar’s talent division had been doing well enough. Shelving Su Zhi hadn’t seemed like a big deal.
After she was shelved, however, the division’s fortunes had taken a sharp turn for the worse. On top of that, You Xin had made his move, giving Su Zhi the leverage to ask for more.
When Zhu Jianmin heard this, his expression darkened.
Three years ago, things might have been different. But offering an A+ contract to an artist who’d been shelved for three years would be difficult to explain to the board. Still, given the state of Morningstar’s talent division, the parent company might temporarily shut it down if nothing changed.
He had to help Su Zhi succeed again and stabilize the situation.
“We can give her the A+ contract. But she has to sign for ten years!”
