On the heavy round table sat seven or eight bottles of liquor—imported Krug, local Wuliangye—already half empty. Armchairs circled around; the assistant director was toasting the producer, Director Thompson was whispering with a representative from a co-producing company, all looking like they’d had a few rounds.

William Carter sat at the head of the table, with Mr. Morgan from Haoyang Culture on his right and Ethan Sullivan on his left.

When no one was toasting or chatting with him, Ethan Sullivan sat in silence. When he looked up, a perfectly measured smile appeared on his face—subtle, generous, and natural.

The banquet had been going for forty minutes. This one toasted with champagne, that one with baijiu. He didn’t drink, and no one dared insist. Yet he downed glass after glass, because alcohol helped him relax.

The table talk ranged from TV, movies, and personal connections with certain directors, to industry trends, policy changes, and the relationship between capital and the arts...

Ethan Sullivan let it all go in one ear and out the other, drifting off and thinking of John Brooks. John Brooks was right—it really was a bit tiresome dealing with these people.

“What are you thinking about?” William Carter leaned over.

Ethan Sullivan replied, “Nothing, just thought of a fool.”

William Carter asked again, “What fool?”

Ethan Sullivan added an adjective: “A flashy fool.”

Actually, what he was thinking about was “authenticity”—no flattery, no excessive respect, not even a smile. If John Brooks knew his identity, what would that authenticity look like?

The director’s assistant came around from the other side, bent down between Ethan Sullivan and William Carter, and said, “Director Carter, Writer Sullivan, the actors in the crew heard that Writer Sullivan is attending the kickoff banquet. They’re all excited and want to come greet you.”

William Carter asked directly, “Who did you promise?”

“I wouldn’t dare make the call,” the assistant said. “All the agents came to me. I said I’d ask, but it’s up to Writer Sullivan. If Writer Sullivan is willing, I’ll arrange for them to come—just a toast, won’t take up too much time.”

William Carter waved his hand. “Forget it.”

He rested his arm on the back of Ethan Sullivan’s chair. “I know my buddy here. Unless it’s for filming, you don’t like interacting with the actors. No need to bother, you’ll see them on set tomorrow anyway.”

Only then did Ethan Sullivan realize—so John Brooks had been worrying for nothing, not even sure he’d get to meet the higher-ups? All dressed up like peacocks, but might not get to show off their feathers?

Would a fool’s disappointment turn into something even worse?

He was truly tired of everyone in this room and mused, “Forget the rest, let’s just meet the soul of the whole show.”

William Carter: “There’s such a thing?”

Ethan Sullivan fiddled with his cold watch, but his tone was light: “Surname Lu, male lead.”

Chapter 7

John Brooks wandered around again, just in case he’d missed anyone he should greet.

When he was a chubby little kid, his dad would carry him one-handed to banquets, and everyone would come over to tease him and pinch his cheeks. That was his first time socializing with drool running down his chin.

Growing up, he’d seen plenty of big scenes and important people at his father’s side. Thanks to his dad, he never had to worry about anything at those events—just stand there and enjoy the praise and flattery, whether sincere or not.

Now, out on his own, he had to wander around with a wine glass, smiling until his face hurt. Tiring as it was, he still handled it with ease.

John Brooks picked an empty table in the corner, half-shielded by a screen, crossed his legs on the leather chair, and sat there idly.

Jason Wright came sniffing over like a stray dog, the look of straight-man happiness still on his face. “Xianqi is so damn beautiful, I’m smitten. I really want to take care of her.”

John Brooks said, “I’ll ask for you, see if she needs an assistant.”

Jason Wright still had some conscience: “I’m not the type to ditch my friends for a girl. No matter how tempting the outside world is, I absolutely won’t leave you before you get famous.”

John Brooks worried, “What if I never get famous? Do I have to support you for life?”

“Pfft!” Jason Wright said. “You’re the male lead now, and you’re Ethan Sullivan’s male lead. Once this show is filmed and airs, you’ll definitely be a big star.”

Every little celebrity dreams of hitting it big—scripts and ads pouring in, a packed schedule, fans mobbing them when they go out, and even a fart on Weibo getting tens of thousands of comments.

Probably low on blood sugar from hunger, John Brooks asked dizzily, “If I get famous and release an album, how many plays do you think it’ll get?”

Jason Wright’s face fell. “The way you’re eyeing the music scene is just like me eyeing Xianqi.”

“Hopelessly devoted?”

“No, just dreaming.”

Before John Brooks and Jason Wright could start bickering, someone suddenly came around the screen—it was the director’s assistant.

Jason Wright immediately stood up. “You’re here! Please, have a seat!”

The director’s assistant stopped at the table. “No need, I’ll just say this and go.”

Jason Wright couldn’t wait: “Is there something Director Carter wants?”

“That’s right, I’m here to let you know,” the assistant said. “Mr. Brooks, Writer Sullivan wants to see you. Get ready to go to the private room in a bit—will ten minutes be enough?”

Jason Wright answered quickly, “Plenty, we’re always ready.”