He tapped the edge of his bowl as a reminder. "Eat."
The young man—Zhao Siji—bit down on his chopsticks, agonizing over it for a long while. "No one's going to help him, right?"
Zhao Jiazheng gave a contemptuous snort.
He had once been just as naive as his son.
"Enough. Don't overthink it. Things like this are common in this industry."
"If he isn't willing, plenty of others are."
"Keep him down for another couple of years and don't let him get ahead. Before long, the spark in him will be worn away."
Zhao Siji nodded. "What a shame. It would've been great if he'd been willing to be my ghostwriter."
"Mm. I originally wanted the two of you to form a team. He could've been your assistant director. No matter what, that would've been better than having him go out and shoulder everything himself."
That only made Zhao Siji more indignant. "He acted like I was trying to harm him."
"He has no resources or connections backing him. Does he really think talent alone is enough to survive in this industry?"
"And with that dull, closed-off personality of his, what investor would be willing to fund him?"
Zhao Jiazheng knew that his son had been suppressed by Yao Weiran throughout several years of university, and the resentment in his heart was far from insignificant.
He did not interrupt, letting his son mutter on by himself.
Zhao Siji talked for ages without hearing anyone agree with him.
When he looked up, he saw his father eating with great relish.
Zhao Siji choked on his words. After a moment, he said sourly, "Just because he has a little ability, he really thinks he's some heaven-sent chosen one."
Zhao Jiazheng watched him for a while with an expression that saw right through