Even Reba, standing beside him, couldn't help shrinking her neck in fright.
When Jiang Cheng said that, Reba actually felt a flash of delight—he had voiced exactly what she was thinking.
Seeing most of the investors lower their phones, Feng Gan's smile froze.
The moment he'd walked in he'd noticed the way eyes kept drifting to this petite, sultry exotic girl.
It was obvious she was nervous and out of place; clearly unaccustomed to such gatherings.
So Feng Gan had decided to pin her down, using her as a pawn to curry favor with the crowd.
He hadn't expected someone to crash the game—let alone curse him in front of everyone.
Though his pride stung, a man who'd weathered plenty of storms wouldn't lash out before learning who Jiang Cheng was.
'Brother, that's unfair,' he said smoothly. 'This isn't dancing, it's artistic expression. Tonight's an investor gala; we're here to raise funds. I merely made a suggestion—no pressure. No need for such ugly words.'
Jiang Cheng snorted. 'Art? Director Feng, are you confusing art with sleaze?'
When Jiang Cheng refused to give an inch, Feng Gan turned to Yang Mi, face flushed.
Yang Mi pretended not to notice, looking away.
With Yang Mi feigning ignorance, Feng Gan's expression darkened.
A celebrated director in China, he had never been snubbed like this.
'It's not that serious,' he said stiffly. 'Everyone here is merely being romantic—who among us is sleazy? Reba, don't you agree?'
Thrown the question, Reba paled in alarm.
Her smile froze; she had no safe answer.
Jiang Cheng caught the venom in the trap.
When Reba's pleading eyes met his, Jiang Cheng strode up and slapped Feng Gan without hesitation.
The question itself was so vile he couldn't hold back.
Whatever Reba said would damn her.
Agreeing would side her with Feng Gan and betray Jiang Cheng.
Saying no would offend the rowdy onlookers.
The crisp slap rang out; guests who'd been pretending to chat froze in shock.
Nearby stars gaped as if time had stopped.
Eyes wide, mouths open, they couldn't believe what they'd seen.
The man struck was Feng Gan.
After all, his films were box-office gold; he was a titan of the industry.
And everyone knew the biggest studio in China backed him.
Yet Jiang Cheng had slapped him in public without a care.
So brazen.
And in full view of the crowd.
How could Feng Gan ever show his face again?
A humiliation like this could scar a lifetime.
Feng Gan staggered; the wineglass slipped.
Crimson wine cascaded down his snow-white shirt like a waterfall.
His cheek burned as if scorched, fury erupting inside him.
'Who are you? You dare hit me!' he sputtered.
He scanned the investors he counted as allies, but not one stepped forward.
Their silence stunned him; he'd expected rescue, found only isolation.
Like Yang Mi, they wanted no part of the mess.
The air turned razor-thin.
Heads turned, spotlighting the scene.
Wang Cong—President Wang—arrived with quick strides.
He took in Feng Gan's sorry state, grinning with relish.
'Jiang Cheng, what's up? One minute away and you're on fire.'
Jiang Cheng flexed his hand. 'Just showing Director Feng the difference: striking for a lady is romance; forcing a girl to dance barefoot for your amusement—that's sleaze.'
Wang Cong clapped loudly. 'Bravo! Quit business—go direct. Cinema needs talent like yours!'
A few investors echoed the applause.
In certain circles, the louder the swagger, the deeper the respect.
Hesitation only earns contempt.
Word of Jiang Cheng's clout had already spread.
A rising power, he'd just slapped Feng Gan aside—showing utter disdain.
'Chairman Jiang, young and brilliant—and an artist to boot.'
'Indeed, the young today outshine us.'
'A man of integrity—hats off.'