Feng Gan swallowed the scorn in his chest and reluctantly echoed the words.
"You're right. Us common folk can only work diligently while those with resources ride roughshod over us. Luckily my film's already off the circuit, so their threats won't bite for a while. But you know how lucrative the industry is—'Movie 2' is in pre-production. If they keep leaning on me, I'm afraid I won't be able to shoot it at all."
When he heard Feng Gan using the project as leverage to force his hand, the man on the other end of the line darkened instantly.
Yet in moments the same voice returned, all false cheer: "Come on, why let a trifle spoil your mood? Our backer may not be as tough as theirs, but justice is on our side—what's there to fear? Relax."
Feng Gan felt the sting of that lukewarm, almost perfunctory attitude.
Anger flared in him, impossible to tamp down.
"Mr. Wang, I'm the one who just got slapped! Frankly, I still haven't come to my senses—there's a knot of shame and rage stuck in my chest."
At those words the man on the other end let a thin, almost invisible smile curl his lips.
"Director Feng, rest assured—we'll give you a satisfactory resolution. We are, after all, cultivated people; ugly words don't suit us. You know me: I pride myself on civility, but when action is needed I never shirk it. I'll handle everything with full force. So please, be magnanimous; don't let some talentless youngster ruin your health."
The speech turned Feng Gan's stomach.
Everyone knew Wang Jun had grown up in a Beijing compound, a rowdy, good-for-nothing kid who'd dropped out after junior high.
No one could honestly call him a "man of culture."
But his family had money and connections.
After pulling strings to secure a military post he was packed off to study abroad.
Money worked its magic: his academic credentials soared and he returned a "graduate" from an American university.
Along with the degree, the cash his family sent overseas came back laundered clean.
He even brought back the hundred-thousand dollars he'd "earned working part-time while studying" in the Pretty Country.
People always claimed foreign streets were paved with gold—go abroad and strike it rich overnight.
Reality was crueler; that tall tale was probably invented by rich kids who'd amassed shady fortunes.
In the blink of an eye three years passed since his return.
Within that short span Wang Jun snared multimillion-yuan contracts from China Bank, China Petrochemical, and other state giants in one go.
His firm vaulted into the "Top Ten Ad Agencies in the Nation."
Folks say success depends on who you know.
Look back at so-called rags-to-riches stories and you find they're often this effortless.
Feng Gan stopped the idle chatter and pressed on. "Good. We've been partners for years; of course I trust you to back me up. After all, this concerns the Company's reputation. Everyone knows I've given Hua Yi the best years of my life—my ideals, my passion, all of it…"
"Relax. You can relax…"
When the call ended Feng Gan flopped onto the sofa like a punctured balloon.
The big shot's glib promise did calm him a little, yet a wave of humiliation surged up, impossible to contain.
Two seconds later he sprang up, swept the fruit platters and water glasses off the table, and sent them crashing to the floor.
His face was crimson, his roars proof he teetered on the edge of a breakdown.
After the outburst regret set in; he'd been too timid at the cocktail party.
If only he could turn back time, he'd fight Jiang Cheng tooth and nail.
Over the years Hua Yi had bent over backwards to keep its star director—lavish cash, Company shares, even beauties.
As the top name at China's oldest film empire, he was accustomed to being fawned upon; he'd never suffered such disgrace.
Unlike Feng Gan, Wang Jun spat on the floor after hanging up.
He grabbed the busty woman who'd been writhing beside him and started to play.
Ten raucous minutes later the group frolic finally ended.
Wang Jun collapsed into a soft sofa, drew deeply on a cigarette.
Next to him sat a man who resembled him; both were wreathed in smoke.
That man exclaimed, "Haha, Feng Gan got hit? Who did it? What now?"
Wang Jun couldn't care less.
He merely shrugged. "Relax. You weren't the one slapped—why the panic? Forget it; we'll deal with it tomorrow."
"Ha, I'm just curious—who smacked him?"
"Didn't ask. Some young nobody. Talking to that old fool bores me; he acts like he's indispensable. If he weren't still making us money I'd have kicked him out long ago. Perfect chance to knock him down a peg—he doesn't even know how to bow when asking for help."
"Right, bro. He's gotten arrogant, probably forgotten his own name. At bottom he's just the dog we keep to rake in cash—yet he thinks he's a big shot. We've cleaned up enough of his messes. And we just poached an exec from their Wang family, so they're already sore at us."
"So what? It was just standard business warfare; they can't do a thing. But Feng Gan's beef is personal—no point clashing with the Wangs over it."
"Exactly. Let's toss him some stooge and be done. Who is he, anyway? Just another money-making tool. A slap in the face? He can live with it."