Song Yuan stammered, leaving many sentences half-finished, and became particularly cautious with her wording when mentioning Fang Jiang. Zhou Zhi guessed that Fang Jiang herself must be present. Though Zhou Zhi wasn't a star-chaser, she still felt a strange sense of absurdity at that moment.

Stars are called stars, perhaps firstly because they shine brilliantly. In a moonless night sky, stars are the only celestial bodies visible to the naked eye, just as celebrities stand out immediately in a crowd.

As for the second reason, it's probably distance. Distance turns atmospheric turbulence into twinkling stars, sparkling enchantingly, and distance also adds a halo filter to people.

And now, someone who usually only appeared on screen had formed a faint real-world connection with her.

Zhou Zhi heard it through the phone—that voice saying: "Give her an extra 300,000."

It gave off the vibe of an Overbearing CEO, condescending and utterly exasperated.

Her first reaction was a cold sneer—looking down on people? Is it really about money? If you were Cheng Hanzhi, I'd give it to you for free.

Her second reaction was: how generous, clearly not short on money. So many try to get something for nothing, someone willing to solve problems with money isn't all that bad—at least they're willing to spend. Calculated this way, buying the complete rights to her novel would cost over a million. For a Baihe Novel, any sale isn't a loss.

Was Zhou Zhi short of that over a million?

Yes.

If any reader tipped her ten thousand, she'd call them Daddy.

But that was her, not her novel. Selling the copyright to someone like that would be like handing over her child, her life's work, for them to casually slap makeup on—like selling a daughter into servitude as a maid or concubine in a wealthy household in the old society.

She couldn't agree to it.

After firmly refusing, Zhou Zhi felt a pang in her chest. What she had rejected was money, a lot of it, and an opportunity for her novel to gain attention. She knew how rare that was. Even if the chance of her novel being adapted into a TV series was only 0.0001%—smaller than the probability of finding true love—she didn't want to lose that tiny, almost invisible possibility.

Because she understood the stakes, the pain was all the more intense. She was absolutely certain she would regret it if she agreed. It might be better if the buyer just tore up the rights—she'd only feel regretful at most. But if they actually produced a Web series with results comparable to those currently popular, she might suffer for a long time.

Enough is enough.

"Better a short pain than a long one. Gang Kai, come here quickly, let me hug you."

The Border Collie pretending to nap on the sofa lifted its head, its black furry head peeking over the armrest, eyeing its owner with suspicion.

"Wipe your butt first before I hug you."

Gang Kai let out a sigh and turned to leave.

"Run, where can you run to? Hurry up, butt, butt. If you hadn't rubbed poop on my leg last time after pooping, this wouldn't happen, you know? This is called reaping what you sow. With your eight-year-old child's intelligence, you should understand. Keep your butt still—what are you squirming for? I can't wipe it."

As a Border Collie still in its developmental stage, it couldn't stand having its rear violated. It reluctantly hunched over, letting out an indignant howl as the cold, damp wipe touched its core.

"Go on, yell. Yell your throat out, no one will care."

If given a choice, who would want to wipe a dog's butt? But compared to letting the dog smear poop on the sheets or pants, Zhou Zhi would rather risk being bitten.

"Achoo! achoo! achoo!" Zhou Zhi suddenly sneezed several times, and the hand holding the dog's tail tightened with force.

Gang Kai yelped in pain, jumped off the sofa, turned around and bared its teeth at her.

"Oops, sorry, sorry. Achoo! achoo! see? I didn't mean it. I'll give you treats later. Sneezing for no reason must mean someone's cursing me, achoo... Hey, if anyone keeps cursing me, I'll set the dog on them!"

No one heard her fierce declaration.

Song Yuan called to arrange a meeting with Zhou Zhi that very evening, while Zhou Zhi was typing at her desk. As soon as the call came, Gang Kai seemed to receive a secret signal, leaping down from the sofa. The medium-sized dog, half as tall as a person, stood up and pawed at her legs, begging for pets.

Stroking its soft fur lifted her mood, especially when the owner of the silky coat nudged her hand—don't stop, you're not allowed to stop.

Song Yuan's call was much more brazen this time, listing ninety-nine benefits of selling the copyright to Fang Jiang. After Zhou Zhi, though inwardly wavering, still refused, the focus shifted from buying the copyright to satisfying the boss's demand: Fang Jiang wanted to meet her.

Not only did Zhou Zhi find it baffling, but even Song Yuan and Meng Shizhen thought it was making a mountain out of a molehill.

Was it really necessary? If truly interested, they could just assign the task to others—let professionals handle professional matters to achieve twice the result with half the effort.

But these were extraordinary times. Meng Shizhen had consulted several psychiatrists and psychologists, all of whom agreed that Fang Jiang's current state of mind was cause for concern. Resolving the underlying issues would require her cooperation.

Unfortunately, the person in question was dismissive. She didn't want to, wasn't willing to, and wouldn't place her privacy before unconstrained professionals—Fang Jiang had specifically looked up the penalties in China for leaking client secrets, which in her view were almost nonexistent. Countless paparazzi were waiting to scoop up news, and those people could sell her situation for a good price with just one phone call. In the face of huge profits, Fang Jiang didn't trust their integrity.

Under such circumstances, the boss's demands should be met to the greatest extent possible.

Song Yuan used every tactic, even playing the emotional card. With the livelihood of her devoted reader at stake, Zhou Zhi's resistance softened. She mumbled hesitantly, ""Meeting her to let her say what she wants isn't a problem... but... but I'm socially awkward."

Song Yuan said, "No worries, just think of it as meeting a fellow sufferer. Teacher Fang is also socially awkward. When two socially awkward people meet, it's the safest—everyone knows to avoid taboos."

Zhou Zhi didn't believe it: "Liar. How can someone socially awkward face the camera and so many fans?"

"That's Teacher Fang's acting skills. Ah, Shang Que, you mustn't tell anyone. If Teacher Fang used that kind of acting in her films, she'd surely sweep all the Best Actress awards. It's a pity today's scripts are too commercial!"

Zhou Zhi felt something was off, but since her reader said so—

"Wait, where are you? Beijing? Are you asking me to deliver myself a thousand miles away... like a sheep to the slaughter?"

Song Yuan was clearly taken aback. "No, no, we're in Shanghai. I remember you mentioned in your novel that you're from Shanghai, right?"

Upon receiving confirmation, Song Yuan was immensely relieved that Zhou Zhi was in the same city as them. Otherwise, Fang Jiang would definitely have her book a flight for Zhou Zhi to come over, or fly over herself. All that flying back and forth would cause trouble, and Meng Shizhen would ki.ll her. Last time, Meng Shizhen had given her a chilling look, as if a knife were at her throat.

Song Yuan immediately decided to show Zhou Zhi a little more love—she would send her a "thunderbolt" donation right after hanging up.

On the day of their scheduled meeting, the heavens graciously dried their tears, and the sky cleared.

Fang Jiang tried on several different styles of outfits. "Xiao Yuan, what style does that writer like?"

Without looking up from her phone as she scrolled through Weibo, Song Yuan replied, "Mature woman."

She didn't know exactly what type Shang Que preferred, but what lesbian doesn't love a mature woman? Wait—is Shang Que even a lesbian?

"What counts as a mature woman?"

"A commanding presence, driving a big Audi, wearing a professional suit, high heels, expressionless and cold." Song Yuan struck a pose—one hand on her hip, chin raised, eyes rolled back—trying her best to look imposing.

"...Like a debt collector?"

"No, like Yuki Amami."

Fang Jiang thought for a moment, then tossed the suit she was holding aside. "Too formal. My face is smaller than hers."

It was only then that Song Yuan realized—oh my god, what was Fang Jiang doing, dressing to suit someone's preferences? As an avid fan of baihe novels, she couldn't help but let her imagination run wild—just a hundred words' worth, mind you.

"Teacher Fang, what are you up to?"

"Xiao Yuan, you're forgetting what I say more and more these days. I told you, I want to conquer her, to make her know who I am. Is that writer more important than me?"

"No, Teacher Fang, you're the most important. I remember every word you say." She was practically ready to swear an oath.

"Look at you, lying through your teeth. Xiao Yuan, if you were a man, you'd definitely be a scu.mbag."

Song Yuan smiled faintly, thinking: Isn't that just the result of being taught and influenced by you all these years?

Finding no joy in trying on clothes, Fang Jiang casually pulled on a smoke-gray turtleneck sweater and studied herself in the full-length mirror. "Forget it. When I can conquer with my face alone, why bother with personas? Do I even need to play the mature woman? I am one."

To emphasize Fang Jiang's importance, Song Yuan bowed slightly. "Teacher Fang, which coat would you like to wear today? This humble servant will fetch it for you."

Fang Jiang laughed. "Whatever."

Song Yuan brought over the shearling coat Fang Jiang had loved most recently. Just as Fang Jiang was about to take it, she paused.

"Teacher Fang?"

"I don't want to wear this one. Lately, seeing it gives me psychological shadow."

It took Song Yuan a moment to understand, then she burst out laughing.

The sheep had long since traveled over countless mountains and rivers, yet it remained trapped in Fang Jiang's mind. Just how large was the shadow it cast?

In the end, she wore her go-to black down jacket, along with glasses and a face mask—not a single item missing.

The location was chosen by Meng Shizhen—a Japanese restaurant with private rooms, very discreet. She had originally had a meeting today, but after turning it over in her mind, she couldn't rest easy. She was afraid Fang Jiang might spend a fortune just to prove a point, which would be even more frivolous than trying to win a beauty's smile. Money, after all, was innocent. She was also curious about the obscure writer who had turned them down.

When she asked Song Yuan, all Song Yuan knew was that the person was a full-time writer, unmarried, socially awkward, and owned a dog. Beyond that, she knew nothing. But she did remind them: "The author is socially awkward, so don't scare her."

Meng Shizhen sneered. As if the little writer were some delicate flower, and they were three-headed, six-armed monsters, claws bared and ready to pounce.

Anyone who has worked with Fang Jiang knows that once you have an appointment with her, there's no need to worry about her being late or canceling at the last minute. Since entering the industry, whether it's filming, interviews, variety shows, or photoshoots, she always arrives exactly at the agreed time—or even ten minutes early. Only severe flight delays can disrupt her schedule. This punctuality has often been cited by industry insiders as a lesson for younger peers who tend to be late: being on time is a virtue.

The three had just settled into the private room when they heard a soft knock at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

The timing suggested it wasn't a server leading the way, but rather someone who had arrived early and waited for them to enter first.

Song Yuan asked, "Who is it?"

The person outside stammered, "It's me, I'm Zhou Zhi—uh, Shang Que."

A girl in a ginger-colored down jacket, with her hat and mask pulled snugly over her face, stepped into Fang Jiang's line of sight.

She looked like a lost lamb, fidgeting and unsure where to rest her eyes.

Meng Shizhen nodded at her and pointed to the seat opposite. "Sit."

Fang Jiang remained silent, but in her mind, she thought: That dazed, vacant look... I feel like I've seen it somewhere before. But her eyes are quite beautiful.

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