Pei Liang’s combination of moves had taken less than half a day in real time.
She had spent several days preparing and had arranged everything from every possible angle. Her goal was to inflict such severe damage on them that there would be no chance of calming the matter through public relations and a small price.
They had to tear off a bloody chunk of flesh, then let everyone else swarm in and rip it apart.
Unfortunately, she had only been given a few days to prepare. Neither the Pei family nor the original owner had any connections in the entertainment industry, so she had been unable to dig up more devastating scandals in such a short time. Otherwise, Pei Liang could have sent them straight into oblivion.
Still, the impact she had caused was already the entertainment industry’s earthquake of the year.
Once Cui Ying’s fan support group disbanded, it did not take long for the all-powerful internet users to dig up the reason.
It turned out that the support group had been exposed for crimes including illegal fundraising and profiteering. Since it had been organized and registered under the studio’s direction, the studio was legally considered the group’s responsible entity.
Now that the organization had run into trouble, a serious investigation would inevitably hold Cui Ying’s studio responsible.
Pei Liang’s side had already sent the studio a lawyer’s letter, complete with all the relevant evidence, accusing Cui Ying’s studio of violating her reputation and personal rights.
The news that a group of underage, fanatical followers had attacked Pei Liang, only to be taken to the police station, immediately shot onto the trending searches. Pei Liang had no intention of settling. She planned to sue both the girls and their guardians.
Once this move was made, many of the people who had previously been cyberbullied by Cui Ying’s fans and who had the time and means began following Pei Liang’s example and sending lawyer’s letters to Cui Ying’s studio.
There were also many people who, after expressing dislike for Cui Ying or refusing to acknowledge her work, had suffered bullying at school or in the workplace.
Those without evidence poured out their grievances beneath the trending topic about Pei Liang’s lawsuit. Those with evidence posted it directly online. Those with the means filed lawsuits against Cui Ying’s side and the bullies, while those without the means sought legal assistance online.
It was only then that ordinary people who normally paid no attention to celebrities realized that behind the dazzling image of a top star lay an appalling and horrifying side.
Some netizens were parents themselves. After seeing what had happened, their children gathered the courage to tell them that they too had been ostracized or even bullied at school because of Cui Ying.
For a time, the internet was filled with public outrage. Cui Ying had already lost a massive number of followers because of her relationship scandal, and the company was scrambling to contain the damage. Before it had even found a way to calm the fanbase, the general public had completely turned against her as well.
The incident had become so serious, and its social impact so terrible, that the authorities had begun applying direct pressure.
The entertainment-industry capitalists with the ugliest appetites—companies like Cui Ying’s—never thought about improving the professional abilities of their artists. They relied entirely on manipulating fan communities to rapidly monetize an idol’s value.
They reached their hands toward minors, taking advantage of their innocence to brainwash them and reshape their values, dragging their entire social circles into the process.
Liking a particular celebrity became a trend within their circles, a topic of conversation among friends, and even a form of political correctness.
These things looked like personal preferences and personal choices, but minors who knew nothing of the entertainment industry’s viciousness could never understand that they had all been instilled in them by the invisible hand of capital.
Then, through a series of missions and repeated rounds of purification, the fans were divided into different ranks. Which fans belonged where and how they should be exploited—capital had it all worked out. They had even developed a mature system for squeezing every last drop of value from them.
Never mind anything else. The fan groups that could instantly reverse any public-opinion trend at a single command—groups that manipulated rankings, controlled comments, and attacked anyone who spoke against their idol—operated like rigorously trained armies. The public-relations and marketing expenses they saved their agencies each year were astronomical.
Turning fans into free labor, then using them to expand influence like a snowball, coercing ordinary people’s choices—it was no wonder that so many people in the industry now said that bad money was driving out good.
After this upheaval, quite a few of the more shameless capitalists became somewhat restrained. At least during this sensitive period, they kept their heads down and pretended to be dead.
The atmosphere online became noticeably cleaner.
Pei Liang’s name, however, also broke out of her original circle.
Previously, she had merely been a member of a second-rate girl group. Even when she had made the trending searches several times, it had mostly been Cui Ying’s fans who knew about her. Outsiders did not care, and anything they happened to see was forgotten after a couple of days.
This time, however, the impact was simply too great. The public’s impression of her changed along with it.
[Pei Liang, the woman who single-handedly brought down the shopping festival’s sales growth.]
[Seriously! Everyone ran off to eat up the gossip. This year’s shopping festival growth is nowhere near what the experts predicted.]
[Stop talking about it! Shop owners and customer-service agents are practically dying to shut down their stores and join the gossip. They’re far too busy.]
[Come on, are people really treating this woman like a hero? Even if Cui Ying is a terrible person, couldn’t she have chosen a better time to expose everything? All I can say is that, judging by the impact, she’s no better herself.]
[Come on, come on. Surely no one still thinks merchants rely on shopping festivals to survive? It’s just a month’s worth of transactions concentrated into one day. The event actually spreads out sales over several days. Have you ever heard of anyone abandoning their shopping cart because they were busy eating gossip?]
[Hide your fan credentials before you come out to talk. Cui Ying’s fans are pretending to be impartial and blaming both sides equally?]
[As long as I can say whatever I want about celebrities online now, I’m happy.]
[Exactly. I’m grateful to that woman for that alone.]
[But she must have offended a huge number of people, right?]
Of course she had offended people. There was Cui Ying’s side, for one. Then there were the counterattacks from people who had found a way to deal with those previously unstoppable fan support groups because of Pei Liang’s actions.
Because the authorities had applied pressure, everyone had recently been keeping their heads down and behaving cautiously. Several celebrities who followed the same path as Cui Ying had released new works, but they no longer dared to artificially inflate their data and rankings or conduct swarm-like marketing campaigns to force themselves into the public eye.
Their works had been made carelessly in the first place. Without that deformed style of marketing, it was practically the same as cutting off their sickles for harvesting leeks.
The direct and indirect financial losses were considerable. Although many people in the industry and many consumers who genuinely valued artistic ability and quality work were delighted by the changes, it was also a fact that Pei Liang had made a great many enemies in the process.
A few days later, news broke that Pei Liang had terminated her contract with her agency and withdrawn from the group.
Only then did everyone suddenly understand. She probably had no intention of remaining in the industry, which was why she had acted so fearlessly.
The people who had originally thought it was unwise to make a move while attention was still focused on her, and who had planned to wait until things settled down before targeting Pei Liang—the various capital groups led by Cui Ying’s company—could only retreat for the time being.
Pei Liang, however, had no intention of leaving the entertainment industry for good.
She simply would not remain in it as an artist.
She wanted to become capital herself.
To be honest, the entertainment industry in Pei Liang’s own world was relatively healthy. Good works might be buried, but it was absolutely impossible for inferior works like Cui Ying’s, and works representing her entire ilk, to be praised as masterpieces.
If an artist’s work was bad and their professional abilities were lacking, they had no choice but to lie low and endure ridicule. There was no way to gag ordinary people and prevent them from speaking. The state exercised strict control over this area.
Celebrity fan groups were also subject to strict regulations and supervision. There were celebrities whose moral standing did not match their status, but it was absolutely impossible for someone to reach Cui Ying’s level through dirty capitalist manipulation.
An idol who had risen to the top of the industry was, at the very least, exceptionally skilled in her own professional field.
And since her target was already in the entertainment industry and had achieved considerable success, ordinary financial incentives were unlikely to move her.
Even with the long term in mind, the endless life stretching before her gave her plenty of time to broaden her professional expertise and acquire new skills.
So Pei Liang planned to become a film and television producer.
After terminating her contract, she kept an extremely low profile, turning down every interview and offer. Everyone assumed she was preparing to leave show business for good.
But the people she was meeting now were ones no outsider—and not even anyone from her former agency—could have expected.
Pei Liang was currently at an expensive Japanese restaurant. The interior was elegant and refined, and the private rooms offered excellent privacy.
Sitting across from her were the director and screenwriter of the film she had withdrawn her investment from.
In other words, they were the notorious industry duo behind countless awful movies: Director Liu and Screenwriter Feng.
The two men had not expected Pei Liang to contact them either. They knew she had pulled her investment. Because of that, Li Jian and Zhu Wen had been too busy dealing with their own troubles lately, and the film project had naturally fallen through.
When explaining the situation to the two men, Li Jian and Zhu Wen had certainly not spoken up for Pei Liang. They had pushed all the blame onto her, embellishing and exaggerating her arrogance and her supposed contempt for the director and screenwriter.
As a result, neither man looked particularly pleased to see Pei Liang. Director Liu took a sip of tea and said with a fake smile, “Miss Pei, you summoned the two of us pieces of garbage here. We’re truly flattered.”
Apparently, Li Jian had filtered the words “They’re in their forties, completely washed-up, and easy to take advantage of” into something Pei Liang had supposedly said to them, then relayed it word for word.
Pei Liang, however, paid no attention to the awkwardness. She smiled. “I heard that both of you are available now. I happen to have a film in preproduction, and you two are my first choice as a golden partnership.”
Director Liu and Screenwriter Feng were both stunned. They had never seen anyone withdraw an investment because they disliked the filmmaking team, only to seek them out privately for a collaboration afterward.
Still, both men were seasoned operators in their forties. After thinking it over, they realized that the message Li Jian and the others had passed along might not have been entirely accurate.
After all, Pei Liang had disregarded everything and exposed such a massive scandal, then terminated her contract with her agency. Although the breakup had not erupted into a public spectacle, it was obvious that she had already fallen out with them completely.
In that case, Li Jian and the others could not be trusted completely.
Once the two men figured that out, their attitude toward a potential benefactor with work to offer changed immediately.
“Boss Liang~” Their greasy faces instantly blossomed into chrysanthemum-like smiles. “You could have called us to any café to discuss the collaboration. How could we let you go to such expense?”
“Here, have some tea!” Screenwriter Feng eagerly refilled Pei Liang’s cup.
After rubbing their hands together and showering Pei Liang with flattery about her remarkable eye for talent, the two men finally asked cautiously, “Boss Liang, what kind of film are you planning to make this time?”
Pei Liang took a sip of tea. “A comedy.”
“Oh, that’s our specialty.” The two men immediately perked up. “Nearly all of our signature works are comedies.”
“Don’t let the box-office results fool you. Their online view counts are pretty good. And we’ve always been excellent at controlling costs—we offer absolutely unbeatable value for money.”
“If you only look at the ratings, they may seem mediocre, but the return on investment is quite respectable.”
Calling the ratings of their films mediocre was already being generous to them.
Still, as they claimed, their movies did not actually lose much money. They often even turned a small profit.
The two men had become famous for being reviled. Every time one of their awful films came out, it provided endless material for commentary-video creators and clickbait accounts. Their movies were met with a torrent of abuse, but the criticism also guaranteed them a certain level of publicity.
After hearing people mock them, many viewers would seek out the original films out of curiosity, finding entertainment in the absurd plots and the barrage of comments.
The pair were geniuses at cutting costs and monetizing their own work. If other people could profit from the attention, there was no reason they could not profit from it themselves.
In fact, many times they paid creators with millions of followers to make videos mocking their films. They would even interact with them in a shamelessly self-deprecating manner, acting as though they were desperately trying to ride the creators’ coattails and generate hype.
But those who understood the business knew the truth. Although these awful films had become notorious, compared with the countless movies released every year that made not the slightest ripple—films that never reached theaters and were practically nonexistent online—they had no idea how much money the pair had actually made.
As long as people watched their movies, regardless of their reasons, they contributed views and ad-watching time to the video platforms.
Naturally, the platforms were willing to pay for them, whether they were good films or bad.
Pei Liang said, “This time, the budget is ample. We won’t be following the same formula you used before.”
“I know Director Liu has an excellent visual sense, and Screenwriter Feng has a strong command of pacing. Your previous films had their shortcomings, but I hope we can make the most of your strengths and avoid those weaknesses this time.”
The two men were startled. When Li Jian had approached them earlier, the investment he had secured had already been substantial. The fifty million yuan from the Pei family alone would have been enough for them to spread their wings.
They had thought that someone had finally been willing to let them work without restraint. Now it was clear that Pei Liang’s goal was still to make them save money.
The funds would pass through the production’s expenses and postproduction publicity, but would never actually reach their hands. They knew perfectly well where the money would ultimately end up.
They had not expected Pei Liang—the very person who had withdrawn the funds—to have such resolve.
They asked nervously, “Boss Liang, when you say the budget is ample—how much are we talking about?”
“For now, seventy million yuan,” Pei Liang replied.
The fifty million yuan Pei’s dad had given her had already increased by forty percent through her operations over the past few days.
Director Liu and Screenwriter Feng drew in a sharp breath. Then their faces flushed with excitement.
Seventy million yuan was a sizable budget for a comedy. If they did not cast highly paid celebrities whose fees were inflated by their popularity, the funding would be more than sufficient.
Pei Liang added, “We’ll shoot in the gambling city.”
“The gambling city? How many days are we talking?” the two men asked.
“Other than the opening and closing scenes, almost the entire film takes place in the gambling city,” Pei Liang replied.
No wonder she had sought them out. If they were filming in the gambling city, the budget would no longer be quite as generous, but it would still be relatively comfortable. There was also a chance they could attract additional investment later.
The two men hurriedly said, “We may not have many other strengths, but controlling costs is something we’re unbeatable at. Our last film also involved extensive shooting in the gambling city, so we’ve already gotten to know the place inside out. This time, we’ll be completely at ease.”
That was, of course, one of the reasons Pei Liang had chosen them.
When Li Jian and the others persuaded Pei’s dad to invest, they had needed to produce a convincing proposal. They could not simply swagger in and say, “Your daughter is in our hands, so hand over fifty million yuan.”
The original Pei Liang had naturally read the proposal and knew the director and screenwriter’s résumés inside and out.
Although their past achievements had been heavily polished in the proposal, before they began making films, one had been a well-regarded cinematographer in the industry, while the other had been a famous film critic.
Director Liu had worked on quite a few productions that won awards, while Screenwriter Feng’s reviews were usually incisive and highly respected.
But perhaps the two men were typical armchair strategists—impressive when discussing theory, yet utterly bewildering once they tried to put it into practice.
Their first collaboration had not been without industry expectations. At the time, some of Screenwriter Feng’s film-review fans even confidently declared that he would surely write a screenplay capable of dazzling the film industry.
But in the end, although Director Liu was skilled in visual storytelling, he was not good at controlling the main plot or pacing of a movie. Put simply, he did not know how to tell a story.
And although Screenwriter Feng had been incisive as a film critic, he was not good at producing a complete screenplay himself.
On top of that, they had a severe lack of funding, cheap costumes and sets, and painfully awkward performances from actors forced on them by the investors. Even immortals could not have saved that film, much less two people whose own weaknesses were so obvious.
Once their highly anticipated project fell flat, they became the laughingstock of the entire internet. Both of them lost everything and went bankrupt. To make a living and repay their debts, they had no choice but to set aside their pride and keep going, constantly making terrible movies and relying on blood, bare flesh, erotic gimmicks, and sensationalism to attract attention.
Fortunately, Pei Liang had organizational skills and a good eye. What she needed was a highly professional cinematographer, someone with a sharp eye for flaws in a script, and someone with sufficient connections and experience assembling film crews.
Of course, their affordability, cost-cutting abilities, and experience filming in the gambling capital were advantages as well.
Neither Pei Liang nor the original owner had any connections in this world’s film industry. Rather than stumble around trying to find a team she knew nothing about, or spend a fortune investing in a major production she had no control over—
Then again, given that she was currently at the center of a storm and had made enemies all over the industry, even if she had the money, there was no guarantee she could get into anyone else’s production.
Pei Liang tactfully explained her intentions, and the two immediately understood.
Pei Liang had not sought them out with the intention of making quick money through sensational publicity. Put plainly, she simply valued their existing crew and their particular professional expertise.
To put it nicely, she was hiring a director and a screenwriter. But this movie was clearly going to be producer-driven. The director would essentially be a cinematographer, while the screenwriter would be someone who patched up the script as the production went along.
The excitement on their faces faded somewhat. Still, over the past few years, they had encountered plenty of reckless investors, as well as outsiders who thought they knew better than professionals.
Director Liu said, “Boss Liang, could we take a look at the script?”
Pei Liang nodded. Just then, the private-room door opened, and Fang Yuan walked in with a plainly dressed, shy-looking young woman.
Pei Liang smiled. “Have a seat!”
After sitting down, the young woman introduced herself to Director Liu and Screenwriter Feng. “I’m Yu Yi. I’m the original author of the film’s screenplay.”
Yu Yi gave a bashful smile, opened the document folder she had brought, and handed them three freshly photocopied copies of the script.
Pei Liang had already read the screenplay and knew its contents by heart.
Naturally, the first thing she had to do when she decided to produce a film was choose the right script.
When it came to selecting projects, no one could question Pei Liang’s eye—even if she was technically an outsider.
In her previous life, she had personally chosen the resources she gave to her pretty-boy lovers countless times. She had flawlessly avoided those flashy traps that were all gimmicks and no substance, and accurately picked out works with solid production teams, excellent scripts, and directors capable of bringing them to life perfectly.
At first, she had only helped choose projects so she could give gifts with precision and fulfill her promises as a wealthy patron helping someone achieve their dreams. Later, even major investors and industry power players would ask her to review important projects whenever they encountered one.
Pei Liang simply had that ability. Even without being a complete professional, she could analyze data and conditions from every angle and identify the right choice.
It was an instinct she seemed to have been born with, as though she had been made from a treasure-gathering basin.
Since she had no connections that could bring good scripts to her, she had personally sought out scripts by new screenwriters from various colleges, as well as overlooked original novels from online fiction platforms that had potential for adaptation.
And in the end, she really had managed to spot a highly viable script at a glance.
She immediately contacted Yu Yi, the author of the original novel. When she learned that Yu Yi was also a screenwriter, Pei Liang had her adapt the novel on the spot, then swiftly signed a copyright agreement with the platform and purchased the work.
Because it was a character-driven ensemble novel—a genre that was unpopular in online fiction at the time—the book’s results had been terrible.
Yu Yi herself was completely unknown among editors. She had never expected such good fortune to fall from the sky, much less that the other party would offer her a generous price simply because she was a newcomer.
Pei Liang had even taken the initiative to invite her to join the film’s screenwriting team and promised to give her a certain degree of creative authority.
Having one’s painstaking work selected by a producer and greenlit for production—and even being allowed to participate in the making of the film—was every author’s dream. Yu Yi had been so excited over the past few days that she could barely sleep.
Even the editor in charge of her had sighed, “You really are unbelievably lucky.”
While Pei Liang chatted with Yu Yi, Director Liu and Screenwriter Feng had already finished reading through most of the script.
They had not originally held out much hope. But not long after opening the screenplay, their eyes began to shine brighter and brighter.
The screenplay was titled The Missing Bride. (Note: Based on the American film The Hangover.)
The story followed four best friends who had shared a dorm room in college. The youngest of the group, who had immigrated to Country X, was getting married the following week.
The other three flew to the gambling capital at her invitation to attend the wedding. On the night before the ceremony, the four women decided to celebrate the bride’s last night of singlehood by indulging in one wild evening.
But after a night of revelry, the three women woke up in a trashed presidential suite.
A handsome, sexy man wearing nothing but a pair of shorts gave the eldest of the four a deep kiss, said a few cryptic words, and walked away.
The second woman went to use the bathroom, only to discover a full-grown tiger locked inside.
The three women shrieked and hurriedly slammed the bathroom door shut. Panicking, they went to wake the bride, only to discover that the person lying on the bed was not the bride at all, but a corpse that had already been dead for some time.
And the real bride was nowhere to be found.
With less than twenty-four hours until the wedding, they had to find the bride and get her to the ceremony on time.
At the same time, they had to figure out what had happened the previous night, conceal the corpse so no one would discover it, and determine whether they had actually committed murder.
Thus began their journey to uncover the truth behind the blank space in their memories.
The entire process was packed with hilarious incidents, and the further they followed the clues, the more horrified they became by the madness and audacity of what they had done the night before.
The eldest woman was a career elite and a confirmed single by choice. She was the most disciplined and self-controlled of the four, and was always lecturing the others from her lofty moral perch.
Yet while piecing together her lost memories, she discovered that she had been the craziest one of all.
The naked man that morning had not been a stripper she had hired for entertainment after getting carried away. He was actually her newlywed husband. The night before, the two of them had officially held a wedding ceremony in a church, with a priest as witness.
She had even done something entirely out of character for a woman who always claimed she would never so much as get her eyebrows tattooed: she and the man had impulsively tattooed each other’s names on the intimate areas of their thighs.
The second woman was a hopeless romantic who had been cheated on repeatedly. Ever since her first relationship in middle school, she had either been getting cheated on or was well on her way to being cheated on.
But that night, she had transformed into a veritable maneater. She flirted with eight men in succession at the casino, and in the end, all eight men got into a brawl over her.
Several of them belonged to different local gangs, and the fight eventually escalated into a massive gang war at the casino. People even died.
The corpse on the bed was one of the casualties.
The third woman was a web-fiction author who was timid and submissive in real life, but outrageously dirty-minded online.
A woman who normally didn’t even dare to meet a man’s eyes went on to do something under the influence of alcohol and drugs that, years later, still gave rise to legends about a female sex fiend throughout the gambling capital. The tiger in the bathroom had also been stolen by her—and was, in fact, the pet of a mob boss who had nearly fallen victim to its vicious claws.
This screenplay had received a lukewarm response in the online novel market, but Pei Liang, Director Liu, and the others all knew that these scenes and jokes were fundamentally unsuited to the written page.
They were meant for the big screen, where they could be brought to life through the direct impact of visuals, the actors’ physical performances, and a thrilling, fast-paced rhythm.
After reading it, Director Liu immediately came up with visual layouts for several important scenes, while Director Feng promptly pointed out problems with the screenplay’s pacing and dialogue.
“Outsiders all assume that a comedy is just about making a lot of noise and acting crazy, but that isn’t true. Comedy films often need to pay even more attention to the refinement of their dialogue. Many widely circulated lines don’t become popular by accident.”
It was like the peak work of a certain comedy superstar, in which practically every line had become a popular phrase on the internet.
When Screenwriter Feng discussed revising the script, he spoke with great confidence and fluency. He hardly seemed like the screenwriter behind countless terrible comedies.
But Pei Liang’s judgment had been correct. Feng simply wasn’t capable of writing a full script on his own. When it came to his sense of aesthetics in film and screenwriting, however, he was extremely sharp.
The three of them talked from noon until evening, going through the entire screenplay and smoothing out its structure. They even signed a contract on the spot, which meant the production team had basically been formed.
Director Liu and Screenwriter Feng had spent many years in the film industry. Their ability to produce bad movies was a matter of talent—or rather, the lack thereof—but with their connections, they could quickly assemble a reliable production crew.
Since Pei Liang wasn’t cutting corners when it came to this aspect, they also had the confidence to contact more professional colleagues.
When it came to casting, however, Pei Liang suddenly became much less generous than before.
Director Liu said, “With a budget of seventy million, while still ensuring the quality of the film, hiring an all-star cast might be a bit difficult. But we should still be able to bring in a popular young actress for one of the major roles.”
“The third brother’s character is memorable, but he’s too sleazy and obsessed with crude toilet humor. Those popular young actresses may not be willing to take the part. The eldest brother and second brother are both decent roles, though.”
“I have a few actresses in mind whose looks would fit. We could—”
Pei Liang cut him off before he could finish. “Too expensive. No.”
Popular young actresses could still perform reasonably well in television. Given the marketing model of the time, television dramas could reach a broad audience and attract purchases from television stations and online platforms.
Film was different. Box-office revenue came from individual people who actually walked into cinemas and paid for tickets. That was completely different from casually turning on a television or computer. Even if a television drama was bad, people could leave it playing in the background while they went off to do something else.
But watching a film in a theater required far more time, effort, and money than watching a television drama.
Therefore, when most people chose a film to watch, they would at least do some research into its reputation. They might look it up online or ask people around them who had already seen it.
People who had spent time and money on a movie and left disappointed would certainly complain and criticize it. A film’s reputation couldn’t be controlled by the marketing methods of the time. Even if someone like Cui Ying shamelessly had his studio organize an army of people to manipulate the data and make the online ratings look as good as possible—
one honest comment from someone nearby who had actually seen the movie could still be enough to dissuade many people from going to the cinema.
That was an area even an internet army couldn’t conquer.
Of the popular young actresses in this world, not one had genuine box-office appeal.
Or rather, it had been a long time since a female actress with powerful box-office draw had appeared. The few who possessed it were already over forty and didn’t fit the roles in the screenplay.
Even if they had been suitable, Pei Liang estimated that their status in the industry would have made them unaffordable.
Pei Liang said, “You understand this area better than I do. I only have three requirements: inexpensive, beautiful, and good at acting.”
Director Liu looked troubled. “What movie wouldn’t want a female actress who’s beautiful and talented? But actresses like that aren’t cheap. Liang, how about increasing the casting budget a little?”
Pei Liang replied, “Actresses who have fallen out of favor, are caught up in scandals, or have offended people are all fine. As long as they haven’t committed any serious moral violations.”
Director Liu’s eyes lit up. “If that’s all you require, I really can find a few.”
He didn’t explain further, choosing instead to leave them in suspense. The group continued discussing other details before heading home to make their preparations.
A few days later, casting auditions began. There weren’t many roles that required auditions. Since the film would be shot overseas, most of the extras and supporting roles would be played by foreigners, and they would need to contact local actors’ unions.
Naturally, the main focus that day was selecting the three female leads.
After several candidates had auditioned, a woman with highly distinctive features opened the door and walked in. She was undeniably beautiful, but there was a sorrowful quality to her face.
She was perfectly suited to playing the sort of melancholic, vulnerable character who inspired instant pity.
She introduced herself. “Xia Yu. I’m auditioning for the role of Lu Qiu.”
Then, without another word, she began performing the scene Director Liu had assigned her.
Lu Qiu was the second brother in the film—a hopeless romantic who was cheated on time and time again. In theory, the ideal image for her would be someone with an innocent, simple, slightly foolish-looking face.
Objectively speaking, Chu Lian’s appearance had been quite suitable for a first-love type.
But the moment Xia Yu entered character, the image of Lu Qiu that Pei Liang had envisioned in his mind collapsed. In its place was the Xia Yu standing before him.
Even the natural melancholy in her appearance blended perfectly into the character’s life story, making people understand at a glance:
Well, of course she looked so bitter. She’d been cheated on so many times.
Yet that touch of sadness didn’t disrupt the balance of the character. When Xia Yu had first entered, she had seemed like someone weathered by life, her eyes and bearing filled with wariness.
But now she had vividly conveyed Lu Qiu’s dependence on love, as well as the defenseless quality that seemed destined to attract scumbags.
After finishing her performance, Xia Yu said, “That concludes my audition.”
Pei Liang was the first to applaud. Seeing this, Director Liu was also pleased and said with a smile, “Those two years you took off didn’t go to waste, did they?”
Xia Yu forced a smile. “I’m surprised you still remember me, Director Liu.”
Director Liu spoke quietly to Pei Liang. “When she first debuted, countless people thought she had a bright future. Unfortunately, her family was a mess.”
“A few years ago, they pressured her into getting married and matched her with a wealthy man. The entire family clung to her and sucked her dry. Unfortunately, the man was a fake rich guy. His supposed fortune was nothing but an empty shell. Not long after they got married, he went bankrupt. She had to support the household—and he even beat her.”
“She wanted a divorce, but he went around causing trouble at every production she joined, making quite a few crews afraid to hire her. After she finally got divorced and cut ties with her family, her shameless ex-husband joined forces with his parents and younger brother to spread lies and rumors about her.”
“Everyone in that family claimed she was a terrible person. Her former colleague, who had already been at odds with her, helped fan the flames. Before long, everyone outside was cursing her, calling her unfilial, heartless, vain, and materialistic—saying she was only willing to share prosperity, not hardship.”
“Those of us who know the truth understand how miserable she was. But what good does that do?”
Pei Liang nodded. Director Liu continued, “Liang, by your standards, she fits the requirements perfectly.”
“But this is a bit of a headache—I’ll be honest. Back when I was first struggling to make films, I owed her a favor. If I can, I’d naturally like to repay it now.”
“I was thinking, since we’re filming overseas anyway, even if her family is as clingy as dog-skin plaster—”
Director Liu didn’t finish. Seeing that Pei Liang remained silent, Xia Yu didn’t want him to keep lowering himself like this.
“Forget it, Director Liu. If it’s not appropriate—”
“It’s appropriate.” Pei Liang spoke up. “Sorry, I was distracted just now. I was thinking about how to design your look for the film. But what does that have to do with anything? Leave it to the stylist.”
As she spoke, she smiled at Xia Yu. “Welcome to the cast of The Missing Bride.”
Xia Yu hadn’t expected Pei Liang to make the decision on the spot. Although Director Liu’s films were terrible, this production had a huge investment, and plenty of people were willing to take the risk. If the film used the money to hire a popular star, working with it could even be a sure win.
After all, if the film got criticized, Director Liu and Screenwriter Feng were two natural scapegoats.
So there had been quite a few actresses competing for one of the female leads. Xia Yu simply hadn’t expected Pei Liang to settle on her—a disgraced actress—so quickly.
She felt a surge of emotion. How long had it been since she’d been shut out of leading roles?
“Thank you. Thank you, Producer Pei Liang, and Director Liu.”
Pei Liang nodded. “Go home, pack your things, and get ready to join the production.”
They then auditioned actors for the eldest and third sisters. Gu Fei, the eldest, was ultimately played by an actress who had made a splash in a web series the previous year.
The actress had a lovely appearance and bearing, and her presence in period costume was striking. However, because the production had focused on promoting the chemistry between the male and female leads, the actress—despite giving a good performance in a supporting role—hadn’t benefited much from the publicity.
Later, her agent’s eye for scripts proved poor. The roles she took in two or three consecutive dramas failed to make any impression, and by now she had practically vanished from the public eye.
Huang You, the third sister, was the comic relief and the boldest character in the story. There weren’t many young actresses willing to throw caution to the wind for a role like that.
In the end, they chose a comedian who had started out as a child star. Her childhood roles had been household names, but she had never had much of an advantage in terms of looks. She had also put her career on hold to study, and now she could barely get cast in anything.
Once the production team had been assembled, Pei Liang borrowed two accountants from the Pei Group to calculate the filming costs.
As expected, if they followed her requirements, the budget would still fall short by quite a bit.
So Pei Liang went home and found Pei’s dad, asking him to provide additional funding.
She would have liked to bring in other investors, but with her current team, even a fool couldn’t be talked into investing. Anyone she did manage to lure in might bring trouble with them.
She had to maintain absolute control over the production. Until she had enough experience to inspire confidence in others, she could only fund it herself.
Pei’s dad had recently run into trouble at work and was already in a foul mood. “Didn’t I give you fifty million? What kind of lousy movie needs that much money? Can’t fifty million even buy you a female lead?”
The original Pei Liang had lost her mother when she was young. Her father was short-tempered and consumed by work, but he truly loved his daughter. He simply had no time to spend with her, so he could express that love only through money.
His rough nature and impatient temper also kept him from noticing his daughter’s loneliness and fragility. Whenever the original Pei Liang mustered the courage to express her wish for him to spend time with her, his preoccupation with work often made him respond impatiently.
Faced with her father’s neglect and perfunctory treatment, the original Pei Liang hadn’t reacted like most people in similar circumstances by rebelling to attract his attention.
Instead, she had convinced herself to be more understanding and considerate of her father. Perhaps that was why she had ultimately become so considerate of others that she ignored her own feelings, allowing everyone to take advantage of her.
Pei Liang, however, was an unapologetically thick-skinned optimist, and Pei’s dad’s attitude didn’t bother her in the slightest.
She said, “Your daughter may be foolish, but I’m not about to make a money-losing deal like that. I’m planning to produce the film myself.”
“The fifty million you gave me before can count as your support for your daughter’s career. I won’t take advantage of you by asking for more. How about treating the additional funding as an investment? We can split the box-office revenue according to the contract.”
Pei’s dad laughed. “You? You haven’t even managed to establish yourself as an actress. When you terminated your contract and came home, I thought you’d finally come to your senses. Now you’re planning to cause trouble somewhere else?”
“All right, all right. I’ll give you another thirty million. I don’t even expect you to pay me a share of the profits, but let’s make this clear: if several tens of millions go down the drain, you’ll give up on this nonsense and come back to work for the company.”
“Our family may not be short of money, but whatever you lose will ultimately come out of your inheritance. Think carefully about whether you can bear to lose it.”
