Chapter 114: Daily Life Back in Beijing and the Model Who Clung to Him

The bonfire had burned out, leaving only residual warmth.

Qin Lan, unable to endure the whipping, had fallen asleep; Yu Yanli, having slept much on his way back, was not tired and took the opportunity to read the script left by Ma Yili.

The Survival of Migrant Workers

Originally, Yu Yanli had merely been killing time, but as he watched, his attitude gradually grew serious.

What a great script!

Yu Yanli realized he had underestimated this drama—he had assumed it was just another story about a migrant worker struggling to survive, eventually settling in the city or returning home in defeat.

In fact, it was an ensemble piece, focusing on the entire migrant worker population, with the central plot revolving around demanding unpaid wages and surviving harshly in the city.

The characters were vivid, the plot relatively authentic; though some elements felt deliberately contrived, they served to ensure dramatic tension and conflict.

It did not preach any ideological messages or grand principles, nor did it include any audience-favorite tropes of the protagonist’s good fortune—only two naked words echoing the title: Surviving.

“What a great drama.”

Yu Yanli couldn’t help praising it again; as a classically trained actor and newly appointed producer, he had read many scripts and possessed solid discernment.

Of course, a good script doesn’t guarantee a good drama—it still depends on the director, actors, crew, and other combined factors.

Still, the director Guan Hu had notable works, and the several actors tentatively cast were all powerhouses; Yu Yanli felt the chances of it turning out well were quite high.

Should he invest?

Yu Yanli hesitated—he believed in the drama’s quality, but its prospects, especially commercial ones, remained as pessimistic as before, even more so.

Some plot elements were too sensitive, and the overall tone was not particularly appealing.

To put it bluntly, migrant workers and rural families might not even want to watch this kind of drama; children and the elderly certainly wouldn’t. The real audience consisted of urban residents and the petite bourgeoisie—and only a portion of them.

This led to low acquisition interest from TV stations and unlikely strong ratings.

Yu Yanli imagined himself as the distributor—even with the system’s help—he couldn’t guarantee he’d sell this drama to a satellite channel.

Of course, this genre required low investment; Yu Yanli estimated 5 to 8 million yuan would suffice.

Even if it couldn’t be sold to satellite channels, it could still find a market on local stations and DVD sales, enough to break even.

Yu Yanli himself prioritized profit over artistic pursuit, but from the perspective of a film and television company, one couldn’t invest solely in commercial projects—there needed to be some critically acclaimed works to elevate the company’s image.

A stronger company image could attract talent, secure policy benefits and subsidies, and gain public recognition and approval—all hidden advantages.

These advantages themselves didn’t make much money, but they helped the company earn more.

Otherwise, why would those Hollywood companies keep pouring money into art films every year? Film and television are cultural industries—you can’t just calculate economic returns.

Yu Yanli hadn’t invested a single cent in The Seven Fairies, but he had invested five million in The Detective Di Renjie; he still had plenty of funds on hand.

These funds were too small for major projects, so he could only pick smaller ones to invest in.

Yu Yanli pondered, deciding to look into the project further—if it had potential, he’d give it a try.

If handled well, he might not even have to pay out of pocket—he still had a backer.

Boss Jin had even funded the Vanguard Playhouse; this slightly artistic TV drama might just suit his taste.

Yu Yanli glanced again at the script—there were several female roles. He’d heard Boss Jin had recently become close to a dancer; this could help push things further for her.

…

In the morning, still not fully recovered from yesterday’s exertions, Yu Yanli made Qin Lan do two sets of health exercises.

After the exercises, Qin Lan went to brush her teeth, wash her face, and soak her feet, while Yu Yanli called Boss Jin to arrange a meeting within the next couple of days.

Then, while boiling noodles for breakfast, he reviewed his work since returning to Beijing.

Casting for The Seven Fairies was nearly finalized; if no suitable actor could be found for Dong Yong, using lesser-known actors or newcomers wouldn’t be out of the question.

Snow Goddess Dragon was about to air on satellite TV, so Yu Yanli needed to research a second satellite channel for its broadcast.

As for Conquest, the broadcast windows on several satellite channels had already passed three months, even half a year; the second-run broadcasting rights could be negotiated. With the New Year just two months away, every extra yuan counted.

As he was thinking, Qin Lan finished her morning routine, watched him cook noodles, and, moved, planted a kiss on him.

“Thank you, husband.”

Yu Yanli turned his head away: “Just say thanks—no kissing.”

Qin Lan froze, then retorted, spitting at him: “You didn’t mind the dirt when you were using me—now you’re pretending to be clean?”

Saying this, she ignored his attempts to dodge, stood on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his head, and kissed him, mumbling:

“Mmm… is this how you taught me?”

Yu Yanli sighed helplessly—what else could he do? He endured her teasing for a while before escaping, claiming the noodles were about to turn to mush.

Qin Lan remained disgruntled, pinching his waist lightly: “Next time I won’t brush my teeth before kissing you.”

Yu Yanli: “...”

Each had a bowl of noodles with some small side dishes Yu Yanli had prepared earlier; after a few soothing words, Qin Lan reluctantly forgave him, still a little proud.

Yu Yanli’s eyes flickered—this little vixen had grown spoiled under his care; he’d been too gentle just now. He’d make her “cry” later.

After eating, Yu Yanli wanted to take Qin Lan out for a stroll and some shopping, but she complained of sore legs and aching back, refusing to move, and pulled him home to watch DVDs.

Don’t misunderstand—it wasn’t that kind of DVD; Qin Lan dared not provoke Yu Yanli, so it was a film and television DVD—

The Treasure Basin

Yu Yanli glanced at the corner of the cover featuring himself and was surprised: “Has this drama’s DVD reached this far?”

The Treasure Basin had premiered mid-year but was still airing only on local channels.

Yu Yanli had asked Cheng Lidong; ratings were decent but unremarkable, so satellite broadcast would have to wait.

This was standard procedure for many TV dramas with solid local ratings—they weren’t bad enough to be shelved and forgotten, but not good enough for satellite broadcast either, so they waited in line.

If the opportunity came, they’d air on satellite, recoup costs or even profit, and the drama and actors would gain visibility and fame.

If it didn’t come, they’d keep circulating on local channels, and after two years, when no one watched anymore, they’d be shelved and gather dust.

As far as Yu Yanli knew, waiting a year or half a year was normal; some waited three to five years.

Even longer waits might exist, but he hadn’t heard of them—back then, there weren’t many satellite channels.

Even the concept of “satellite broadcast” had only become common in recent years; previously, TV dramas were sold directly to local stations, one province per market, with only CCTV and a handful of satellite channels covering the entire country.

This caused some veteran distribution companies and teams to lag behind the new era.

They sought convenience, focusing only on local channels and ignoring or being powerless against the larger, more profitable satellite platforms.

If he weren’t so busy and if The Treasure Basin hadn’t already cycled through local channels and sold DVDs with limited profit, Yu Yanli would have taken over its distribution himself to show Cheng Lidong how it was done.

Is satellite broadcast really that hard?!

Yu Yanli asked Qin Lan how the DVD was selling; she shook her head.

“Average. This drama hasn’t aired in Beijing, so few know about it. Plus, I think only a few people bought it—just because of Zhang Weijian.”

Zhang Weijian’s influence was no joke; he had many fans. Even those unfamiliar with the drama bought the DVD just for his picture on the cover.

“Put it on.”

Yu Yanli rubbed his hands together—he’d only watched one of his own dramas: Conquest.

Although The Treasure Basin and The Heroes of Sui and Tang had aired, he suspected bad luck—he’d never seen them on TV and was genuinely curious about his own performance.

Qin Lan turned on the TV and DVD player; the screen didn’t show the drama first, but a video of Zhang Weijian holding a DVD of The Treasure Basin, promoting anti-piracy:

“Combating piracy is everyone’s responsibility...”

Yu Yanli looked at Qin Lan: “How much did you pay for this DVD?”

Qin Lan held up one finger: “Three DVDs, total ten yuan.”

“Pirated.”

Yu Yanli laughed bitterly. A legitimate TV drama DVD usually consisted of several discs and rarely cost less than twenty yuan; those with few discs or low prices were almost certainly pirated.

Still, this pirated disc even included the production team’s anti-piracy video—how brazen.

Qin Lan didn’t care whether it was pirated or legitimate; she snuggled into Yu Yanli’s arms to watch.

She’d saved this DVD to watch with him, so she’d resisted watching it alone until now.

The first episode introduced Shen Wansan, a poor boy hoping to get rich and marry a wife—Yu Yanli didn’t appear.

Qin Lan watched Zhang Weijian’s exaggerated gestures and rapid-fire delivery and wasn’t impressed; she looked up at Yu Yanli.

“When do you show up?”

“Probably at the end of the first episode, or the second.”

Although the script marked scenes by episode, after filming and editing, Yu Yanli wasn’t sure if the final product matched the script.

Qin Lan resumed watching patiently; since Yu Yanli wasn’t onscreen, she lost interest in Zhang Weijian and turned her attention to Fan Xiaopang.

“Is she the lead?”

“Second female lead. The lead is Zhang Ting—the little girl from Time Traveling Love.”

“Oh.”

Qin Lan stared at Fan Xiaopang: “Pity—she’s really pretty. Are you close to her?”

Yu Yanli thought for a moment and gave an accurate assessment: “Fine.”

Qin Lan immediately perked up: “What’s she like?”

Yu Yanli told the truth: “Average.”

“Average? I think she’s cheerful, pretty, and even fair-skinned.”

Yu Yanli paused—those last words carried hidden meaning.

He didn’t take the bait, instead asking: “Have you met her?”

“She came to our station for a program—we ran into each other once.”

Qin Lan was signed to a subsidiary of Hunan TV, so she occasionally received assignments from Hunan TV.

Fan Xiaopang rose to fame through My Fair Princess; she knew many people at Hunan TV early on. Though she later broke with Qiong Yao, that was a personal feud—it didn’t mean she was blacklisted by Hunan TV.

Qin Lan wasn’t easily fooled and pressed: “Go on—she’s fair and pretty, haven’t you thought of anything?”

"I have ideas, but no one wants me—I was just a minor actor back then; only someone as foolish as you would stick with me."

"You’re the fool."

Qin Lan slapped him lightly, then affectionately hugged Yu Yanli, nuzzling against him.

"I have sharp eyes—I picked up a treasure."

Yu Yanli said nothing, tightening his arm around Qin Lan. She smiled faintly, then tilted her head to kiss him again.

In episode two, Yu Yanli finally appeared—he competed with Shen Wansan and Su Bancheng for a woman, lost, and stormed off in frustration.

Qin Lan looked disappointed: "That’s it?"

Yu Yanli nodded: "There’s more later, but it’s all the same Taolu —cause trouble for the protagonist, get crushed by him, then jump into the river to kill himself."

Qin Lan counted on her fingers: "Yuwen Chengdu, this Song Dian, and Wu Tian in 'Conquest'—you’ve played three villains already."

"Four. The one in Yunnan, 'Fortune Star Over Piggy,' was also a villain."

"You’ve become a professional villain."

Qin Lan chuckled: "Looks like directors finally see your true nature—you’re a bad guy."

Yu Yanli remained calm: "Then why do you call me 'good husband' and 'good brother' so enthusiastically?"

Qin Lan blushed: "You’re evil—so evil you’re oozing pus."

"All of it’s for you."

Qin Lan: "..."

They bickered and played around, watching a drama at home all morning. In the afternoon, Yu Yanli went to work; Qin Lan stayed home, conserving her energy for the next battle.

Yu Yanli had originally planned to use work as an excuse to visit Dong Xuan.

But once outside, he chose to go to the company instead.

No choice—Qin Lan had been too enthusiastic yesterday, leaving several bite and suck marks on his chest.

Yu Yanli pondered for half an hour but couldn’t explain how mosquitoes could leave such marks in October, so he’d have to wait a day or two.

Since the company was near Beijing Film Academy, and his BMW was too conspicuous, he took a taxi instead of driving.

Passing near Beiyingchang, he suddenly saw a woman and a man tugging at each other on the roadside. He glanced over, then told the driver to pull over.

"Miss Wang, our company offers excellent benefits. Sign with us, and we guarantee you’ll be a star within three years."

Wang Ou grew impatient, sidestepping away: "Sorry, I’m not interested in your company."

"Hey, Miss Wang, don’t go..."

The bespectacled man in a suit reached out to grab her—his arm was instantly seized. Yu Yanli stepped between them, glancing at Wang Ou, who looked slightly panicked.

"What’s going on?"

Wang Ou saw Yu Yanli and immediately brightened, hiding behind him: "Director Yan, I don’t want to sign with them—they won’t leave me alone!"

The suit-and-glasses man eyed Yu Yanli’s muscular build and sharp attire, stepping back half a pace: "Sir, we’re talent scouts from XX Company..."

Yu Yanli didn’t want to hear his nonsense—he waved his hand: "Can’t you see she doesn’t want to talk to you? Leave."

The suit-and-glasses man still hesitated. Yu Yanli clenched his fist and waved it in front of his face: "I’ve got a bad temper. Don’t push your luck. Say it again—I’m telling you to get lost."

Yu Yanli wasn’t violent—but often, this kind of aggressive threat was far more effective than endless words.

True enough—the suit-and-glasses man, a bully who cowered before strength, didn’t even mutter a threat. He slunk away.

Wang Ou looked deeply grateful: "Thank you, Director Yan. If it weren’t for you, I’d be in trouble."

"Don’t exaggerate. If you’d just pulled out your phone and said you’d call the police, he’d have backed off."

Yu Yanli didn’t seek credit—he asked Wang Ou why she hadn’t signed with the suit-and-glasses man’s company.

He had some memory of this young model.

While others auditioning for 'The Seven Fairies' begged for roles, she didn’t care about the part—she only wanted to sign with a company, aiming for early career development.

Many people blocked Yu Yanli’s path or sent text messages after getting his work number.

But if he didn’t reply, after a long time of being ignored, they eventually gave up.

Wang Ou had blocked him twice, sent texts with no response—though she no longer messaged daily, she still sent one or two messages a week. Among those who didn’t land roles, she’d persisted the longest.

"That agency’s just a front—no resources, just sending girls out to drink and smile for clients. A friend of mine got scammed—I know."

Yu Yanli understood. There were still many such fake agencies—fly-by-night operations.

They’d spot a pretty girl and claim to be talent scouts, luring her into signing contracts with promises of stardom.

But after signing, they’d assign her minor roles or ads, then package her up and send her out to drink and entertain clients.

If she refused, she could terminate the contract—but she’d have to pay tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands, in breach fees.

Wang Ou, a young model from out of town, pretty but with no connections, had likely encountered many such companies.

Earlier, she’d desperately wanted to sign with Yi’an Film—probably because Yi’an actually produced films, far superior to those fly-by-night agencies.

Freelance models had it hard. Having a company meant stable work and protection—no more starving one day, feasting the next.

Wang Ou had lucked into the second round of auditions, so she seemed different from those who only cared about landing roles.

If Yu Yanli had held open casting, there’d have been countless models and newcomers desperate to sign with Yi’an—he might have received several times more hotel keys and sexy photo shoots.

Unless you stood in that position, you’d never realize how many beautiful women were desperate to rise—and how far they’d go...

"Director Yan, I owe you so much today. Please let me treat you to dinner—I want to properly thank you."

Yu Yanli didn’t take the incident seriously. After learning the facts, he was ready to leave—but Wang Ou insisted on showing gratitude, as if she owed him a massive favor.

Looking at her gentle, beautiful face and long, straight legs, Yu Yanli felt her sincerity—and hesitated.

"I have things to do back at the company."

"That’s fine—I can wait for you."

Sensing his softening, Wang Ou picked up her bag, clearly ready to follow his lead.

"Alright then."

Yu Yanli glanced at her: "Come back to the company with me first."

Huang Shengyi wasn’t around. Qin Lan and Dong Xuan were too inexperienced, and he didn’t want to burden them. Finding a temporary replacement he found appealing wasn’t out of the question.

But he’d still need to size her up—offer resources or money if needed, but no other ideas.

Things weren’t like before. Now that his status had risen, many genuinely had designs on him. Yu Yanli didn’t want trouble...

(End of Chapter)