Chapter 63: Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Top Ten Chinese Golden Melodies

December 10, 2000, a morning that left He Xiuxiong deeply annoyed.

As Qiongyao’s daughter-in-law and the one in charge of the company, she hadn’t encountered such a situation in a long time.

“Is this confirmed to be true?”

In the office, looking at the man reporting to her, He Xiuxiong suppressed her turbulent thoughts and confirmed again.

The middle-aged man with a slicked-back hairstyle like the God of Gamblers counted on his index finger, his expression clearly gloomy: “Confirmed—Fan Bingbin has indeed connected with Zhou Yi.”

“But it’s still unclear whether Warner is behind this.”

“It can’t be Warner—Warner is already overwhelmed in the music scene and has no time to meddle in TV dramas. More likely, Fan Bingbin saw Zhou Yi’s sudden rise and thought she might get an opportunity by siding with him.”

“Just desperation-driven opportunism. Warner hasn’t invested anything in TV dramas domestically.”

He Xiuxiong tapped her pen idly on the desk, then spoke after a moment of thought: “Go find out Warner’s stance.”

“And what about Zhou Yi?”

“You actually think you can move against him? Used to bullying people around, aren’t you? He’s not like those beggars coming to Taiwan—he’s the one Warner has to beg. Do you understand?”

He Xiuxiong slammed a newspaper onto the desk, pointing at its massive headline: “Look closely—Warner just officially announced two days ago: Zhou Yi’s debut solo album has sold over 1.6 million legitimate copies across Asia.”

“Do you know how much money that is? How tangled the interests are?”

“If you dare touch Zhou Yi, you’re asking for death. Don’t drag the company down with you when Warner comes for revenge.”

Warner’s accumulated prestige and connections over the years aren’t empty threats—Qiongyao’s three family-run workshops bundled together couldn’t match one of Warner’s legal departments, let alone Warner’s parent company, which heavily prioritizes the Chinese market—this is outright dimensional suppression.

“...Fuck! Where the hell did this freak come from? At nineteen, he’s already sold this much?”

“Hasn’t anyone questioned whether he wrote his own songs? A nineteen-year-old kid—where does he get such talent?” The man with the slicked-back hair frowned: “Who in Asia’s music scene is this insane at nineteen? Could it be fake? Is Warner throwing money around?”

He Xiuxiong gave him a withering glance: “Next door in Japan, there’s a female singer born in 1983—two years younger than Zhou Yi—Utada Hikaru.”

“She debuted at fifteen; her first single sold 2.2 million copies. Her second single immediately earned the prestigious title of number-one single.”

“Last year, her debut album sold over two million copies in just one week, and nearly 7.3 million copies over the course of a year.”

“Do you want to question her too?”

“...”

Fuck!

The man with the slicked-back hair rubbed his forehead, eyes wide with disbelief: “Singers make this much? We’ve been in TV dramas for decades and still can’t match two of his albums?”

“It’s not that singers make this much—it’s that talented people make this much.”

He Xiuxiong sighed helplessly: “The business world is a battlefield—those who make money are the bosses. So someone like Zhou Yi—young, famous, possessing extraordinary personal talent, writing and producing his own songs—is impossible to suppress.”

“Unless you can unite the entire music industry, the news media, and even state media to blacklist him, you can’t bring him down. Worse—he’s from Peking University Law School, currently a third-year student. Do you know what that means?”

He Xiuxiong paused, her right index finger tapping firmly on the desk: “It means a network of alumni and professors who are experts in law stand behind him.”

“If you think you can challenge Peking University Law School on fabricated legal grounds, I suggest you quit first—don’t drag the company into this.”

“...”

Watching the man fall silent, He Xiuxiong’s furrowed brow didn’t ease.

Unlike him, she frequently represented Qiongyao in establishing friendly ties with mainland TV stations and companies, so she understood perfectly well the value Zhou Yi carried.

“If all else fails, just abandon Fan Bingbin—we already have Zhao Wei. Hasn’t she been wanting to break her contract with us? Negotiate a private settlement, squeeze out a little more cash, but don’t let it escalate to court—it’d be too ugly.”

“Warner is just a music company in China. Zhou Yi is indeed hot in the music scene right now, but he can’t offer Fan Bingbin any real resources. She’ll regret it—and might even beg to come back.”

He Xiuxiong was certain.

Soon, three days later, Zhou Yi received a call from Fan Bingbin—

“Zhou Yi, you were right—we didn’t have to do anything. Qiongyao Company contacted me, demanding I withdraw the lawsuit and willing to negotiate a private settlement.”

“Thank you, really thank you, thank you.”

The heavy stone that had weighed on her heart for so long was effortlessly shattered—Fan Bingbin couldn’t help but be moved: “They originally demanded a 1 million yuan settlement fee—now it’s only 150,000 yuan, fifty thousand less than my lowest expectation.”

“You’re welcome. It was nothing. Wishing you great success, Xiao Fan.”

Sitting in Warner’s recording studio, Zhou Yi bit into the apple Sun Yanzi had tossed him and teased: “Don’t forget to take me along when you make it big.”

“...Zhou Yi, you’re joking again. Look at me now—how could I ever make it big?”

Though she knew it was just politeness, a warm current still flowed through Fan Bingbin’s heart: “But really—thank you.”

Even though the settlement money still wasn’t enough, Fan Bingbin couldn’t bring herself to ask Zhou Yi for a loan.

She’d rather borrow from anyone else she knew than risk altering the friendship between them over money.

She felt embarrassed.

After knowing him this long, she’d gained a slight understanding of his character—and felt guilty for the dark suspicions that had crept into her mind during quiet nights.

In the entertainment industry, who isn’t lustful? But Zhou Yi’s lust was completely different from what she’d expected.

How to describe it? In his own words, he was open and honest, never played underhanded tricks—he insisted on mutual consent.

Spending time with him, Fan Bingbin even felt: this man, her own age, was better at playing roles than any seasoned veteran she’d ever met.

She still couldn’t tell what his true attitude toward her was.

If he was helping, he hadn’t rushed around doing anything—he’d just had dinner with her, analyzed the situation, and told her to wait for the settlement.

But if he wasn’t helping, she felt ungrateful just thinking about it.

"I finally believe your ex could gather two full tables of mahjong—your mouth is better at BSing than anyone's."

Sun Yanzi, sitting on the sofa with her white cotton socks propped up, watched the man hang up the phone with disdain: “You did nothing—just attended a meeting already on her schedule, waved Warner’s banner around, and still got her deeply grateful.”

“What? You’re jealous?”

Zhou Yi turned his chair, shoved his Nokia into his pocket, and smirked: “I’m not some guy who scrambles around to flatter people. This is called attraction—you wouldn’t understand, you’re a girl.”

“That Fan Bingbin woman seems sharp—she won’t fall for you like Xiao Yaxuan did with her love-struck head.”

“Ah, let me correct you—please don’t make baseless statements. My relationship with Xiao Yaxuan is purely friendly, thank you.”

“Wait until there are no toiletries of yours at her place before saying that. Last time I visited her house and stayed over, I accidentally saw male toiletries behind the bathroom vanity—your favorite pink ones.”

Sun Yanzi sneered, her eyes brimming with contempt.

Zhou Yi’s expression turned serious. He raised a finger and shook it: “No, no, no—that’s magenta, thank you.”

“...”

“Also, please don’t use your friendship with Xiao Yaxuan to pry into my privacy. As a law student, I’m telling you professionally—this is illegal, Sun Yanzi.”

Sun Yanzi threw a pillow at him: “I graduated. And I’m older than you—call me teacher, thank you.”

Qian Jiang walked in, still speechless, and saw Warner’s two hottest stars in the soundproofed recording area engaged in a pillow fight—

each trying to pin the other’s head down.

“You two... aren’t recording?”

Qian Jiang glanced at the chaotic sofa and slowly raised an eyebrow.

“Ahem, you probably don’t understand art—it’s part of singing art: performance art.”

Zhou Yi coughed, released his grip on Sun Yanzi, and adjusted his slightly messy sweater—fluff from the pillow still fluttered on the fabric as he spoke.

He looked down, blew the fluff off, then offered his agent a polite smile: “Performance art.”

“...”

Qian Jiang opened his mouth, then swallowed his words: “Okay, whatever. I just came to notify you—the Hong Kong Top Ten Chinese Golden Melody Awards will begin on January 19, 2001—you’ve been nominated.”

“Pack your things. Get ready to go to Hong Kong to collect your award.”