Piecing the Territory into a Complete Circle Between the Trailer and the Boardroom

On the morning the trailer went online, Su Jin was making coffee in the kitchen of her Back Bay villa in Boston.

It was five thirty in the morning, and dawn had yet to break fully. Across the Charles River, only a few scattered lights remained in Cambridge.

She wore an ivory-white silk La Perla robe, its belt loosely tied around her waist and its neckline slightly open, revealing part of her collarbone and a small patch of chest.

Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, the ends naturally curved from tossing and turning in her sleep. Against her newly awakened face, it gave her a languid, aloof beauty.

The coffee machine hummed softly, dark brown liquid dripping into the pot one drop at a time as its aroma slowly spread through the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, she opened the link Anderson had sent her on her iPad.

The trailer was only one minute and forty-seven seconds long.

The first frame showed the sea at Winter Harbor. Gray-blue water stretched to the edge of the screen, merging with the equally gray-blue sky until it was impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.

Then came the back of a woman standing in the doorway of a bookstore. She wore a pale gray linen dress, her hair somewhat tousled by the sea breeze, and held a book in her hands, her head lowered as she read.

The camera slowly moved in, from her back to her profile, and from her profile to her face.

When that face appeared on screen, even Su Jin paused.

Maine's November sunlight slipped through the clouds and fell across her profile, illuminating every detail of the curve of her cheekbone and the shadows of her eyelashes.

Her eyes rested on the book in her hands, her gaze as still as a lake that would never ripple. Her lips were pressed slightly together, the corners forming the faintest, almost imperceptible curve-not a smile, but something more complicated, an expression of reconciliation with oneself that appeared only when a person was alone.

The scene cut to her reading a letter in the attic.

Daylight poured through the skylight above her. She sat on the floor with a yellowed letter on her knees, her fingers gently stroking the edge of the paper. Beneath her fingertips was a line of faded writing: "Teacher, I want to become someone like you."

Her gaze lingered on that line for a long time, long enough for you to sense that she was holding something back.

Then she turned the letter over and looked at the blank back for three seconds. She folded it, put it back in the envelope, and smoothed down the curled corners.

No tears, no breakdown, no dramatic expression.

But as you watched her face, you could feel something break inside her chest, a faint, delicate crack, like a finger pressing gently on a sheet of thin ice. Fractures spread from the center to the edges, but it had not yet fallen apart.

The final shot showed her by the sea.

She stood barefoot on the beach, the hem of her dress wet with seawater and clinging to her ankles.

She gazed at the distant horizon as the camera slowly moved from behind her to the front. There was water on her face, but it was impossible to tell whether it was seawater or tears.

She did not wipe it away. She simply stood there and let the wind dry it from her face.

Then she smiled, so faintly and briefly that it was like a flash of lightning across the night sky, gone before you could make it out.

The picture faded to black.

A line of text appeared on the screen: She had everything, yet all she wanted was to be herself.

Su Jin set the iPad on the counter, picked up the coffee pot, and poured herself a cup.

The black coffee had no sugar or milk. Bitterness bloomed on the tip of her tongue, then became something warm and bracing.

Cup in hand, she walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the Charles River.

The horizon was beginning to brighten, the clouds tinted pale purple and orange-pink. A thin veil of mist hung over the river, drifting slowly among the treetops on the opposite bank.

Little Golden Egg squeezed out of the air and floated beside her without speaking.

Little Golden Egg knew there was no need to speak at a time like this.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. It was a message from Anderson: Forty minutes online, three million views.

It buzzed again: Forty minutes, three million. Do you know what that means?

Another buzz: Are you watching?

Su Jin picked up her phone and replied with one word: Yes.

Anderson replied instantly: What do you think?

She considered it, then typed: Pretty good.

She did not know whether "pretty good" was enough to describe everything that had happened in those one minute and forty-seven seconds.

She did not know whether she herself was really "pretty good," either. The woman standing barefoot by the sea, the woman reading a letter in the attic, the woman looking down at a book in the bookstore doorway-they were her, and yet they were not.

She could no longer tell whether she was playing Lin or Lin was speaking through her face.

Perhaps there was no need to tell them apart.

Two

Two hours after the trailer went online, it passed ten million views.

Those were not normal numbers for an independent film. They were on the scale of a Hollywood blockbuster.

Anderson's producer yelled at him over the phone for a full five minutes. The gist was that he had struck gold. Who was this woman? Why had they never heard of her before? They needed to strike while the iron was hot, put the trailer on every platform, and contact all the major film festivals-Venice, Cannes, Berlin, every festival they could submit to.

Anderson did not listen to him.

He sent Su Jin a message: When are you coming back to Winter Harbor? We still have two scenes to shoot.

Su Jin replied: Next week.

She put down her phone and opened her laptop. On the screen was the quarterly report from Huace Starlight.

Zhao Mingyuan had made the report exceptionally thorough: forty-seven pages covering everything from financial figures to project progress, from artists' schedules to industry analysis. Every number had a source, and every assessment had a basis.

Su Jin went through it page by page, reading carefully. Revenue was up thirty-seven percent year on year, primarily from distribution of three drama series and endorsement renewals for two top artists;

Profits were up twenty-two percent year on year, a slower rate than revenue growth because of increased spending on training newcomers and joint marketing with buyer shops;

Cash flow was healthy, with nearly four hundred million yuan sitting in the accounts, enough to support the expansion plans for the next two years.

She stopped at the last few pages of the report.

Zhao Mingyuan had listed three "strategic expansion recommendations." First, acquire a film and television production company to extend upstream and take control of the source of content production;

Second, establish a strategic partnership with one of the three major video platforms to secure distribution channels for top projects;

Third, begin expanding talent management internationally and push their artists into overseas markets.

Each of the three recommendations included a detailed feasibility analysis, budget estimate, and risk advisory. The wording was professional and restrained, but an unmistakable ambition showed between the lines.

Su Jin looked at the densely packed figures and charts, and the corners of her mouth curved up.

She picked up her phone and sent Zhao Mingyuan a message: I've read the report. We can do all three.

The first is the priority. Look for potential targets. I'll come back to Beijing for a meeting next month.

Zhao Mingyuan replied instantly with one word: Okay.

Su Jin put down her phone and continued through the report.

When she reached the last page, she saw a line of small print: "Note: Acting classes have been arranged for Lin Xiaozhou since she signed, and she is currently making good progress. Sun Yao has suggested tailoring an art film as her debut project. Three directors have been contacted, and discussions are underway with all of them."

She drew a line beneath the note, then sent Sun Yao a message: There's no rush on the art film. Let her take classes first, for at least three months.

For her debut, it's better to have nothing than settle for something inferior.

Sun Yao replied: Understood.

President Su, there's something I'd like to discuss with you. Lin Xiaozhou has such excellent qualities that brands have already approached us about collaborations. Should we strike while the iron is hot?

Su Jin thought for a moment and replied with one word: Wait.

Sun Yao did not ask again.

Three

At two in the afternoon, Su Jin sat in the study of her Back Bay villa in Boston, facing a giant screen displaying Poly Auction's quarterly board meeting by video.

Chairman Zhao sat in a conference room at Beijing Poly Plaza, the familiar wall covered in works of calligraphy and paintings by renowned artists behind him.

He wore a dark gray Zhongshan suit. His hair had grown a little grayer since Su Jin left Beijing, but he was in excellent spirits, and his voice was as strong and resonant as ever.

"Preparations for the spring auction have entered the final stage," Chairman Zhao said, flipping through the papers before him. "The catalog will be printed next week, and the preview is scheduled for the beginning of next month. There are twelve key lots, including a Northern Song Ding ware ewer with carved floral decoration, a splashed-color landscape by Zhang Daqian, a Ming Xuande blue-and-white flattened flask with a scrolling lotus design, and Shen Nian's Place of Return."

Su Jin's eyes brightened slightly at the mention of Shen Nian.

"What's the estimate for Place of Return?" she asked.

Chairman Zhao turned a page. "Eight million to twelve million."

Su Jin was silent for two seconds. "Too low," she said.

The conference room fell quiet for a moment.

Chairman Zhao looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

"At Shen Nian's exhibition in London last year, all three of her works sold out. The highest fetched the equivalent of sixteen million yuan.

"Her market popularity is even greater this year. At Art Basel Hong Kong, people queued for two hours for her work." Su Jin's voice was calm and assured.

"Place of Return is her largest and most fully realized work to date, and it's also her first attempt at combining abstract and figurative styles. An estimate of twelve million undervalues her."

Chairman Zhao set down his papers, leaned back in his chair, and looked at her.

His expression did not change, but there was a faint glimmer of appreciation in his eyes.

"Then what do you think would be appropriate?"

"A starting bid of eighteen million," Su Jin said. "The final price should be between twenty-five and thirty million."

Several people in the conference room exchanged glances.

The vice president sitting beside Chairman Zhao cleared his throat softly and said cautiously, "President Su, Shen Nian is still a young painter, after all. The market may be hot, but twenty-five million is already on par with prices for first-tier contemporary artists. Isn't that a little-"

"Risky?" Su Jin finished for him.

The vice president did not answer, but his expression said it all.

Su Jin was not angry; she did not even frown. She simply leaned back in her chair, her gaze sweeping across everyone present on the screen. "Shen Nian isn't a 'young painter.' She's one of the most important artists of the next ten years."

Her tone was as matter-of-fact as if she were reciting a weather forecast. "The people buying her work now aren't doing it because she's cheap. It's because they can see her value. If Poly can't even make that judgment, then in contemporary art, we'll forever be trailing behind everyone else."

The conference room remained silent for a long time. Chairman Zhao looked at Su Jin for about ten seconds, then nodded.

"Set it as President Su says," he said. "A starting bid of eighteen million."

Su Jin nodded without saying thank you.

There was no need. This was her judgment, her responsibility, her company.

Four

After the video meeting ended, Su Jin did not leave the study.

She sat in her chair and gazed blankly at the Charles River outside the window for a while.

The sunlight had moved from the front to the side, turning the surface of the river into a field of scattered gold. Across the water, the Boston University skyline had become a row of silhouettes in the light.

Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Cheng Yan.

He was now her right-hand man in art investment; he was the one who had picked Shen Nian out from among a group of young painters.

I heard about Place of Return. An eighteen-million starting bid-are you sure?

Su Jin replied: I'm sure.

Cheng Yan replied instantly: Okay. I'll let Shen Nian know. She's been working on a new series lately. I've seen it, and it's even better than Place of Return.

Su Jin: What series?

Cheng Yan: It's called Invisible Cities. Inspired by Calvino.

It depicts places that don't exist-but they look more real than the real thing.

I'll take you to see it when you come back.

Su Jin replied, "Okay," and put down her phone.

She got up, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out a copy of Calvino's Invisible Cities.

It was an English edition, with a pale gray cover printed with the outline of a city floating above the clouds. She opened to the first page and read the famous passage-

"Cities & memory 3: The city does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennas of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls."

She read it three times, then returned the book to the shelf.

Outside, the mist over the Charles River had dispersed. Sunlight turned the whole river into a golden ribbon, and a few sailboats drifted leisurely across the water, their white sails billowing in the wind like birds spreading their wings.

Five

Three days later, Su Jin flew back to Beijing.

It was four in the morning when the private jet landed at Capital Airport.

She came down the aircraft stairs wearing a black wool coat from The Row over a white Equipment silk blouse and black Acne Studios skinny jeans, with a pair of black Church's Chelsea boots on her feet.

Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, and she wore no makeup. Her skin glowed white under the four a.m. lights, like a pearl freshly plucked from the sea.

Zhou Ye and Fang Ying were waiting for her in the arrivals hall.

Zhou Ye wore a dark blue outdoor jacket, while Fang Ying wore a black down coat. Both stood ramrod straight, like two poplar trees planted amid the crowd.

"President Su." Zhou Ye took the carry-on suitcase from her hand. "The car's outside. Where to first?"

Su Jin thought for a moment. "The office," she said.

Zhao Mingyuan was eating breakfast at home when he got the call.

He put down the fried dough stick in his hand, wiped his mouth, and glanced at the time on his phone: 4:23 a.m. "President Su?" A trace of disbelief entered his voice. "You've arrived in Beijing?"

"I'm on my way," Su Jin's voice came through the phone, as clear as if she were speaking through an open window.

"I'll be at the office in an hour. Get the information ready on those film and television companies you want to acquire. We'll go through it this morning."

Zhao Mingyuan put down his phone and looked at his wife, who was sitting across from him.

His wife asked what was wrong, and he said, "The boss is back. She flew back from Boston at four in the morning and went straight to the office after landing."

His wife stared for a moment, then said, "That boss of yours is a force to be reckoned with." Zhao Mingyuan nodded and got up to change.

Six

At nine that morning, Su Jin sat in Huace Starlight's conference room on East Third Ring Road.

She had changed into a dark gray Gabriela Hearst suit. The jacket was single-breasted and fitted at the waist, with clean shoulder lines; the trousers fell to the tops of her feet, paired with black Manolo Blahnik suede heels. Underneath was a white silk blouse with a small bow tied at the collar, formal and refined.

Her hair had been retied, a little tighter than it had been that morning, revealing her whole face and her pair of Buccellati Opera earrings.

Zhao Mingyuan, Li Wei, and Sun Yao sat on the other side of the conference table, each with a thick stack of documents spread out before them.

The conference room was filled with the smell of coffee and printer toner, that distinctive, exhilarating scent of a moment of decision.

"Let's look at the targets first," Su Jin said.

Zhao Mingyuan turned on the projector, and information on three film and television production companies appeared on the screen.

The first was called Midsummer Light and Shadow. Founded eight years ago, it had produced two commercial films that each grossed over a billion yuan at the box office and three well-received art films. It had its own team of directors and screenwriters.

But its financial condition was not very good. It had posted losses for two consecutive years because three big-budget productions had flopped in succession, wiping out everything it had previously earned. Zhao Mingyuan's assessment was: Good foundations, but it needs a cash infusion.

The second was called Dongyang Pictures. Founded fifteen years ago, it was a long-established production company in the industry, specializing in historical costume dramas and period dramas. It had long-term partnerships with all three major video platforms.

Its finances were sound, but its valuation was too high. The asking price was 1.2 billion yuan, twenty times its annual profit. Zhao Mingyuan's assessment was: Good stuff, but expensive.

The third was called Windbreaking Pictures. Founded only three years ago, it was a young company whose founder was a director born in the eighties. He had made two low-budget art films that had won several international awards. Their domestic box office performance had been average, but they had an excellent reputation within the industry.

Its finances were average, neither making nor losing money, but it had one core asset: exclusive contracts with six young directors, all rising talents who had emerged at various film festivals over the past three years. Zhao Mingyuan's assessment was: A bet on the future.

After reviewing the information on all three companies, Su Jin leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking for about three minutes.

No one spoke in the conference room. There was only the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of traffic on East Third Ring Road outside the window.

She opened her eyes. "Pofeng," she said.

Zhao Mingyuan froze for a moment, as did Li Wei. Sun Yao didn't. She wrote a line in her notebook, then looked up at Su Jin, waiting for her to continue.

"Midsummer Light and Shadow has a solid foundation, but plenty of people do. What they lack isn't money, but judgment. They've backed the wrong projects for three years straight. That's not bad luck; something is wrong with their decision-making process. If we bought the company, we'd have to spend a huge amount of effort overhauling its leadership. We'd be better off building our own.

"Dongyang Pictures does good work, but it's expensive." Su Jin's voice was calm and certain, as though she were solving a math problem whose answer she already knew. "It's not that we can't come up with 1.2 billion yuan. There's no need to. Their core strengths are historical costume dramas and period dramas, and both fields are already getting crowded. There's limited room for growth over the next three years. They're not worth a premium."

She paused, her gaze settling on the third company's logo.

"Pofeng is different. They don't make money, but they don't lose it either. That tells us the founder knows how to control costs. They've signed six young directors who've won eleven international awards over the past three years. That tells us the founder has an eye for talent.

"They have no experience with big productions, no established distribution network, and no history of working with major platforms. We have all of those. What we lack is content. What they lack is money and channels."

The corners of her mouth curved up. "That's not an acquisition. It's putting together a jigsaw puzzle."

Zhao Mingyuan looked at her in silence for three seconds, then nodded. "I'll have someone conduct due diligence," he said. "We'll finish within two months."

Su Jin shook her head. "One month," she said. "We need to get the structure in place before the spring auction.

"If Shen Nian's Place of Return sells for thirty million, that'll be the best publicity we could ask for: we've signed a contemporary artist whose work can fetch a sky-high price at Poly.

"We've bought Pofeng, which can produce award-winning art films. The auction house and the film company working together, connecting the resources of the art world and the entertainment industry-that's what we're going to do."

The conference room was quiet for a long time.

Zhao Mingyuan lowered his head and wrote a line in his notebook. Li Wei leafed through the documents, and Sun Yao sent messages.

Su Jin picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. The coffee had gone cold and tasted even more bitter, but she didn't frown.

At two that afternoon, Su Jin arrived at The Star, a multibrand boutique in Wangfujing.

Store Manager Chen was already waiting at the door.

She wore a black dress under a camel-colored coat. Her makeup was immaculate, and not a hair was out of place. She looked capable and elegant.

When she saw Su Jin step out of the car, her eyes lit up-not because the boss had arrived, but because of how Su Jin looked that day.

She had changed out of the suit she'd worn that morning and into a long black Khaite knit dress. It had a high neck and long sleeves, with a hem that reached her ankles and a high slit up the side that revealed her entire lower leg as she walked.

Over it, she wore an oatmeal-colored cashmere coat from The Row. On her feet were black square-toed Bottega Veneta ankle boots with thick soles, lending her steps an unhurried rhythm.

Her hair was down, falling over her shoulders with a slight curl at the ends. It framed a face that looked a little tired from the long flight, yet was still so beautiful that people couldn't look away.

"Ms. Su," Store Manager Chen said, coming forward to greet her. "The shipment's here. Would you like to take a look?"

Su Jin nodded and followed her upstairs.

A woman in her early forties sat on the sofa in the second-floor VIP room. She wore a camel-colored Celine coat, her hair was cut very short, and she had on a pair of thin gold-framed glasses. She had an air of cool efficiency.

When she saw Su Jin come in, she stood and extended her hand.

"Ms. Su, I'm Zheng Ying, president of Chanel China."

Su Jin took her hand and gave it a slight squeeze. "Hello, Ms. Zheng."

Zheng Ying looked at her, her gaze sweeping over her face, from her cheekbones to her jaw, from her eyes to her lips, before finally settling on the long black Khaite knit dress she wore.

It wasn't scrutiny, but a professional assessment. She was evaluating whether this face, this figure, this bearing suited Chanel's brand image.

"Ms. Su," Zheng Ying said, "I'll get straight to the point. Chanel needs an Asian face for the global advertising campaign for next year's spring-summer haute couture collection. We've spent six months looking and seen countless models and entertainers, but we haven't found the right person.

"Last week, I saw your photo in Vogue-the one from the teaser, the one where you're standing by the sea. I called Zhao Yu that very day."

Su Jin said nothing, just looked at her.

Zheng Ying went on. "You have a very distinctive presence. It's not a sweet, ingratiating kind of beauty. It's the kind that makes people want to take another look.

"Chanel doesn't need a model to show off its clothes. Chanel needs someone who can make the clothes her supporting cast."

She paused. "You're that person."

When she finished, Su Jin was silent for three seconds. "When?" she asked.

Zheng Ying's eyes lit up. "Next February. Paris. The shoot will take three days."

Su Jin nodded. "My schedule works. But I have one condition."

"What condition?"

"No dialogue in the commercial," Su Jin said. "I don't need to speak."

Zheng Ying looked at her in silence for two seconds, then smiled. It was her first smile since coming in, slight but sincere.

"All right," she said. "No dialogue."

At seven that evening, Su Jin returned to her apartment at China World Trade Center.

She took a shower, changed into a robe, and sat before the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at Beijing at night.

Traffic still streamed endlessly across Guomao Bridge, and China Zun's lights still shone. In the distance, the streetlights along East Third Ring Road formed an orange ribbon of light that stretched beyond sight.

She had been away from Beijing for more than two months. When she returned, she found that the city hadn't changed. She was the one who had.

Her phone lay on the windowsill, its screen lighting up nonstop.

She read Lin Xiaozhou's message and replied with two characters: Keep going.

Then she opened the script Anderson had sent and read the final two scenes.

Afterward, she leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and thought for a long time.

The night outside grew darker and darker. The city lights went out one by one, until only the lights of China World Trade Center Phase III remained, along with a few hazy stars on the distant horizon.

She opened her eyes, picked up her phone, and sent Anderson a message: In the final scene, Lin shouldn't look back.

Anderson replied instantly: What do you mean?

Su Jin: She walks out of the bookstore, goes down to the sea, takes off her shoes, and walks into the water.

The camera films her from behind. She keeps walking forward without looking back.

The audience doesn't know where she's going, or whether she'll walk back or be swallowed by the sea.

They only need to know that she's moving forward. That's enough.

There was a long silence from Anderson. So long that Su Jin thought he wasn't going to reply.

Then his message came: You're right. She's moving forward. That's enough.

Su Jin looked at the words, the corners of her mouth curving up.

She put down her phone, stood, and walked to the window.

Beijing's nightscape spread out beneath her feet, with lights in countless homes and an endless stream of traffic.

She stood there in a white silk robe, her hair loose and her face bare of makeup, yet so beautiful that the whole of Beijing's nightscape became her backdrop.

Her lips curved in a faint smile, and there was light in her eyes.

Tomorrow, she would return to Boston. The day after, she would finish filming the last two scenes of Winter Harbor.

Then the semifinals, then Paris, then the spring auction, then the acquisition of Windbreaking Pictures, then the Chanel commercial, then her MIT courses, then-

Then she would keep moving forward. Without looking back.

That was enough.