Why Does The "Fishing Queen" Always Flirt With Me? - Chapter 34

Tang Wangyue only just learned that Yun Chuxian had actually invested in this drama, which was why she was attending today’s small meeting. It seemed one of the conditions for Chuxian’s participation was a share of the profits, proving she truly believed in the project.

This thought made Wangyue beam with pride. The original story was hers; Chuxian’s faith in the script was, by extension, faith in her work. This realization was almost more rewarding than the first time she had sold her copyrights. Despite the gap in their status, Wangyue craved Chuxian’s professional validation.

“The team sent from Jingwei is primarily here for an evaluation—to see if the project is worth a heavy promotional push during filming,” Director Sun Ran explained.

Many people think promotion only happens after post-production is finished. If that were the case, “leaks” from the set wouldn’t exist. In reality, most high-quality, perfectly framed “candid” shots of actors on set are intentionally released by the crew. It’s like fishing: you have to scatter the bait to attract the fish before you drop the hook.

Sun Ran wasn’t a stranger to Jingwei; she was essentially in a “honeymoon phase” with the platform. She knew exactly why they were sending a team. If the early leaks generated enough buzz, the subsequent investment in marketing and editing—the truly expensive parts—would increase.

Chuxian was currently fresh-faced, without a drop of makeup. Wangyue had seen her like this several times; she looked pure yet distant, possessing a high-cold elegance that was even more captivating than her made-up look.

Wangyue’s gaze was so blatant that Mo Lai eventually gave her leg a sharp, hidden smack under the table.

Wangyue withdrew her gaze, looking at Mo Lai with grievance. “What was that for, Sis?”

“Stop making eyes at her,” Mo Lai whispered. “She might just be flirting with you on a whim. By the time you’ve fallen head over heels, she’ll have forgotten all about it.”

Mo Lai didn’t have anything against Chuxian personally, but she knew how the industry worked. Actors often “stayed in character” and confused fiction with reality. Once the cameras stopped rolling and the person detached from the role, they might realize they were already married or looking for something else. If Wangyue—who was “bent”—fell for a straight woman who was just being playful, she’d be heartbroken for life.

Like Ms. Tang, Mo Lai realized Wangyue was “bent” before Wangyue even knew it herself. As a long-time member of the community, Mo Lai wanted to protect her sister from the “straight girl trap.” It was a deep pit, and Wangyue was too young and inexperienced to climb back out.

Wangyue stiffened. She had only looked at Chuxian with a bit of longing; how was that “making eyes”? She simply whispered, “That hurt.”

“Good. Maybe the pain will help your memory,” Mo Lai retorted.

Wangyue: “…”

Chuxian, who had intentionally sat next to Wangyue, saw her get scolded and felt a smirk tugging at her lips. Beneath the table, her leg brushed lightly against Wangyue’s.

Wangyue looked down. Those pale, elegant legs were right there. Her throat went dry. She pretended to see nothing and tightly gripped her water glass.

Across from them, Sun Muyao—the Director’s daughter—had her eyes fixed on Wangyue. Noticing Wangyue’s strange expression, she tilted her head curiously. “Mom,” Muyao said with a smile, “Screenwriter Tang is actually my senior. She was the writer for my graduation project.”

She smiled at Wangyue. “My mom says the script was excellent—it’s just a shame I was the one who filmed it.”

Muyao wasn’t embarrassed by her past work. She had been a raw student then, unable to turn down social favors, which led to a bloated, messy production. But that project had also put many people in her debt.

Wangyue gave a polite, humble laugh. “Director Sun is overpraising me.”

“I’m not just flattering you,” Sun Ran interjected. “I’ve seen your scripts. I know you studied under Professor Lin. I’ve spoken to her about you; I know your caliber.”

“Professor Lin?” Wangyue was stunned. “You know her?”

“Of course. I’ve filmed her scripts, and so did my mentor. She and my mentor were a ‘Golden Duo’.”

Professor Lin had retired but was invited back to teach one final class—Wangyue’s class. She viewed Wangyue as her final, “closed-door” disciple. However, when Wangyue decided not to pursue grad school or stay in academia, the Professor had scolded her and claimed they no longer had any relation. Wangyue still sent gifts every holiday, though she never visited, unsure if the gifts were even kept.

Outside of their inner circle, people still assumed they were on great terms. Professor Lin had four true disciples; Wangyue was the youngest, and her seniors were always trying to reconcile her with their teacher.

“Wait… is your mentor Director Chen Shu?” Wangyue asked.

“Yes.”

Chen Shu was one of the few prominent female directors of the first generation—a master of literary films that captured the helpless weight of life. Her students were the elite of the second generation, and Sun Ran wasn’t even the most famous among them.

Professor Lin Jiaming was a veteran screenwriter. In the past, the industry was a tight-knit clan. If two strangers met and one said, “I was a student of so-and-so,” they were instantly closer, regardless of their major. Since Chen Shu and Lin Jiaming were colleagues and friends, Wangyue could technically call Sun Ran “Senior Sister” and was a generational superior to Sun Muyao.

Muyao realized this too, and her expression stiffened momentarily. “How… coincidental.”

She quickly pivoted. “I heard Senior has some great scripts. I hope we can collaborate one day. My mom can even come and supervise me.”

Since she put it that way, Wangyue couldn’t refuse outright. “If there’s a chance, I look forward to working with my junior.”

Junior? Chuxian arched an eyebrow, her eyes darkening with a flicker of possessiveness.

Sun Ran let out a small cough to end the topic. “The Jingwei team arrives tomorrow. I’ll need you all to help host them.”

Chuxian, however, was a different story; her attendance was optional. “Chuxian, do you have time?” Sun Ran asked.

Chuxian didn’t mind these gatherings, especially since the team leader was someone she knew. “The group leader from Jingwei is Ye Lingxi.”

Sun Ran was shocked. “Her? The daughter of the Jingwei Group Director?”

“Yes.”

Ye Lingxi was the only daughter of the board director. She was currently at Jingwei Video to gain experience before moving into high-level management at the parent group. The fact that Chuxian knew this beforehand proved she was close with Ye Lingxi.

Sun Ran went quiet. Rumors about Chuxian’s background were endless—some said she was a kept woman, others said she came from money. No one had ever truly pinned it down. But with the recent “uncle” leak, people were starting to wonder. Sun Ran felt the uncle looked familiar but couldn’t place him.

If Chuxian knew Sun Ran’s thoughts, she would have called her clever. Most people assumed she took her father’s surname, but she actually took her mother’s. If you looked at it from that angle, her uncle’s identity was easy to guess.

Sun Ran turned to Wangyue. “Xiao Tang, don’t worry about bringing scripts tomorrow. Just mail them to Jingwei later. I’ll make sure they pass the first and second reviews; you just have to worry about the final evaluation.”

That was the power of connections. As long as Wangyue’s work was solid, the final evaluation wouldn’t be a problem.

The meeting adjourned as everyone prepared for the night shoot. However, as they walked out, Mo Lai pointedly stepped between Chuxian and Wangyue, physically separating them.

Yun Chuxian: “…”

Tang Wangyue: “…Sis, aren’t you going to the set?”

“No rush. It’s early.”

Actually, it wasn’t that early. But Mo Lai was determined to play chaperone. She had seen exactly what Chuxian was doing under that table.

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