Ambition

"They sure are eager, Chief. Are you free next month? I've got tickets to the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Want to go with me?" Edward pulled the tickets from his pocket and offered them to Irene.

Irene paused mid-meal and reached out to take the tickets.

As far as she knew, tickets to the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show weren't sold to the public. Attendance was by invitation only. Had Edward been swindled? But as the son of a wealthy family, he shouldn't have been.

"Where did you get these? And why didn't you invite Britney? Going to a lingerie show with you sounds kind of awkward," Irene said, frowning.

"A relative gave them to me. She's a partner of Victoria's Secret, so she gets invitations every year. Britney's busy recording her second album and said she didn't have time to go with me, so she told me to ask someone else. That's when I thought of you, Chief. Why would it be awkward for us to go together? Don't look at a lingerie show with such a strange attitude. Even if it's a lingerie show, it's still a serious, proper, formal event. There'll be all sorts of men and women sitting in the audience..."

"Enough, enough. I don't want to hear you ramble. I'll think about whether I'm going." Just then, she saw her assistant, Vera, approaching. She waved Edward away. "I have something to deal with. We'll talk about the show later."

Edward pouted and had no choice but to leave.

"Boss, I've arranged to meet him in Chinatown, Los Angeles, the day after tomorrow," Vera said softly, bending close to Irene's ear.

Irene didn't answer, only nodding slightly. "Have you had dinner? If not, join me for a bite."

After setting down her things, Vera turned to the table, picked out a few dishes, then returned and sat beside Irene.

In a voice only the two of them could hear, Irene asked, "Did it go smoothly?"

"It was all right. He didn't trust me much the first time we met, but he was a lot more receptive the second time. It seems he looked into us beforehand, too."

"What's he like?" Irene asked, tapping her fingers on the table out of habit.

"He seems like a gentleman, and a little reserved. But once you get him talking, he knows Hollywood inside and out." Vera spoke between bites. She really had been starving, rushing back in time for dinner.

"Is that so? Take your time. We don't leave until tomorrow afternoon."

Under the afternoon sun in Chinatown, Los Angeles, Irene found herself back in a place she hadn't visited much since officially starting her directing career. It felt almost dreamlike, as if she'd stepped into another life.

She entered the familiar Cantonese restaurant and walked down its narrow passageway. Beyond a vermilion-red pillar, she spotted a little shop called Lu Yu Tea House.

She'd discovered it when she was young. Despite its name, it was more like the kind of café-bookshop she used to visit in her previous life, filled with comics and novels from overseas. You could order a cup of tea or coffee and stay there all day.

The tea house's owner was an East Asian woman. A few gray hairs were mixed in with her pinned-up hair, but she looked just as she had when Irene first met her. Seeing Irene arrive, she smiled and nodded.

Instead of taking her usual seat, Irene chose a private table by a second-floor window and ordered a pot of aged pu'er tea, something she normally never drank.

A short while later, a young man hurried upstairs.

He looked to be only twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with black hair and eyes and a handsome, refined face—an unmistakably East Asian appearance. He wore a well-fitted but slightly dated dark suit and carried himself with a composure beyond his years. Beads of sweat at his temple betrayed his haste.

"Director Irene? Sorry for the wait." He spoke in fluent American English and handed her a simple business card. "Chen Shiyu, publisher and editor-in-chief of Bridge Journal."

Irene hadn't expected him to be Chinese American. She rose a beat too slowly, then smiled and replied in clear, standard Mandarin, "Mr. Chen, no need to apologize. I arrived early. Please, sit."

A flicker of surprise passed through Chen Shiyu's eyes, then he smoothly switched languages. "I didn't expect your Mandarin to be so good."

"I've always been interested in East Asian culture. I started taking Mandarin lessons with a private tutor in elementary school." Irene poured tea for him. The amber liquid flowed into the white porcelain cup, releasing a warm fragrance.

After the pleasantries, Irene got straight to the point.

"I've read almost every back issue of Bridge Journal, including your articles analyzing DreamWorks' future business model and the financing challenges facing independent films. Your insights were impressive. It's a shame that sort of content seems so rare now."

A trace of bitterness touched Chen Shiyu's smile. He rubbed his warm teacup. "A publication has to survive. Analysis doesn't attract advertisers; celebrity gossip and box-office figures are what put bread on the table. Bridge Journal was built on the communications agency my father left behind. I wanted to use it to build a bridge connecting information and capital between East and West. But..." He paused. "The bridge is built, yet no one crosses it."

"It's not that no one crosses. Most people just haven't seen the value on the other side." Irene gazed at him, her eyes sharp. "But you have. Years ago, you predicted that streaming would change viewing habits, and you analyzed the financial risks of co-productions.

"You understand Hollywood not through surface-level gossip, but through its capital and its rules, right down to the bone. What you're missing isn't an idea. It's a platform and the resources to make that idea a reality."

"You're right, Director Irene. But you know how difficult it is for someone who looks like me to get inside Hollywood," Chen Shiyu said, openly acknowledging his predicament.

Just then, dish after dish arrived. The steamed fish was tender, and the crispy roast suckling pig smelled delicious, but it was clear neither of them was thinking about the food.

Irene continued in fluent Mandarin, striking precisely at the other man's heartstrings. "Mr. Chen, a capable general shouldn't be buried in obscurity forever just because he lacks troops and horses. Bridge Journal is being ignored not because you lack ability, but because you're working on a level far ahead of its time. You need a fulcrum to connect that vision with the realities of today."

She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice, but speaking with unquestionable force. "I can be that fulcrum. I need someone like you—not merely as a mouthpiece, but as my eyes.

"I need you to help me analyze my rivals, track the flow of capital, and, one day, plan my expansion on the other side of the Pacific."

Chen Shiyu's heart began to race. He felt the walls he'd built to shield himself from the frustrations of reality being knocked down, one layer at a time, by her words. He said nothing, but turmoil churned inside him.

Irene offered him terms he couldn't refuse. "Bridge Journal can stay. It'll be one of our public-facing voices in the future.

"I'll invest in it so it no longer has to survive on celebrity gossip. You can focus on the in-depth reporting and industry analysis you wanted to pursue from the start.

"Behind the scenes, you'll report directly to me. I need your information network, and I need you to build a team and help me create an empire.

"My target is all of Hollywood, along with the far broader Eastern market."

For the first time, Irene revealed her business ambitions to someone outside her inner circle. She had never wanted to be merely a director. She needed talented people to help her realize her ambitions, and this East Asian man before her would be an important part of the force she was building across the Pacific.

At last, she declared, "What I value is the potential in you that your current circumstances have buried. I believe that one day, our names should be written together on Hollywood's map of power. And with our support, the film and television culture on the other side of the Pacific will enter a new chapter."

Chen Shiyu lifted his head and met Irene's all-seeing eyes. He saw absolute trust—and a grand vision stretching out before him.

He took a deep breath. Perhaps it was her Mandarin, as fluent as his mother tongue; perhaps it was the future she'd painted, so alluring that it rekindled his long-dormant desire for power and for what lay ahead. He raised his still-warm cup of pu'er as if it were wine and said in clear, resolute Mandarin:

"Director Irene, you've recognized my worth. I, Chen Shiyu, am at your service."

The two teacups touched lightly in the air with a crisp clink.