Chapter 144 Third-Rate Screenwriter

Jiang Yao picked up a bottle of liquor, deftly popped the cap, tilted her head back, and began to gulp it down.

Cheng Yanchi reached out and clamped a hand over hers. "That is no way to drink alcohol."

"Are you willing to pay attention to me now?"

Cheng Yanchi averted his gaze again, speaking with solemn earnestness. "Ayao, I am not just speaking out of impulsive anger. He Yunqing rarely acts or participates in public events these days; he can easily step away from the entertainment circle. If you stay by his side, you will be better off than following me..."

Before he could finish his sentence, the man received a resounding slap across the face.

Jiang Yao’s palm tingled. "What do you take me for?"

Cheng Yanchi’s expression grew desolate. "I'm sorry."

Slowly, Jiang Yao reached out again to stroke the spot where she had just struck him. "Cheng Yanchi, put away that absurd self-pride of yours. Since I chose to be with you, I will not easily look back. You must have faith not only in me, but even more so in yourself. You still have your mother, who has only you left now, and the Cheng family still depends on you to hold it together."

"Do you think this house is beautiful? It is the place where I lived from childhood, but very soon, it will no longer belong to the Cheng family. Another family will move in."

Cheng Yanchi took another swallow of liquor. "You didn't see what my brother looked like, but I did."

He raised a hand to point toward the direction outside the window. "Right down there under the opposite building, there was blood all over the ground. Whether his eyes were closed in death, I do not know, because his face was smashed beyond recognition. Even when they covered him with a white cloth, that cloth was drenched in blood. I watched as he was carried away from right in front of me, yet I didn't even have the chance to question him."

Jiang Yao gently embraced Cheng Yanchi. "I know, Cheng Yanchi, this will all pass. I will stay here and accompany you, just as you were once willing to accompany me."

She cupped Cheng Yanchi's face in both hands. "Look at me. So many things happened in the past, didn't I pull through them all the same? I am not afraid anymore, I am not afraid of anything."

Cheng Yanchi pulled Jiang Yao into his arms. "Ayao, let me hold you for a moment, just a moment..."

When Jiang Yao left the Cheng residence, it was already early the following morning.

Cheng Yanchi went to the hospital to look after his mother, while she had an appointment to keep.

Inside a small roadside cafe, the man sitting across from Jiang Yao wore a duck-billed cap and a pair of oversized dark sunglasses that covered half his face. "It has been quite a long time since you last sought me out."

Jiang Yao looked at his comical disguise, clearly meant to prevent anyone from recognizing him. "Screenwriter Qiao, you really do not need to go to such lengths."

"Shh." Screenwriter Qiao immediately made a silencing gesture toward Jiang Yao, looked around cautiously, and then lowered his voice. "Keep it down."

Screenwriter Qiao was a renowned screenwriter in the industry, whose past representative works had achieved sensational popularity, leading many to fiercely compete for the scripts he wrote.

However, over the past couple of years, the quality of his work had declined, falling short of his former standards.

Cooperating fully, Jiang Yao lowered her voice as well. "I came to you today because there is something I would like your help with."

Screenwriter Qiao straightened up and crossed his arms. "I knew it. What matter could possibly not be resolved online, forcing us to meet and take such risks? You know I am no philanthropist running a charity."

After a moment of thought, Jiang Yao produced a USB flash drive and slid it across the table toward Screenwriter Qiao.

"What is this?" Screenwriter Qiao's eyes lit up. "Have you written a new script again?"

Jiang Yao smiled faintly. "Inside here is what you want. See if you are satisfied. However, there are only the first ten episodes; if you want the rest, you will have to agree to help me with my request."

Screenwriter Qiao clenched the USB drive in his palm, his eyes spinning rapidly behind his dark sunglasses. "Whether I am satisfied or not depends on after I've seen it. Tell me first what kind of favor you want me to do."

"This drama... I can write it for you without a single penny, but you must arrange for He Yunqing to play the male lead."

"Not taking any money?"

Screenwriter Qiao clicked his tongue twice, looking Jiang Yao up and down. "It's not that I'm difficult to deal with, mind you. He Yunqing’s appearance and acting ability are both up to standard in my eyes, but you also know that I am merely a screenwriter. I don't have that kind of influence."

"You have worked in the industry for many years. When it comes to connections, I believe you are still capable of this."

Screenwriter Qiao shook his head. "Sometimes you shouldn't view me as omnipotent. What really went on with those representative works of mine, you and I know better than anyone."

Years ago, Screenwriter Qiao had been nothing more than a third-rate screenwriter.

Through a fortuitous turn of events, he crossed paths with Jiang Yao, who was then busy juggling various part-time jobs.

One needed fame while the other needed money, and thus Jiang Yao became the ghostwriter behind Screenwriter Qiao's success.

Only in recent years had Jiang Yao become far too busy to continue writing for him.

If outsiders were to discover that all the brilliant scripts credited to the famous Screenwriter Qiao had actually been written by someone else, his reputation would be utterly ruined and destroyed.

Jiang Yao extended an open palm toward Screenwriter Qiao. "In that case, give the drive back to me."

Screenwriter Qiao had originally intended to put on airs, but hearing Jiang Yao say this, he gripped the USB drive even tighter.

He needed this new script—he needed it desperately.

Without Jiang Yao's help over the past two years, he had only managed to produce third-rate scripts, and the dramas broadcasted had performed poorly, leading many people behind his back to gossip that his talent had dried up.

He wanted to use this new script by Jiang Yao to reclaim his title as a gold-medal screenwriter.

"Actually, nothing in this world is absolute," Screenwriter Qiao cleared his throat. "How about this? I will read the script first, and if it's truly viable—let's be clear, I have no problem with it myself, but I worry the investors might disagree if they hear the male lead is He Yunqing. You know how it is, once an artist has a blemish on their record, I'm afraid nobody will be willing to invest."

"He is not a tainted artist; he was framed. Hasn't everything been cleared up?" Jiang Yao argued.

"Fine, fine, he isn't, he isn't," Screenwriter Qiao made a halting gesture. "Still, how the investors think is beyond my control. On any production, whoever provides the money is the boss. Let me put it this way: as long as someone is willing to invest, I can guarantee you that the male lead will go to He Yunqing."

The crux of the matter was that the probability of anyone investing was practically zero.

If there were even a sliver of hope, He Yunqing would not be left without any acting offers right now.

People in the entertainment industry were ruthlessly realistic, and younger artists emerged in endless waves; lose vigilance for even a second, and one would be replaced by the younger generation...

Both Jiang Yao and Screenwriter Qiao knew this truth all too well in their hearts.

"Enough, enough," Jiang Yao waved a hand. "Read it first then. We can talk about the investment later."

Emerging from the cafe, Jiang Yao sneezed twice in succession.

Having failed to get proper rest for days, her cold seemed to be growing increasingly severe.

She casually purchased some medicine at a pharmacy and swallowed the pills with water right there on the street.

Tonight, she still had to work at Spring Breeze Ten Miles, and she could not let a mere cold interfere.

Now that the Cheng family was facing crisis, it was a time when money was desperately needed, even though the little she could earn was terribly insignificant.

Night quietly fell.

At Spring Breeze Ten Miles, the scene was once again one of decadent and intoxicating luxury.