The Heiress's Game

The last time Chen Cui saw Gu Yunjin was at Gu Mingyue's villa.

That was the first and only time she met Gu Yunjin.

Everything that followed was handled through an assistant named Lu Xiao.

Lu Xiao speaks concisely to the point of being cold, each sentence sounding like he's reciting contract terms, but he's meticulous in his work—contract terms, timelines, funding arrangements, public opinion timing, every single thing is perfectly aligned with the schedule.

Chen Cui had met him four times, and they had exchanged no more than a hundred words in total, but she had already figured out his style:

He doesn't need to exchange pleasantries with you; he just needs you to get things done.

Then Lu Xiao became two.

To be precise, it was Li Chunjing who started appearing in the coordination process.

Chen Cui remembered her—it was this Li Chunjing who led her to Gu Yunjin at Gu Mingyue's villa that day.

At that time, Li Chunjing was dressed in a decent but not eye-catching black suit, standing half a step behind Gu Yunjin, as quiet as a background figure.

Chen Cui's first impression of her was "an ordinary personal assistant," the kind of person who serves tea and water, organizes wardrobes, and is always available when called upon in a wealthy family.

But just over two months later, when Li Chunjing came to see her again, the business card she handed over read "Work Assistant".

Chen Cui glanced at her again when she took the business card.

In just over two months, I went from being a personal assistant to a work assistant, from standing half a step behind her to sitting across from her at the negotiating table, and from serving her tea and water to discussing appearance fees, schedules, and contract terms with her younger brother, sister, and mother.

Chen Cui knew all too well what this meant—this woman named Li Chunjing, like herself, was someone who would never let go once she seized an opportunity.

No, they might be even more ruthless than themselves.

At least she had a face that Gu Yunjin could use as a pawn, but Li Chunjing relied entirely on her brains to get ahead.

Chen Cui put the business card into her bag, a kind of non-malicious wariness rising in her heart towards Li Chunjing—cooperation was the best way to get along with this kind of woman.

At this moment, Chen Cui sat on the edge of the bed in her rented room, looking at the latest shooting plan sent by Xingyao Media on her phone screen, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of the phone.

The cover of the proposal is printed with the tentative title "Our Home".

She turned to the page for the production company, where the investor listed the name of an offshore company, and the production company was Star Media.

The first season was filmed over a 12-month period, with both on-set and studio shooting, and the production specifications were described as "S+ level variety show".

She put down her phone, looked up at the yellowish ceiling light, and felt a strange, indescribable feeling in her chest.

Having lived for over twenty years, she understood one thing all too well:

For someone like her, the opportunity to transcend social class is at most once in a lifetime.

She had seen countless people from similar backgrounds as her, working day after day on factory assembly lines, behind supermarket checkout counters, or in cramped cubicles in nail salons, grinding their youth into a thin stack of banknotes.

She almost became one of them. But things are different now.

Now Gu Yunjin pushed open a door, behind which was a road called "Defying Fate".

She placed the shooting plan next to her pillow, stood up, tidied her hair in front of the mirror, and showed no hesitation in her expression.

At 8:30 p.m. that evening, she posted a social media update.

The photo is a freshly taken group photo; we just had a photographer come and take it this afternoon.

The background is the main room of my old family home, the walls are mottled, but the light makes them look soft.

Chen's mother sat in the middle, wearing a neatly ironed dark red shirt. Her white hair was combed neatly, and the wrinkles on her face hadn't been edited out, but the curve of her lips was captured very well by the photographer—a woman who had been ravaged by life but hadn't been defeated, sitting among all her children.

The younger brother stood to the left rear, having changed out of his work jacket and into a borrowed black jacket. He looked a little uncomfortable but incredibly handsome.

The younger sister stood to the right rear, wearing light makeup. Her sharp, vibrant look transformed into a sense of power inherent in life itself in front of the camera.

The little girl and her half-sister stood on either side, one smiling broadly, the other smiling shyly.

Chen Cui stood at the very back, her hand on her mother's shoulder.

The caption was just one sentence: "Life was tough in the past, but we still ended up together after all the twists and turns."

Comments are coming in almost in real time.

The most upvoted comment reads: "How can this family have such incredibly good looks??? Did they win the genetic lottery???"

The second most popular comment was: "My mom was definitely a great beauty when she was young, you can still tell now."

The third most popular comment was: "I said this when my sister was being criticized last time. She's not faking a persona at all; she's genuinely trying her best to live her life."

Chen Cui scrolled down the comments section, a slow smile spreading across her face.

No one mentions the phrase "the fate of a maid" anymore, or if someone does mention it occasionally, it's immediately drowned out by the replies of many others—"She's already suffered enough, can't you be a little kinder?"

That's how the internet is; it can make you want to live or hate you to die, but she no longer cares.

Women who have been praised and criticized have become immune to both.

She opened the message her brother had sent, "The photos are nice." Then she added a follow-up message: "Is your boss really reliable?"

Chen Cui replied with two words: "Reliable."

Her sister's message was even more direct—"Sis, I quit my job at the supermarket. When does filming start?"

Chen Cui leaned against the headboard, pulled the curtains open a crack, and looked out the window.

The streetlights in my hometown were dim and yellowish, shining on the plastic sign of the convenience store downstairs.

But soon she and her family will be leaving this place, leaving this old house with its peeling walls.

She didn't know what would happen after filming started, how the audience would react to the story of this family of six, or how high and where Gu Yunjin's behind-the-scenes scheme would ultimately send her.

But she was certain of one thing—she would hold on tight.

Writing is such a painful process. I want to give up every day. I want to give up, I don't want to write anymore. I just want to binge-watch TV shows and go to the Rift. Ugh!