Volume Two: Shadows of the Past Chapter Twenty: Who Doesn’t Wish for a Capable Secretary!

Yuan Mengru got straight to the point and asked Chen Jing, “Aren’t you planning to release Chopin’s nocturne domestically?”

Chen Jing replied indifferently, “Piano music isn’t really popular here. Whether I release it or not doesn’t make much difference.”

“That’s true,” Yuan Mengru considered for a moment before suggesting, “How about this? Piano music is quite popular abroad. I can help you release it on international music platforms. I also know a few renowned pianists overseas—I could send it to them for their appraisal.”

It wasn’t surprising that Yuan Mengru would bring this up with Chen Jing. In her eyes, Chopin’s nocturne was truly a masterful composition, and she couldn’t bear to see such a piece buried and forgotten, especially since it was written by Chen Jing.

Chen Jing lounged comfortably on the sofa and smiled, “Alright, I’ll leave it to you, Mengru.”

Yuan Mengru feigned annoyance, “I told you not to call me that. I’m almost twelve years older than you.”

Chen Jing replied matter-of-factly, “Nonsense. You look just like my older sister. What else should I call you? Auntie?”

“Pah, you smooth talker!” Yuan Mengru playfully spat at him, completely at a loss with this fellow.

Her alluring, phoenix-shaped eyes glanced at Chen Jing with a thousand different charms. If her students were to witness this daughterly demeanor, their jaws would surely drop. After all, in their minds, Teacher Yuan was always the picture of serene dignity.

Few knew of Yuan Mengru’s enchanting eyes, as she typically wore a stern, proper expression befitting a teacher, never showing the softness of a woman to others. Only Chen Jing was the exception.

Even Yuan Mengru found it odd herself. She and Chen Jing hadn’t known each other for long, yet their conversations were always lively. Especially after becoming familiar, their interactions grew even more peculiar. When she was with him, it felt like spending time with an old friend of many years—she barely noticed the age gap.

Yuan Mengru looked at Chen Jing, who sat quietly beside her, her gaze gentle. Perhaps this was his personal charm.

Chen Jing reclined in the chair, eyes closed, lost in thought. The room fell into a tranquil silence. They sat quietly together, and Yuan Mengru felt her heartbeat quicken. After a moment’s consideration, she asked, “When do you plan to release your second album?”

Chen Jing, eyes still closed, replied leisurely, “No rush for my second album. I’ll focus on giving Ruo Han and Xue Yue time for their records first.”

“Oh.”

The room fell silent again. Yuan Mengru glanced at Chen Jing with some concern and quietly asked, “Is something troubling you? Want to talk about it?”

Chen Jing opened his eyes and looked at her. He hesitated before slowly saying, “I’m thinking about making a move into the film industry. Do you think I’m moving too fast, taking too big a step?”

For the past few days, Chen Jing had been pondering the idea of stepping into the world of film. Though he had crammed a lot of knowledge, it was all theoretical. If he just wanted to be an actor, that would be easy—just play the role. But Chen Jing wanted more; he wanted to direct.

Since he’d already borrowed songs from his previous life, there was no reason not to bring over some classic films as well. In fact, Chen Jing’s passion for movies from his past life ran even deeper than his love for music, since it was an area he’d never explored before.

But filmmaking wasn’t something one could master by learning a few basics or playing bit parts in a few productions. It required a broader, more comprehensive vision.

Naturally, Chen Jing wasn’t worried about lacking perspective. His real concern was whether the classic films of his past life would still be classics in this one.

After all, appreciation for film varies not just across worlds but even within the same world between different eras. Audiences’ tastes change over time. Chen Jing had seen plenty of examples of this in his previous life—the most classic being Stephen Chow’s films.

Wang Mengru looked at Chen Jing, who was strikingly different today. In truth, she had never seen him so hesitant before. Instinctively, she reached out and took his hand.

“Did something happen? Why the sudden rush into the film industry?”

Chen Jing shook his head and said nothing—he didn’t know how to explain, and he didn’t want to lie to her.

Seeing his silence, Yuan Mengru didn’t press further. Instead, she gently reassured him, “There’s nothing to hesitate about. If you want to do something, just go for it. After all, you still...”

She paused, unable to finish the words “you’re still young.” Letting go of his hand, she continued, “You’ve only just started. No matter what happens, even if you fail, you can always begin again. Failing once might even be good for you—it’ll let you taste disappointment. After all, setbacks lead to success. If you’d never faced any, I’d worry you’d become arrogant. Haha.” With that, she covered her mouth and laughed softly.

Hearing her words, Chen Jing realized he’d lost his composure. Taking a deep breath, he restored his smile and replied with confidence, “Ha! I won’t let you get your wish. There’s no way I’ll fail. Just watch, Mengru—whether in music or film, I’ll succeed.”

In truth, Chen Jing wasn’t truly lost. He’d just come to see Yuan Mengru, one of the few friends close to his own age, and allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability. After all, isn’t it only before a confidant that people reveal their truest selves?

To him, Yuan Mengru matched him in age, outlook, temperament, even knowledge and interests—a true soulmate.

“I’ll be waiting,” Yuan Mengru smiled, nodding, her own spirits lifted by the return of his vigor.

After leaving Yuan Mengru, Chen Jing was approached by Lin Zitan, who informed him that Huang Wenhao was available now and asked if he wanted Huang to come over and discuss their song collaboration.

Chen Jing thought for a moment—he happened to be free—so he replied, “No need for him to come here. I’ll go to his office.”

“Alright,” Lin Zitan nodded and left to attend to other matters.

Chen Jing rummaged in his drawer, found the notebook he needed, and headed toward Huang Wenhao’s office.

Upon reaching the door, he found it tightly closed, which seemed odd. Just as he was about to knock, he caught the faint sound of strange noises—the sort you’d often hear in Japanese adult videos.

“Ah—darling, faster, it feels so good. Are you enjoying it too?”

“Mmm...”

Chen Jing’s hand froze mid-knock, his expression shifting dramatically. Well, well, Huang Wenhao really knew how to have a good time—office play, no less.

Though he could hear the sounds, it wasn’t because the door was open. It was definitely shut—neither Huang nor his partner would be so reckless as to leave it ajar. The door was even soundproofed, but unfortunately for them, Chen Jing’s hearing was so well-trained that soundproofing was futile.

He stood there for a while, an odd sense of sadness washing over him. It didn’t seem like they’d be done anytime soon.

With no other option, he pulled out his phone, found Huang Wenhao’s number, and dialed.

A few moments later, the nocturne ringtone played inside—the very song Chen Jing had written. He hadn’t expected Huang Wenhao to use his music as a ringtone—rare for a top singer to use someone else’s song.

The ringtone played for quite some time before a breathless, feminine voice finally answered, “Huff...who is it? Calling at a time like this?”

Huang Wenhao’s voice followed, “Shh, don’t make a sound. It’s Chen Jing—probably about the new song.”

Chen Jing’s phone finally connected.

“Hello, Mr. Chen,” Huang Wenhao greeted, still breathless.

“Hello, Brother Hao. What are you up to?” Chen Jing asked mischievously.

“Oh, me? I’m...uh...” Huang Wenhao paused, then stammered, “Exercising.”

“Oh, working out? I hope I’m not interrupting you. Should I call you back later?” Chen Jing struggled to keep a straight face.

“No, it’s fine. Are you free now? If you are, should I come find you so we can discuss the song?”

“I’m free. Why don’t I come to you?”

“Huh? You’ll come here? Where are you now?” Huang Wenhao sounded startled, his movements abruptly halting.

“Heh, I’m right outside your office. You’re really going at it in there—working out hard!” Chen Jing couldn’t help but laugh into the phone.

“What the—?!”

A strangled cry came from the phone before the call was abruptly cut off, followed by a flurry of frantic rustling inside the office.

After two or three minutes, the office door finally opened.

A delicate face peeked warily through the crack, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat clinging to her forehead. Chen Jing didn’t know her name, but he recognized her as Huang Wenhao’s assistant and secretary.

Tsk, tsk, as the saying goes—if there’s work, the secretary does it; if not, do the secretary.

Chen Jing marveled inwardly, maintaining a calm, polite smile. “Hello.”

Huang Wenhao’s assistant lowered her head in embarrassment. “Hello, Mr. Chen. Please, come in. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Chen Jing walked in, waving off her apology with a smile, “Not at all—I just arrived.”