Who says a talent show must always produce a star?

"Huinie, I found a job! I found a job!"

"Really? Congratulations—"

"Cut!"

With a sharp, cold female voice, the three women gathered onstage for the scene froze mid-action, looking helplessly into the audience.

This was Chen Ruowen’s third time coming to the show as an investor. “Seeking Actors” was now in its penultimate round out of six, with the format being team performances—the best from each group would advance to the final.

Today, the trio on stage was performing a modern urban drama, “The Women of the Shared Apartment.” There were three lead roles: a naive sweetheart, a well-behaved girl, and a strong career woman. The three rented apartments on the same floor in a big city. By chance, they became friends and struggled together in the city, eventually finding their own happiness.

“Didn’t you already have specialized training? What is this performance supposed to be? Yang Yuanyuan, aren’t you and Zhang Huinie supposed to be close friends? Why are you standing half a meter away from her while sharing your joy? Zhang Huinie, why do you look so miserable when your unemployed friend finds a job? Is she your friend or your enemy? And Xue Jing’an, you’re supposed to have a grudge with Yang Yuanyuan—why are you grinning so happily when she gets lucky? Your character is supposed to be a cool, competent career woman—why are you smiling like a fool?”

The three actresses shrank on stage, faces burning with both shame and frustration from the scolding.

They’d heard from the production team two days before that the investors would send a representative to the semifinals rehearsal. But… could anyone explain why the investor present wasn’t the usual lecherous old man but instead a stunning woman who looked more likely to steal their jobs and crush their confidence?

Normally, even if a beautiful woman were sent, she’d just be there to look nice, right? Where did she get such harsh standards for evaluation? The actress playing Qu Jing’an suspiciously checked her expression in her phone screen... No, she didn’t look foolish...

“Um, Miss Chen, during yesterday’s practice, Teacher Liu said this way of performing was fine, so…”

The actress playing Xue Jing’an ventured a timid protest.

Teacher Liu was one of four acting coaches hired by the production, a lecturer at South City Drama Academy, and occasionally worked with Twin Star Films as a consultant.

So when Chen Ruowen heard that Teacher Liu had approved this scene, her expression turned even colder. Had her company’s own acting advisor’s standards fallen this low? If that was the case, was it time to replace her?

“Call her over.”

The two assistants exchanged glances; one hurried off to Liu’s dressing room, the other ran to find the director. He had a feeling today’s matter wouldn’t be so easily resolved.

…

Ten minutes later, after the trio had just re-performed their competition scene, Chen Ruowen turned without looking at the stage and spoke coldly to the middle-aged woman with her hair in a ponytail beside her.

“They said you approved this performance?”

Liu Mei wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. “The performance is certainly rough, but…”

She moved closer to Chen Ruowen and lowered her voice. “’Apartment’ is a small production—the pool of actors is already limited, and these three are the best we’ve got.”

Not all of Twin Star’s planned IPs were high-profile blockbusters. Of the four dramas in preparation, “Lord of the Skies” and “The Last Empress of the Qing” were clearly the main focus. The urban drama and the youth romance were not priorities, received fewer resources, and attracted far fewer hopefuls.

As a professional acting teacher, Liu Mei was of course dissatisfied with the trio’s performance. But in the end, everything was relative—when she realized the rest of the candidates were even worse, she simply didn’t have the energy to keep fussing.

“Having fewer actors is no excuse for poor performance,” Chen Ruowen countered.

Liu Mei explained, “We did train them, but it really had little effect. I can’t spend all my time on these three.”

There were four dramas and four coaches. Even with only about sixty contestants left by this round, each coach was still responsible for more than a dozen. It was simply unrealistic to focus all their energy on a few untalented actors.

Chen Ruowen nodded, acknowledging the situation, and let the matter with Liu Mei drop. After all, her inspections over the past days had shown that the other groups’ performances were quite successful.

So she turned to Director Huang Yaming, who had hurried over after catching wind of the situation.

“What’s your opinion, Director Huang?”

Director Huang, a man in his forties, looked every bit the typical director—balding, a beer belly, skin tanned from years on set, and a hoarse voice from shouting at crews.

“The performance is poor, sure, but this is a talent show. We still need to pick someone suitable for the new drama, right?”

That remark suddenly gave Chen Ruowen pause. Who said a competition must always have a winner?

…

That evening, Chen Ruowen dragged Chen Liwan out of a banquet, called up Huang Yaming and Zhang Jiang, had the production team notify the other major investor, and convened an emergency meeting overnight regarding the future planning of the “Seeking Actors” show.

At seven o’clock sharp, North City time, all key members of the production team paused their work and gathered in the conference room—except for one: the other investor, who hadn’t appeared since putting his money in.

At one minute past seven, Chen Ruowen impatiently checked her watch and opened her laptop’s presentation.

“We’re not waiting. Let’s begin.”

Zhang Jiang and Huang Yaming exchanged uncertain glances.

“Miss Chen, the representative from Universal still isn’t here. Is it alright to start without him?”

Chen Ruowen, holding the presenter, walked directly to the projector.

“We’re not the ones refusing to wait. He’s the one who’s late.”

Bang! Chen Ruowen had barely finished speaking when the conference room door flew open. A figure, reeking of alcohol, staggered in with the help of his assistant. He wore a pale pink shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal a strip of fair skin at his neck.

A white suit jacket was draped over his wrist—it looked more like he’d come from a party than a meeting.

Chen Ruowen recognized this man well; he’d appeared before her three times so far, each time leaving a stronger—and almost always negative—impression.

Gao Tang swayed twice before steadying himself, then pressed his index and middle fingers together, sliding them from his temple to his forehead in a mock salute that was anything but sincere.

“Sorry I’m late.”