The Heiress's Game

I came across this exposé while having breakfast in the cafeteria.

She ate her steamed bun and flipped through the pages, finding a secretly taken old photo—the girl playing the erhu was wearing a black work uniform.

Carrying a large shopping bag, she followed three steps behind a woman wearing sunglasses, her head down, her expression unreadable.

"I'll go." She swallowed the steamed bun and immediately messaged her friend who was chasing her dreams.

Did you see that?

"I saw it. You're that 'Old Ghost' from the industry, right?" Chasing Dreams replied quickly, "The comments section is exploding."

When Li Hua, her face streaked with tears, switched back to the comments section, it immediately went viral.

The top-rated comment reads: "Why didn't she come out and clarify when the marketing accounts were touting her as a 'natural beauty goddess' and 'nation's first love'? Now that she's been exposed, does she know to apologize?"

The second most popular comment was: "I hate these kinds of 'green tea' girls the most. They pretend to be innocent, but they're just handbag carriers for rich people."

Scrolling down further reveals even more jarring terms: "maid's fate," "handbag girl," and "pretending to be a pure and innocent sect leader when you haven't even graduated high school."

The next day, Chen Cui posted a response.

His words were so simple that they didn't sound like someone being attacked by the entire internet: "I'm sorry for causing everyone to misunderstand. That photo was taken for a business commissioned by me to promote the erhu."

I am indeed not a college student, and I haven't deliberately created a persona. I apologize if this has caused any misunderstanding.

With tears streaming down her face, she messaged "Chasing Dreams": "She apologized."

"I saw it." (Returning to the pursuit of dreams)

"No one in the comments section accepted the apology. The insults just got worse."

"Nonsense, when have people on the internet ever accepted an apology these days?"

After a while, Chasing Dreams sent a message to Pear Blossom in the Rain: "An assistant from Gu Mingyue's side has also responded. Do you want to take a look?"

Pear blossoms, glistening with raindrops, open the link.

Gu Mingyue, she knew that name, that rich second-generation socialite, whose social media accounts were full of exquisite life and loving photos, and the comments section was full of "true socialite demeanor" and "beautiful inside and out".

Her assistant responded, "Chen Cui used to work for Miss Gu. She's very scheming. Miss Gu doesn't hold it against us, so we can't say anything."

With tears streaming down her face, she placed her phone face down on the table.

"I think these people are so exaggerated," she messaged the person chasing her dreams.

"Just a day ago, I was calling her the Jade Maiden Sect Leader, but now I wish I could trample her into the concrete. It's no exaggeration to say that I love her to the point of wanting her to live and hate her to the point of wanting her to die."

"That's how cyberbullying works, huh? You're also a self-media creator, is this your first time seeing this?"

He replied quickly while chasing his dreams, but then sent another message a little while later.

"But to be honest, I also think this time it's a bit too much. She didn't seem to have done anything particularly heinous; it was just a photo that got uploaded, and she didn't even post it herself."

The turning point came the next day.

Chasing dreams, I was eating bread in front of my computer screen when I habitually refreshed the trending topics list, and then I took the bread away from my mouth.

She paused for two seconds, then quickly sent a message to Pear Blossom in the Rain: "Quick, check the trending topics."

With tears streaming down her face, she opened social media and found that the top trending topic had changed to "Songshan University responds to Chen Cui".

The official account of Songshan University issued a statement, formally worded, yet packed with information so much that her finger hovered over the top of the screen:

"Upon verification, it was found that Chen Cui studied at the School of Liberal Arts of this university from [Month] to [Month] of [Year], and had excellent academic performance upon admission, having received a first-class scholarship at the university level."

He later withdrew from school for personal reasons and did not complete his studies.

The statement was followed by a scanned copy of the admission notice, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges, with Chen Cui's name and major/class written on it, and a red official seal.

"She really got into university," she texted, tears streaming down her face.

"Not only that," said the person chasing their dreams. "Look at that professor's post from the Faculty of Arts."

When Li Hua found the post with tears in her eyes, she discovered it had already been forwarded tens of thousands of times.

The post was made by a verified university teacher, and the first sentence was: "Chen Cui is one of the smartest students I have ever taught."

She continued reading.

"When she dropped out of school, our department organized a fundraising event, but she refused. She said, 'Teacher, I can't afford to owe so many favors. Please thank my classmates for me.'"

Chen Cui's university classmates also began to speak out.

Someone posted a group photo from military training in the comments section. Chen Cui's face was flushed from the sun, and her smile looked more genuine than in the erhu-playing school uniform photo. The caption was just one sentence:

"When she dropped out of school, all of us in the class cried. We only found out about her family situation after she left; she had never told anyone about it."

Some people recalled that in the dormitory, everyone thought she was skipping dinner to lose weight, but later they realized that she was saving money on food.

One commenter wrote: "She learned to play the erhu from her father when he was alive; it's her only hobby. She only wore the school uniform because the company made her wear it—she needs to make money."

With tears streaming down her face, she sent these screenshots one by one to those who were chasing their dreams.

"Her father died long ago, and her mother remarried, leaving behind a younger brother and two younger sisters."

"She used to work part-time, but after her grandparents passed away, she dropped out of school to support her younger siblings."

"After many twists and turns, she became Gu Mingyue's work assistant."

After a long silence, the person who was chasing her dreams replied: "Any one of those bags she's carrying in the photo could feed her younger siblings for a year. She hasn't touched a single one."

With tears streaming down her face, Chen Cui reopened her account page. The comment section below her apology post was like a drainpipe suddenly pulled; the angry comments from moments before were now completely flooded with new replies.

"Sister, I'm sorry." "Chen Cui, you must take good care of yourself." "It was my fault for being so mean, I apologize to you."

Someone posted a screenshot of their previous abusive comments, with a single word in the caption: "Deleted."

Someone commented again under the photo of him carrying a bag: "You're not carrying a bag, you're carrying your younger siblings' lives."

Someone dug up the popular comment about "the fate of a maid," and there was a whole layer of replies below it: You owe her an apology.

The trending topics list has completely changed.

"Chen Cui, I'm sorry" surged to the top spot, followed by a red "Explosive" sign.

-----

Li Chunjing had that idea while looking through Chen Cui's family information.

There were more than a dozen photos spread out on the table in front of her. They were photos that Lu Xiao had asked her to help file when he was doing a background check. She found them today while organizing her files.

The photos were all taken with a mobile phone, and the resolution varied, but she looked at each one carefully.

Chen Cui's younger brother is 22 years old. He is wearing a faded work jacket and stands in front of the roller shutter door of the auto repair shop. There is a stain of engine oil on his face. His features are about 70% similar to Chen Cui's. He has broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Even a casual snapshot looks like he is shooting the cover of some tough guy magazine.

Chen Cui's younger sister is twenty years old and works as a cashier at a supermarket. Her eyebrows and eyes have a sharper, more striking beauty than Chen Cui's, as if she hasn't found the right occasion to unleash her full potential.

The youngest sister just turned eighteen and is studying beauty and hairdressing at a vocational high school. When the three sisters stand together, it's as if they have the same beautiful foundation, but have been shaped into three different textures by three different lives.

There is also a half-sister, 16 years old, who stopped going to school a long time ago and works in a clothing store in her hometown. She has big, bright eyes and lips that resemble her mother's.

Li Chunjing turned the last photo over; it was of Chen Cui's mother.

The photo looks like it was taken casually at a roadside stall a few years ago. The image is blurry, but it doesn't obscure the essence of the face. Even though the years and life have worn away the fine lines around the eyes and mouth, the bone structure still supports the proportions of the face, making it so well-proportioned that you can tell at a glance that she was a great beauty in her youth.

Li Chunjing stared at the photo for a long time.

Then she laid out all the photos in order, from left to right—Chen Cui, Chen Cui's younger brother, older sister, younger sister, half-sister, and mother.

Six faces. Each one is above average, and most are above average.

Behind every face lies a story crushed by life—the father died young, the mother remarried and was abandoned, the eldest sister dropped out of school to support the family, and the five grown children struggled in the lower rungs of society.

Any one of these stories could easily be a viral post, and they all happen to come from the same family.

Li Chunjing leaned back in her chair, the thought in her mind becoming clearer and clearer.

She is sensitive to numbers, and also sensitive to human nature.

Why do audiences love melodramatic stories? Because melodrama means conflict, and conflict means entertainment.

Infidelity, betrayal, abandonment, reunion, guilt, forgiveness, and falling out—these words are all key to generating buzz.

Chen Cui's family has all these elements combined. A beautiful mother crushed by life, an older sister taking on the role of mother, younger siblings each harboring their own secrets, an absent father, a failed remarriage, and tangled family debts—this is not a story, but a script library.

Moreover, in reality shows, the storyline can often be manipulated.

Not enough conflict? Provide a scenario.

The right emotions aren't there yet? Wait for the right moment.

With the camera set up and a little guidance provided, the audience can't distinguish between reality and the script, nor do they want to.

The next morning, she took the photos and knocked on the door of Gu Yunjin's study.

Gu Yunjin had just returned from her run, her hair still tied up, and a little sweat still clinging to her forehead. She sat at her desk flipping through an English journal.

When Li Chunjing walked in, she didn't even look up, only raised her eyebrows slightly, as if to say, "Speak if you have something to say."

Li Chunjing had learned not to beat around the bush at times like this; she simply laid the photos out on the table and placed them one by one in front of Gu Yunjin.

"Ms. Gu, I have a suggestion regarding Chen Cui's reality show. The effect will be completely different if Chen Cui goes on alone versus if her whole family goes on."

Gu Yunjin picked up the photos and looked at them one by one.

When she saw Chen Cui's younger brother, her eyebrows didn't move. When she saw her older sister, her gaze lingered for a second longer. When she saw the blurry old photo of her mother, she brought the photo closer.

"Go on."

"The current core selling point is 'an ordinary girl who became an internet sensation after being cyberbullied,' one person's story, which will at most be eight episodes. And after eight episodes? The audience will have sympathized, apologized, and gotten tired of it."

Li Chunjing's voice was steady, "But what if we turn Chen Cui into Chen Cui's family? Each person has an independent storyline."

The younger brother works at the bottom of society; he has a temper and ambition, a young man burdened by life—audiences love to watch this kind of story.

The younger sister is even more beautiful than Chen Cui, but she is not highly educated and works as a cashier in a supermarket. She could get into trouble at any time because of her face.

The little girl is eighteen years old, which is the age when she is most easily tempted and most likely to cause trouble.

The younger half-sister, who shares the same mother but a different father, is the most awkward yet most vulnerable link in this family.

The mother herself—repeatedly crushed by fate yet raising five children—you might think she was just a hardworking rural woman, but she also possessed a face that, though ravaged by life, still held its own.

She paused, then added the most crucial sentence:

Audiences love melodrama because it's captivating.

This family has gathered all the melodramatic elements that a family drama could possibly have—the audience doesn't care about the line between reality and script; what they care about is whether it's entertaining or not.

Currently, there isn't a single reality show in China featuring ordinary people and their families. We are the first.

The study was silent for about five seconds. Gu Yunjin picked up her teacup and took a sip.

"How did you come up with that?" Gu Yunjin asked, her tone devoid of emotion.

Li Chunjing thought for a moment and answered truthfully: "Last night when I was organizing the materials, I saw the photos of this family and my first reaction was that they were all so good-looking."

My second thought was, why only let the audience see Chen Cui? The stories of everyone in her family could make people cry or argue.

The audience can cry when they want to cry, curse when they want to curse, and have six faces lined up for them to admire when they want to admire good looks—all emotional outlets are provided.

The smile appeared on Gu Yunjin's lips.

"Good looks, melodramatic plot, family drama—it has it all."

She folded the photos into a neat stack, saying, "There really aren't any in China."

"Starting today, you'll be my work assistant. Lu Xiao has too much on his end; he can't handle it all by himself. Your salary will be based on his standards."

Li Chunjing stood at the door of the study; the corridor was quiet.

She didn't say thank you, nor did she say "I will definitely try my best".

She said, "I will do my best."

Gu Yunjin had already reopened the journal without even looking up.

Li Chunjing gently closed the door and walked into the corridor before looking down at the stack of photos in her hand.

Chen Cui's mother looked quietly at the camera through the blurry pixels, as if she had resigned herself to her fate, or as if she was waiting for something she had been waiting for for a long time to finally arrive.

Looking at that face, Li Chunjing suddenly felt that her mother, Zhou Xiulan, was very far away from her—not in the same city, but in a different world.