Justice Prevails is scheduled for the May Day holiday release, so the advance screenings and roadshow reputation during mid-to-late April will be especially crucial. As the lead female star, Ying Yin’s box-office drawing power will also be put to the test.
The May-June release window is actually a bit awkward- it serves as a prelude to the summer season while also encompassing two short holidays. However, two major imported films are scheduled for the same period, making the overall market hot but the competition fierce. Without real strength in content and distribution, few would dare to enter the fray. But this film received unanimous praise during internal screenings, giving the producers ample confidence.
When the Gulfstream 550 landed at the capital’s business aviation terminal, it was exactly ten in the morning. It wasn’t yet May, and Beijing was still in the last chilly days of spring, with strong winds that made the sunlight seem thin and pale. Ying Yin had put on simple makeup aboard the plane, wearing an oversized leather jacket and a black knitted beanie pressed over her long hair. The business aviation terminal had its own separate parking lot. To avoid tipping off the producers, Ying Yin didn’t ask them to pick her up; instead, Lin Cunkang arranged a commercial van.
As the Mercedes S-Class carried the big star to her first screening stop, Shang Shao’s car was just pulling into the Deep Water Bay hilltop.
He had an early board meeting that morning, so he hadn’t seen her off at the airport. After finishing the online meeting and delegating a few tasks, he took the Maybach back to Hong Kong.
Lin Cunkang, advanced in years, had the younger Ah-Jie handle the long-distance drive. The old gentleman sat in the back with Shang Shao, the partition raised to seal off the front and rear compartments tightly.
Lin Cunkang unwound the white string around the document folder and pulled out several bound contracts.
“This is the acquisition agreement and breakdown for that diamond factory, this one is the mining rights to its Lesotho subsidiary, and this is its tax records with the Lesotho Ministry of Mining over the past five years.” Lin Cunkang laid them out one by one.
He had always been steady and reliable in handling matters, so Shang Shao only gave the documents a cursory glance before nodding and tucking them back into the brown kraft paper file folder.
Although most of Africa’s diamond mines are monopolized by the De Beers family, some still remain in the hands of local governments and mining companies. When Shang Shao first entered Shangyu Group at the age of twenty, his first posting was as assistant president of the jewelry division – he knew the ins and outs of diamond and gold trading, mining, and licensing better than anyone.
Over the years, Shangyu’s Africa-aid projects had followed the national pace deep into the continent. Shang Shao kept a watchful eye – casual yet meticulous – on the political turnovers within these African nations, the changing hands of mineral rights, and the financial health of both mining operations and mid-stream processing factories.
Lin Cunkang watched his movements, paused in thought, then spoke up, “This is no small sum of money, and it’s coming out of your personal treasury.”
“It’s fine.” Shang Shao handed the file folder back to him. “Keep it safe.”
Lin Cunkang did as told, placing it into his accompanying briefcase. When he looked up again, he saw that Shang Shao had already picked up the book beside him. He’d finished the Hegel from before; this was a new English original. Lin Cunkang couldn’t resist a teasing remark. “Reading Baudrillard while buying diamond mines – that’s a certain kind of humor, isn’t it?”
Baudrillard’s most famous theory, in a nutshell: consumption shapes, enslaves, and reifies people.
Shang Shao held his place in the book with one hand while slipping his silver-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of his nose with the other, not even lifting his gaze. “Chatty.”
On both sides of the cross-sea bridge, the blue ocean scenery steadily swept past the car windows, forming an expansive canvas of shimmering, unbroken blue.
Inside the quiet cabin, there was a moment of silence. Shang Shao sat with his legs crossed, his back against the comfortable champagne-colored seat, appearing utterly absorbed.
The page didn’t turn for a long while.
After some time – just as Lin Cunkang had expected – he cleared his throat and asked, in a feigned offhand manner. “What do you think of this?”
Lin Cunkang lifted his gaze slightly, clasped his hands over his crossed knees, and leaned back with an air of leisurely composure. “I’m not sure if this is something I should say.”
Whether it was because he was getting on in years and playing the elder card, or because he was gradually seeing traces of the past in Shang Shao again – either way, the old gentleman was becoming less and less mindful of propriety.
Shang Shao snapped his book shut and shot him a look. “Say it.”
“I think it’s hard to say.”
“What’s hard to say?” Shang Shao’s brow furrowed with impatience. “I’m telling you to speak.”
“What I mean is – whether Miss Ying will accept it. That’s a bit hard to say.”
“Impossible.” Shang Shao was taken aback for a moment, then dismissed it outright. “She wouldn’t have the heart to turn me down.”
Lin Cunkang: “…”
He put on a look of dawning realization and asked with polite sarcasm, “Since you’re so certain, sir, then why are you asking me?”
Shang Shao: “…”
“From my personal perspective,” Lin Cunkang said tactfully, “I feel it’s a bit too pragmatic and lacking in a certain kind of romance.”
Shang Shao followed his train of thought and mulled it over seriously for a long moment, then held firm to his conclusion. “No. Money is her greatest romance.”
A little past eleven, the Maybach arrived at Deep Water Bay. Although he hadn’t notified anyone, Wen Youyi seemed to sense it and had already instructed the staff to prepare a good meal.
Spring was at its peak, and mother and son had lunch together in the open-air garden on the third floor.
“She’s gone to work?” Wen Youyi asked.
“She has a new movie coming out and needs to attend a week of roadshow screenings.”
“Won’t you buy out a whole theater?” Wen Youyi asked, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.
What was going on? Now that he was in a relationship, did everyone suddenly feel emboldened to tease him?
Not one to let his mother have the upper hand, Shang Shao remained composed and unfazed. “These are just early screenings for now. I’ll wait until the official release.”
“What are ‘early screenings’?” Wen Youyi asked.
“Early screenings are…” Shang Shao paused, then looked at his mother with resignation. “You know perfectly well.”
Over the years, aside from Mingbao, Wen Youyi had been the most invested in Shang Lu and Ke Yu’s careers. She even knew how to navigate fan forums – how could she possibly not understand what early screenings were?
Wen Youyi chuckled, gripping her knife and fork. “It must be hard on you – you’ve never been one to watch movies.”
Shang Shao smiled. “It’s not that hard.”
Wen Youyi hadn’t delved too deeply into conversation with Ying Yin the day before, but today she had no such reservations. She asked Shang Shao how the two had met and how they’d started dating.
Shang Shao skipped over the absurdly improper one-hundred-million contract and recounted everything else from the beginning, in full detail.
“Goodness – you remembered her from a commercial shoot, and you had the patience to sit on it all that time?” Wen Youyi shot him a look, half chiding. “You should have just had Lulu and Xiao Dao introduce you earlier.”
True enough – if he had, she could have been spared hundreds of sleepless nights worrying about him, and she wouldn’t have had to scour every wealthy heiress in southern China on his behalf.
“Back then, I hadn’t yet cleared myself out,” Shang Shao replied lightly.
She had been a fleeting glimpse that had stayed in his heart ever since. But he hadn’t wanted to approach her too soon. He didn’t want there to be even a shred of hesitation on her part, someday in the future, when she might ask him, “When you came after me, was it just to get over your broken heart?”
Wen Youyi paused briefly, pressed her lips together, and her gaze softened. “You just take love too seriously. Your grandfather was absolutely right when he said you shouldn’t trap yourself in a web. Still… it’s for the best. In any case, it’s good.”
A servant came up and replaced the tea with a fresh pot.
“But – are you sure you’re cleared out now?” Wen Youyi asked, her lips resting against the rim of her cup, as if the thought had just struck her.
“Of course.” Shang Shao wiped his fingers with a hot towel, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Why do you ask? Have I done something that seems off?”
Even Wen Youyi, an outsider, had that question – so what about Ying Yin, who was right in the middle of it all? Was there really something he’d overlooked? Could it be that Ying Yin had been harboring a thorn in her heart all along, too considerate to voice it?
“No,” Wen Youyi said, thinking as she pulled out her phone. “I was looking at your moments…”
She trailed off, scrolling down and down, until hundreds of posts later, she found a photo from two or three years ago.
“Look.”
The image showed two figures from behind, in a sunlit garden. He was carrying Yu Shasha in his arms, taking a step forward. She had her arms wrapped around his neck, her face buried in his chest.
Shang Shao tossed down the towel, took the phone, glanced at it, and handed it back. “Forgot.”
He couldn’t even be bothered to recall the time and place of the photo, the sunlight and air, the occasion, or the mood behind it.
“I was just unable to sleep that night and suddenly felt like browsing through your daily posts,” Wen Youyi said.
Shang Shao smiled. “Don’t waste your time. Just call me – I rarely share my life on there.”
“I know that, but when I’m thinking of you and worrying about you, I can’t help but take a look anyway.”
Although Ning City wasn’t far from Hong Kong, he still smiled and said, “Alright, I’ll post more often from now on.”
As he spoke, he unlocked his own phone, opened his moments feed, and prepared to delete that post.
Just as he was about to delete it, he stopped. His brow furrowed.
Had Ying Yin ever seen this?
She had.
Shang Shao’s memory was too good. He remembered that before they were together -back when they’d only had dinner once – Ying Yin had gone home, gotten drunk at noon, and boldly called him. In her drowsy, tipsy voice, she’d blurted out the question: “Mr. Shang, how many pounds can you carry?”
He’d gone silent right then – of course Wen Youyi could see right through him.
“See? You think you’ve cleared yourself out, but in others’ eyes, that may not be the case.”
Shang Shao felt wronged. He paused for a moment, then laughed and shook his head. “I truly don’t remember.”
WeChat wasn’t his usual social app; before coming to Ning City, he’d rarely used it. Maybe he’d posted it on a whim that day and hadn’t thought much of it afterward. And after the breakup – since he didn’t remember posting it, he naturally wouldn’t have remembered to delete it. Besides, it was something from two or three years ago – he wouldn’t have scrolled back that far himself, so how could he have expected anyone else to have that kind of patience?
Wen Youyi hummed in acknowledgment, sipping her tea with an air of casual indifference.
Shang Shao pressed his lips together, let out a long breath, and hooked his fingers into his tie knot, giving it a twist.
After a while, right in front of Wen Youyi and several servants, Lin Cunkang heard him ask whether the business jet had returned from its flight, and instructed him to tell the crew to land at Hong Kong Airport instead.
Wen Youyi stirred her crimson rose-patterned teacup with a small silver spoon, blending in the freshly added milk, a faint smile on her lips as she mused for a moment about what Shang Qingye had been like in his youth.
She saw a shadow of Shang Qingye in him.
The men of the Shang family were all alike – every single one of them, when it came to love, ended up chasing after the other person.
After reminiscing for a while, Wen Youyi looked up and cut straight to the point for him. “You set aside your work and made the trip today – what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Do you like her?” Shang Shao asked, just as directly, a rare flicker of nervousness stirring deep within him.
That nervousness was subtle and small, betrayed only by the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
“I don’t know her well enough yet,” Wen Youyi replied honestly. “Of course I like her -but your position is different. Your marriage won’t be as free and easy as Lulu’s. Let me ask you – why did your father make you two break up?”
In truth, she hadn’t discussed anything with Shang Qingye after returning home last night. She was testing Shang Shao now – and, incidentally, fishing for a response to gauge his awareness and his resolve.
Under Wen Youyi’s gaze, Shang Shao’s eyes and expression showed no evasion. “She had a history of mental illness, and she attempted suicide over it.”
This answer caught Wen Youyi completely off guard, and her expression shifted.
The tinkling of the silver spoon against the cup ceased. She hesitated before asking, “The night before Lunar New Year’s Eve, when you suddenly left…”
Shang Shao’s fingers tightened around the cup handle in an instant, his knuckles turning pale. “I only arrived a step too early.”
“The entertainment industry does put immense psychological pressure on people, but in my position…” Wen Youyi furrowed her delicate brows, then finally let out a sigh. “Ah-Shao, what are your thoughts on this?”
“I want to be with her forever.”
Wen Youyi was momentarily stunned by his answer.
He had replied too quickly – as if he had rehearsed it thousands upon thousands of times, as if he had searched his own heart thousands upon thousands of times.
Wen Youyi gripped the white napkin spread across her lap. Beneath the faint ache in her heart, her brow remained tightly knit, yet a gentle smile had already bloomed at the corners of her lips. She gave a slight nod. “Then go ahead.”
“You’re not asking about family status, about her family relationships, family medical history, social connections, education, character, reputation…” Shang Shao listed meticulously, “Everything – everything you would need to consider.”
He wanted a pass that was absolutely foolproof.
Wen Youyi lifted her gaze slightly. “Look behind you.”
The moment her words fell, Shang Shao felt a piercing stare at his back. Turning around, he indeed saw Shang Qingye standing there.
The man appeared and disappeared like a ghost, and his expression was just as inscrutable. Uncle Sheng, who was at his side, pulled out a chair for him. He sat down, reached under the table to take Wen Youyi’s hand, and said matter-of-factly, “You can start making arrangements to meet her mother.”
Wen Youyi sometimes felt that, despite having dozens of servants in the house, as the children grew up and started their own families, the house at Deep Water Bay only seemed to grow larger.
It was strange – when they were young, she never felt Deep Water Bay was too big; she could hear their voices everywhere. Mingbao crying because Shang Lu had bullied her again, Mingzhuo causing some earth-shattering failure in the lab, Mingxian swimming in the pool, and on the island at the heart of the back garden, the flamingos intertwining their necks, preening each other’s pink feathers – their one and only mate for life.
She leaned on the railing, watching Shang Shao’s car drive down the slope. One turn, two turns, three, four, five… after the fifth bend, the mountain road was no longer visible, and Wen Youyi habitually withdrew her gaze at that moment.
As she turned, she was pulled into Shang Qingye’s embrace. Wen Youyi didn’t resist; her hands pressed against his chest. She had held back her tears for a long time, but now they slipped from her tightly shut eyes.
“Ah-Shao…” She furrowed her brows and choked out, “I’m worried about him.”
“He’ll be fine.” Shang Qingye stroked her dark hair and pressed his lips to it. “Do you believe me? Even if you don’t trust him, trust my judgment.”
After the film screening ended, the creative team took the stage in turn to accept questions from the media and critics in the auditorium. Though such meet-and-greets usually had some pre-arranged questions to warm up the crowd, once the atmosphere heated up, the questions from the audience became increasingly varied and unpredictable.
Given Ying Yin’s stature, most of the questions were directed at her and Director Fang.
One media representative asked: “I noticed this film has a lot of action sequences, especially that snowfield fight scene – which I’d say is the best in domestic cinema over the past five years. Director Fang, how did you pull that off?”
Though Director Fang was keen to promote his own student, he also knew what would generate buzz. At this moment, he wisely chose to tell it straight. “Actually, for that scene, we removed all the mats and protective gear. I remember we did seven or eight NG takes?”
Ying Yin confirmed. “Eight.”
“Right, eight – so Xiao Yin rolled around on that artificial snowfield eight times with absolutely no protection,” Director Fang said, visibly moved. “The brilliance of that scene is all thanks to Xiao Yin’s professionalism and dedication. Of course, all the actors and crew on set – including Beibei and the others – also made significant sacrifices.”
Ying Yin understood immediately – now that the promotional campaign was underway, they wanted to use her as one of the selling points. If she wasn’t mistaken, this segment would appear as a behind-the-scenes story in media press releases, later paired with a trending topic.
When the thirty-minute meet-and-greet ended, Ying Yin felt more exhausted than if she’d shot three scenes back-to-back. But her social obligations weren’t over yet – the creative team had a lunch together, there was another theater to visit in the afternoon, and later that night she’d catch a connecting flight to another provincial capital in the North China Plain.
Lunch was at the Chinese restaurant in the hotel where they were staying, and Song Shizhang showed up as well. Naturally – he was the lead producer, and no one cared more about the film’s reviews and box office than he did.
The conversation over lunch was all pleasantries. Everyone at the table belonged to Director Fang’s camp, and Ying Yin felt quite out of place. On top of that, she no longer had Chenye backing her, and her awkward falling-out with Song Shizhang was well known. So the meal dragged on tediously for her, the smile on her face merely habitual.
“You just wrapped up that film at Li Shan, didn’t you? How did it go? I heard that one’s going to have a hard time passing censorship,” Director Fang asked in a seemingly casual tone.
He had a bit of a sour grapes attitude toward Li Shan – both were Fifth Generation directors, and he was actually a few years older, yet he’d been overshadowed for no good reason.
His “protege” Cai Beibei chimed in. “It’ll just release everywhere except the mainland -go for awards, nothing new there.”
Ying Yin chewed on a salt-baked ginkgo nut and turned the tables, asking with syrupy sweetness, “Director Fang, are you going to submit Beibei for Best Supporting Actress? I’ve looked at this year’s lineup – it’s a weak year. Miss this chance, and it’ll be hard to say in the future.”
Cai Beibei’s expression was priceless. Song Shizhang let out a laugh and, from across the round table, studied Ying Yin for a long while. It wasn’t until after the meal broke up that he found a moment to speak with her.
“I saw you getting off a business jet this morning. I thought I’d mistaken you for someone else.”
“Congratulations to you on your new private jet,” Ying Yin replied perfunctorily.
“No, not at all – I don’t have much need for frequent flying. I chartered,” Song Shizhang said quite frankly, though the implication was clear: he could afford one too.
“You seem to have settled into your new identity quite well. I was worrying needlessly on your behalf back then.”
By “identity,” he still meant mistress.
Ying Yin gave a smile and didn’t bother to defend herself – let him think whatever he wanted.
“Is he good to you?” He fixed his gaze on Ying Yin’s face.
So beautiful, so impossible to tire of.
“Not bad. Pretty generous,” Ying Yin began to talk nonsense.
“When he’s done with you, I wouldn’t mind.”
Ying Yin couldn’t help it – she let out a snort of laughter. “Then I’m afraid you will have to wait patiently.”
Song Shizhang frowned. “You… you’re very different from before.”
“Different how?” Ying Yin looked up at him then, her expression quite animated.
“You never used to say such off-putting things.” He genuinely felt a bit deflated.
“I said them before too,” Ying Yin replied lazily, with a touch of indifference. “Just in my head. You could probably hear them too – you just chose not to, didn’t you?”
Song Shizhang’s expression darkened. “Aren’t you afraid of offending me now? He’s not in the entertainment industry – his reach won’t stretch this far.”
Ying Yin pressed her lips together; this smile was genuine.
“Though this industry is all about the game of money, I wouldn’t want him to step into it for my sake.”
“Then where does your confidence come from?”
In Song Shizhang’s view, Ying Yin’s acting career had almost reached a dead end.
She had no major capital backing her, no professional agency, and her backlog consisted entirely of Chenye’s obligation films and commercial projects – none of which had roles that could be pushed for mainstream awards. Though she’d been coaxed by Lishan into making an art-house film, releasing it everywhere except the mainland was risky; one wrong move could lead to a years-long ban. Shang Shao might have the connections to smooth things over, but Song Shizhang didn’t think Ying Yin would bother him with that—because she knew better than to overstep, and he wouldn’t go that far for a mistress anyway.
Had the sugar-coating of luxury rotted her brain?
“I don’t have any confidence,” Ying Yin said with a laugh at his question. “I used to be afraid of offending you because I was scared of being smeared in the media, of you joining forces with other capital to blacklist me, shelve me, make my life difficult – so I’d have no roles left to shoot. But now I’ve come to realize: making films isn’t something I have to endure humiliation for. Whether I make one every two or three years, or every three or four – it doesn’t matter. There’s no rush.”
Song Shizhang couldn’t figure her out. He couldn’t understand where her calm fearlessness at this moment came from.
“Bye.” Ying Yin walked forward, her back to him, and casually waved a hand.
“You should thank me for taking you to that banquet back then,” Song Shizhang blurted out, losing his composure.
Ying Yin paused mid-step. With a soft laugh, she glanced back over her shoulder. “No need. Because he would have found me anyway.”
Junyi was indignant. “That despicable Song Shizhang – he cost you ten minutes of your afternoon nap!”
But Ying Yin wasn’t sleepy. She lay on the bed, hands tucked behind her head. “Junyi, I’m so excited right now.”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t you see Song Shizhang’s face? It was like he was thinking, ‘This woman has gone crazy – how did she become like this? She’s not the kind I used to know and like anymore.'” She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. “Oh my god, Junyi – is this the power of money? I’ve been corrupted!”
Junyi said, “…Nonsense. Give you another man just as rich and just as generous as Mr. Shang, and you wouldn’t dare act this way either. Don’t think I don’t know you – you’re always thinking about how the food chain links one ring to the next, how you should always leave a way out so you can meet again, how beyond every mountain there’s another, beyond every person there’s another, how even the smallest position rules over its own hill, and how even the highest official’s umbrella can’t cover the whole sky.”
Ying Yin nodded repeatedly. “Yes, yes – you’ve gotten smarter.”
“You’re just relying on Mr. Shang’s love for you.”
Hearing this from Junyi’s mouth was terribly embarrassing.
Ying Yin’s face indeed flushed hot. “That’s not it…”
Speak of the devil.
“Mr. Shang is calling you.” Jun Yi tossed the phone over.
Ying Yin steadied herself, answered the call, and tugged at the snow-white bedsheet. She asked proactively, “Are you on your lunch break?”
Shang Shao was on the plane.
“Where’s your event this afternoon?”
“Still in Beijing.”
“Is it cold?”
“A little, but it’s not cold inside the theater.”
Shang Shao paused after the routine exchange, and his tone dropped slightly. “Do you miss me?”
His simple question left Ying Yin breathless. She bit her lower lip repeatedly. “I haven’t had time to…”
Shang Shao let out a soft laugh at that. “Alright.”
His phone held the screening locations that Zhuang Tiwen had sent him. After landing, he went straight to the airport and arrived just as the event was beginning.
Tiwen had sent someone to deliver an invitation and a media pass. He wore his silver-rimmed glasses, still carrying that composed air, but had deliberately changed into a slightly more casual British plaid suit.
When it came to disguises and assuming false identities, Chairman Shao was already a seasoned pro, flawless in execution –
And thus he became the only media representative in the entire venue wearing a suit.
Decidedly cool and distinguished – but seemingly attending an entirely different event from everyone else.
Everyone in the room: Which media outlet wears a damn suit to a car-and-horse event… Is there a dress code? No, there isn’t – no way! Even the organizers are wearing hoodies!
The media person sitting next to him cleared his throat, crossed his legs, folded his arms, and nudged his elbow, speaking in a thick Beijing accent. “Buddy, which outlet are you with?”
It had been over a decade since anyone had last nudged Shang Shao’s elbow.
“Film Daily,” he answered.
The guy glanced sideways at his credential. “Doesn’t it say Cine Weekly?”
Shang Shao: “…”
Without missing a beat. “Cine Weekly.”
Of course, this also had its advantages.
Take the post-screening Q&A session, for example. When others raised their hands, it was to vie for a chance to ask a question. When he raised his hand, it looked like he was raising a paddle at an auction.
A slight lift – effortlessly commanding.
The host indeed called on him.
He stood up, first politely buttoning his suit jacket, then pressing one hand against the blue media pass hanging on his chest while taking the microphone handed to him by a staff member with the other. With a very gentlemanly nod, he turned his gaze to the stage.
The entire venue fell dead silent.
…Fi…nance… Fo…rum…
Somehow, images from financial news channels flashed through everyone’s minds.
Ying Yin’s hand holding the microphone was already trembling. She couldn’t force an expression onto her face and fought desperately not to blow her cover.
He wasn’t going to propose, was he?!
Shang Shao raised the microphone, paused for a moment, and asked, “In the film, the female lead played by Miss Ying sends a distress signal via WeChat…” His tone was casual, completely natural. “If you were in a relationship, would you go through your boyfriend’s Moments?”
Ying Yin: “…?”
