"Will it, won't it, will it, won't it..."
In the afternoon, Qing Lan sat in the Chief Editor's office, gazing at the sky outside, which was blanketed in dense clouds. She held a pink peony in her hand and counted its petals out of sheer boredom.
"...It will."
Qing Lan looked at the last petal, carefully plucked it off, and placed it between the pages of the notebook at her right hand. After pondering for a moment, she picked up her ink brush, opened the notebook, and began recording the major events of the day—important matters had to be written down.
Qing Lan knew she was not particularly intelligent. Although Fragrant Snow Sea had made her study, it had only been to raise her value and mold her into a "confidante" for the public. Naturally, she had not learned any practical knowledge. What she read was either poetry lamenting the passing of spring, articles full of flattery and praise, or techniques for interacting with men—in the end, it all came down to pleasing men.
The reason she knew a little about arithmetic was that, at first, she had wanted to earn enough money to redeem herself and leave Fragrant Snow Sea. And to make money, she naturally had to know arithmetic. She had worked hard to seek out business opportunities, and over the years had indeed come up with several profitable ideas. But because she lacked capital, she had to cooperate with the other girls. In the end, those girls either refused to acknowledge her once they had made money, or lost their tempers at her after losing money.
Qing Lan had nearly despaired then. She had no capital and no one she could trust. Yet to make money, she needed start-up funds, and from beginning to end, she had