CEO's Sweetheart is a Super Idol-Chapter 307 - 300 Deep Worry

Life Center

Yu Qingjia felt utterly exhausted after hanging up the phone.

She had joined the ensemble when she was 14 years old, and now it’s been six years.

Her studies and career could both be described as failures.

The only place she could find confidence was on the stage of a small theater.

But each time she stepped down from the stage amidst the cheers of her fans, she felt completely drained and empty.

She lacked any skills that could support her outside of this life.

Although her family was very wealthy, she still felt a deep sense of insecurity.

She couldn’t imagine a life without the stage, without the fans’ cheers.

She also wanted to achieve something in film and television, but she had no opportunities and no backing from any company.

The film and television industry isn’t something that can thrive just because you have money.

Otherwise, with all the wealthy people and even the film companies, why couldn’t they just prop up any new talent at will?

Yu Qingjia actually envied Li Jiaqi.

Although the latter only got small roles, the significance of a role depends on the company producing the work and the quality of the show.

Ten female leads in low-budget web movies couldn’t compare to one minor supporting role in a high-quality production.

She opened her streaming app, intending to do a live broadcast and share her thoughts with her fans, but after reflecting, she didn’t know what to say, so she shut it down again.

Film Crew

Li Jiaqi felt a little better after hanging up the phone.

Just then, she heard a knock at her door.

Confused, she walked over and opened it—standing there was the crew’s executive director, Hu Senlin.

She hesitated for a moment but ultimately decided to open the door.

It was Hu Senlin who had fought for her current role.

Here, it’s worth noting that a film crew has many types of directors.

Aside from the chief director, there are several assistant directors; however, some assistant directors don’t actually direct scenes—they handle off-camera tasks.

Besides the chief director, the executive director is usually the second most powerful figure in the crew, and the most likely candidate to become a chief director someday.

A film crew is, in essence, a microcosmic arena—divided into factions, riddled with infighting, and treachery is rampant.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say the crew is full of deceitful people, where carelessness could result in your undoing—some don’t even know how they meet their end.

This makes those palace intrigue dramas look tame by comparison. Even actors who’ve achieved a bit of notoriety in the industry and have been filming for some time can still end up being replaced without notice—it’s a common occurrence.

So, small-time actresses like Li Jiaqi have to tread with utmost caution here.

Without any allies in the crew, you simply can’t survive.

Forty-something, scruffily bearded Hu Senlin stepped in casually and closed the door behind him.

"Director Hu, are you alright? You don’t look very good."

Li Jiaqi was incredibly nervous at this moment. Despite Director Hu’s usual kindness towards her, she knew all too well how easily these people could switch faces—one moment a human, the next a demon.

"Damn it, Lu Ming, that bastard, wants to replace you. He has a student who wants your role." Hu Senlin slumped into a chair.

"What?!"

Stunned, Li Jiaqi still poured him a glass of water.

Despite what Hu Senlin said, she wouldn’t fully believe him—this might just be his way of preying on her body.

It’s a common ploy among directors like him.

"Turns out that female student is actually sleeping with him. Thought I wouldn’t find out?" Hu Senlin sneered, taking a sip from the glass.

"Director Hu, but what about the chief director..."

"Don’t worry, I stopped him cold." Hu Senlin put the glass down.

"Thank you, Director Hu."

"No need to thank me. Honestly, Lu Ming was just trying to leverage the rights to build that ’altar’ prop—but I took that deal myself instead."

Li Jiaqi knew about this matter. The altar was the costliest prop in this production—rumored to cost over three million.

Lu Ming was someone connected to the producer’s side and served as one of the assistant directors for the crew.

He came across as diligent and pleasant towards the crew but turned into a completely different person around background extras and workers.

Arrogant, foul-mouthed, and prone to violence—one time, when an extra accidentally got in his way, he kicked them to the ground without hesitation.

The young woman working as his assistant was a "character" in her own right. She hadn’t graduated college yet, but her methods were already practiced and shrewd.

She roamed around like a hunting dog every day, gathering gossip and delivering every bit of drama from the crew to the producer.

Li Jiaqi couldn’t help but suspect that if this young woman were more attractive, she’d already be sleeping her way up the ladder.

Hu Senlin and Lu Ming were supposedly classmates at film school, but who knows how their relationship ended up like this.

"Jiaqi, I came by mainly to warn you—be careful out there."

"I’m in talks for another production. Fingers crossed—it should work out. If it does, I’ll secure a significant role for you."

Li Jiaqi felt overjoyed hearing this, but she also knew not to trust Hu Senlin’s words completely.

"Alright, you get some rest!"

"Director Hu, you should rest early too."

It was only after Director Hu left that Li Jiaqi finally relaxed. At the same time, she couldn’t help but reflect—was she being overly paranoid? Maybe not every director was vile...

Hu Senlin left the set and headed to a bar.

Upon opening a large bag, he found Zhang Yuzhe sitting inside, his face cold and indifferent.

"Hello, Director Hu!" Zhang Yuzhe smiled, standing to shake his hand.

"Hello, President Zhang, sorry to keep you waiting." Hu Senlin’s demeanor instantly became subservient.

"President Zhang, everything’s been sorted—the role in this production remains Jiaqi’s."

"Excellent. I’m willing to invest in that musical drama—but the lead must be Li Jiaqi."

At these words, Hu Senlin’s expression turned conflicted. After hesitating, he said, "President Zhang, I personally admire Jiaqi greatly as an actress, but for a musical drama, the lead’s singing ability must be impeccable."

Zhang Yuzhe’s expression darkened immediately.

This frightened Hu Senlin—this musical drama was extremely important to him.

Zhang Yuzhe’s background was a mystery, but he had connections to a major theater in Shanghai.

That venue had already approved his proposal and agreed to operate the production under its name. With adequate investment, Hu Senlin would be the director.

For years, he had humbled himself in hopes of directing his own project.

In the industry, it’s almost impossible to become a director without an established reputation. Despite working as an assistant director for 15 years, he hadn’t helmed a single project.

Though this was a musical drama, it was still his chance to serve as chief director—and the stakes were high.

Li Jiaqi’s last two roles had been arranged thanks to the connections he’d pulled specifically to win favor with Zhang Yuzhe, with the goal of directing this musical.

"How about this? I understand Director Hu’s predicament. Let’s make a package deal."

"Jiaqi plays the second female lead in the drama, and afterward, Director Hu will tailor a new project just for her."

"That works for me! As long as funding is in place, I’ll greenlight it."

Hu Senlin perked up upon hearing this and agreed without hesitation.

"Hold on, no rush. I also know Director Hu is a screenwriter—you have that script on ’The Four Seasons of Life,’ right? It’s already been approved for production. I want to invest in that one."

Hu Senlin froze in place—this script was his passion project.

He had spent years perfecting it. Its quality was undeniable.

But he had hoped to work with a major company for its production.

Unfortunately, the big companies demanded total control of the project.

Hu Senlin feared that if he handed over the script, he’d be cut off entirely.

That’s why he wanted to keep some investment rights—but no company had agreed.

Selling it to smaller companies was also not an option.

For one, as a literary film, it might win awards, but its box office returns would likely be minimal, making it unaffordable for smaller firms.

Moreover, even for awards, proper promotional campaigns are required, something small firms lack the resources for.

Zhang Yuzhe’s company had no reputation in the industry. Even if they invested, it couldn’t bring him closer to his dream.