After a brief mont of silence, Fang Qingqing finally ca back to her senses.
There was no need to ask further—Xie Xizhao’s aning was obvious. He believed Xuan Yang was the one with talent.
So, Fang Qingqing said, “Alright.”
She then delivered the words she had prepared. “I’ll talk to the legal team, and also to Shenghong.”
“Thank you, Sister Qing.” Xie Xizhao smiled.
They got out of the car together—one heading to his own office, the other going to a higher floor.
Xie Xizhao did have things to do.
But it wasn’t filming; it was paperwork.
Ever since he had shifted his focus to acting, his personal studio had also begun preparations. Half of his team ca from his original group at Yaoxin, while the other half was newly recruited. That was how news of his studio had spread.
However, the outside world still didn’t know that Xie Xizhao already held shares in Yaoxin.
He was no longer just an employee of the company.
After signing the last docunt, he capped the pen and handed it back to Ming Li.
The latter smiled and said, “Mr. Xie, welco to Yaoxin. Wishing you success with your new drama.”
“Thank you.” Xie Xizhao smiled, his eyes curving slightly as he expressed his gratitude.
After Ming Li left, he stood in the corridor for a while, letting the wind blow past him. Not far away, beneath the clear blue sky, skyscrapers stood tall. He gazed at them for a mont until a passing cloud briefly covered the sun, then withdrew his gaze and turned to go downstairs.
Back in his office, he checked WeChat.
His conversation with Xuan Yang was still stuck at exchanging cat emoji stickers.
The director always appeared reserved, both online and offline, but Xie Xizhao knew his switch.
For now, he chose to keep that button untouched. Logging into a video streaming site, he clicked on a film that didn’t even require a VIP subscription to watch.
And just like that, the entire afternoon passed.
—
When Zou Yi knocked on the door, Xie Xizhao was sprawled bonelessly in a beanbag chair, headphones on. He lazily said, “Co in.”
As Zou Yi pushed the door open, his gaze first landed on the screen.
A striking expanse of red.
Rose petals cascaded from the top of a spiraling staircase, covering the tiled floor below.
A woman in a red dress, high heels clicking against the petals, gracefully descended step by step. Each footfall crushed the delicate petals, making them tremble slightly.
Then, a sudden gust of wind swept through, lifting the petals into the air. They danced behind her, while in the distance, under the bright sunlight, the bare stems of the roses swayed, stark and radiant.
From Xie Xizhao’s headphones, a grand yet lodious rendition of The Wedding March leaked out.
Lately, he had been watching all kinds of films and dramas, so Zou Yi wasn’t particularly surprised.
But sothing about this scene felt off. He couldn’t help but take another glance before finally asking, curiosity piqued:
“Is this… a wedding?”
“Hm? No.” Xie Xizhao was clearly imrsed in the story, his voice muffled. “It’s a murder.”
Zou Yi: …?
The next mont, the woman on the screen was gone, leaving only the trampled rose petals and a white skull on the floor.
At the sa ti, Xie Xizhao hit pause and took off his headphones.
“Brother, what’s up?”
Zou Yi had no choice but to tear his gaze away from the screen.
He seriously reflected on whether he had simply gone too long without watching dramas, making him unable to keep up with modern cinematography. Otherwise, why did he feel completely lost watching this scene?
Shaking off his confusion, he refocused and said, “You left your phone on the living room table. It kept vibrating, so I brought it over for you.”
Xie Xizhao took the phone and thanked him.
After unlocking it, he saw that his ssages, calls, and WeChat notifications had all exploded.
—
All the inquiries were from the dia.
That afternoon, right after signing the docunts, news of his personal studio had been officially announced at the scheduled hour. Yaoxin had everything arranged seamlessly—Weibo’s official account, press releases, and trending topics were all in place.
Even though rumors had been circulating beforehand, this was still a major bombshell in the entertainnt industry.
Xie Xizhao’s fans were, of course, thrilled.
Beyond that, there were all kinds of stunned reactions from onlookers.
[Holy crap… he really went for it??? Yaoxin has to be the most artist-friendly company in the industry!]
[Qi Yin is such an absolute fool, I swear. He’s basically Xie Xizhao’s biggest fan, right? How do you let your golden goose slip away instead of locking him down? Can you take so notes from Shenghong?]
[Xie Xizhao and Shenghong… it’s hard to say who’s luckier to have t the other.]
[Wait, doesn’t this indirectly confirm that long-rumored ‘special contract’ issue? If Xie Xizhao’s personal assets were still tied to Shenghong, then starting a studio wouldn’t even matter, right?]
[! That’s true!]
For a while, all kinds of rumors—both true and false—flooded the internet.
At the sa ti, over at Tao Yan’s Sumr production team, anxiety started creeping in.
Fang Qingqing had seen it all before, and her judgnt was usually spot-on.
For example, this really was an inexperienced team.
In the entire team, aside from the director and the assistant director, everyone else juggled multiple roles. The crew was roped in by the director, Xuan Yang, who sold them on his idealistic vision of “poetry and distant lands.” The funding? That all ca from the assistant director, Du Wei—a second-generation rich kid.
The two had been classmates and once vowed to make films that would shock the world.
Reality, however, had been one flop after another, and their funds were nearly depleted. Du Wei’s father had already warned him that if he didn’t co ho to inherit the family business soon, he’d break his legs.
Du Wei gambled a leg to buy himself more ti—and to secure Xie Xizhao’s pay.
But now, he was starting to feel uncertain.
“No way,” he muttered, eyes vacant. “He’s practically half a boss now—why the hell would he still be interested in our crappy production? He could choose any project he wanted!”
Yes.
After Xie Xizhao left, they had gathered to analyze the situation and arrived at a conclusion:
This was probably Yaoxin’s conspiracy.
On the surface, it seed like Xie Xizhao had made the decision, but in reality, the company must have sothing on him, forcing him to lower himself to join their crew. As for why it had to be their production, they hadn’t managed to co up with an explanation yet.
And now, all their previous assumptions had been shattered.
Even though a personal studio was just a studio, its implications were significant. At the very least, Du Wei was willing to bet that, at this mont, Xie Xizhao’s studio had more staff than their entire crew.
They couldn’t possibly treat an actor like him as a re rookie anymore.
And no matter how they thought about it, they couldn’t co up with a single logical reason why he would join their production.
Xuan Yang, who had been practically glowing with excitent all afternoon, was now utterly deflated. He sat there, gripping his phone with its cracked case, nervously picking at the jagged edges of the fracture.
Just then, his phone vibrated.
Xuan Yang rarely received calls. The sudden buzzing startled him so much that he nearly threw his phone across the room.
When Xuan Yang saw the caller ID, he suddenly felt that he would have been better off if he had actually dropped his phone just now.
He took several deep breaths before finally answering, “…Hello?”
His voice trembled slightly.
There was a brief silence on the other end before a voice spoke. “Director Xuan?”
Xuan Yang sniffled, feeling like he was on the verge of tears. He fought back the lump in his throat and said, “I’m listening. Go ahead.”
Xie Xizhao hesitated for a mont. “…Alright.”
“It’s just,” he continued, “the contract hasn’t been signed yet.”
He paused before adding, “I wanted to ask—does Director Xuan still need investors? If so, we might as well sign both contracts at once. Saves another trip.”
“…Actually, I really think this role suits you. Maybe you should reconsider—huh?”
Xuan Yang lifted his head in disbelief.
—
Thirty minutes later, Xie Xizhao found himself sitting on the sa familiar couch once again.
This ti, he had co alone.
Looking at Xuan Yang’s red-rimd eyes, he raised an eyebrow and smiled in amusent. “Director Xuan, did you really cry from excitent?”
Xuan Yang fiercely wiped at the corners of his eyes, stubbornly holding onto the last shred of his dignity. “No, it was just the wind. The wind was too strong—it got in my eyes.”
—
The contract negotiations went smoothly.
Calling Tao Yan’s Sumr a “production team” was already generous—it was basically a ragtag group of drears.
Now, with professionals stepping in, bringing funding, publicity, and manpower, there was no reason for the team to refuse.
After a week of careful contract revisions, Xie Xizhao signed both agreents.
With everything finalized, Du Wei extended his hand to Xie Xizhao with utmost sincerity. “Thank you.”
“You’re welco,” Xie Xizhao replied.
Xie Xizhao paused for a mont before adding, “I’m doing this for myself, too.”
He made two demands.
First, he wanted to be involved in the entire filming process and have the right to voice objections.
Second, he wanted the authority to modify the script.
With his own paycheck included, Xie Xizhao had invested twenty million yuan into the production—essentially covering 90% of the budget. At this point, even if he suddenly decided to replace every cat in the film with a dog, the entire crew wouldn’t be in a position to argue.
Yet, when stating his terms, he still made a promise to Xuan Yang:
“Don’t worry, I won’t make major changes to your script.”
Xuan Yang had initially been hesitant.
He had his own principles.
Even if the person standing before him was his idol, his muse—the only source of comfort in his countless nights of frustration and struggle—his core beliefs could not be compromised.
But Xie Xizhao’s reassurance felt like an anchor, steadying him. By the ti he snapped out of his thoughts, his na was already signed on the contract.
And the very first thing Xie Xizhao asked him to do—
“Director Xuan, can you tell the full story?”
He paused briefly before adding in a gentle tone, “Just a simple summary, in your own words.”
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