Chinese Festivals

After accepting the show crew's invitation, Qin Ze drove over as promised on Saturday. Suzhou was very close to Shanghai City—twenty minutes by high-speed rail, or around an hour by car.

The show's assistant director personally waited for him at the entrance. The assistant director was something of a jack-of-all-trades position. He wasn't second only to the director on set; he didn't even rank above popular hosts. But having him receive major stars was both respectable and courteous.

They entered the Provincial TV Building, and under the assistant director's lead, arrived at the lounge. It was the same room as before—not large, but exquisitely furnished. A big name like Qin Ze naturally had his own private lounge.

"Before I knew it, your show had already recorded its sixth episode."

On the way over, Qin Ze chatted with the assistant director. It was already late October, and half a month had passed since he returned from the flood disaster. In those two weeks, he had slept with Zi Jin Jie fewer than ten times.

Failure.

Sorry, Teddy kidneys.

"Yes, yes, our production crew has been waiting for Qin CEO every day." The assistant director gave a slick answer, and Qin Ze couldn't be bothered talking to him anymore.

When you heard too much flattery, you developed an aversion to it and wanted to hear something else. But if someone really said something that stung, you'd want to slap them to death.

People were such complicated creatures.

The recording was scheduled for two in the afternoon. It was just past noon, leaving over an hour to spare.

Qin Ze sat on the soft sofa, took a sip of water, and idly pulled out his phone to browse.

"Bro, can you lend me fifteen hundred?"

It was a message his cousin Jiang Cheng