Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

Sheng Quan felt her vision flooded with blinding white light.

What was the lighting technician doing??

For a moment, she had the illusion that every spotlight in the venue was trained solely on her.

Fortunately, the technician seemed to know when to pull back—the intensity gradually softened, shifting from glaring brilliance to a warm glow.

Even so, the ratings skyrocketed in that instant.

The live stream’s comment section was on the verge of crashing from the flood of messages.

[AHHHHHHHHHH!!!]

[I’m losing it—Sheng-jie actually brought a lightboard with her!!]

[Who the heck is Jin Jiu???]

[6666 She’s a legit solo stan!!]

[History in the making!!!]

[I knew it! I freaking called it!]

Backstage, the director grinned so wide his face might split, watching the soaring metrics.

A subordinate hastily pulled up Jin Jiu’s profile, looking concerned as he leaned in:

“Director, Jin Jiu has quite a few scandals attached to him…”

“Scandals?!” The director tensed instantly. “Did he break the law?”

“No, but there’s a lot of unverified gossip.”

The director exhaled in relief. “If you know it’s just gossip, why bring it up? As long as he’s not a criminal, who cares about scandals?”

“But what if it affects Chairwoman Sheng? If she gets backlash and refuses to come back…”

*Sing for You* owed its explosive viewership entirely to Sheng Quan’s presence. While the show had built enough momentum to survive without her, it would never sustain this level of hype.

The director chuckled, shooting him a knowing glance.

“You think just because Sheng Quan is young, she’s some impulsive hothead? The show’s popularity isn’t just our doing—there’s bigger machinery at work behind the scenes.”

“Let me put it this way: people from backgrounds like hers? Saying they’ve got eight hundred tricks up their sleeves would be an understatement.”

His gaze returned to the screen, brimming with satisfaction. “Our station just hit the jackpot.”

On screen, the host triggered the countdown.

Yet Jin Jiu remained frozen, staring at Sheng Quan in a daze.

As the seconds ticked away, the comments shifted from excitement to confusion.

[Why isn’t he singing?]

[What’s going on?]

[Oh crap, is he a flop?]

[I looked him up—apparently his singing sucks.]

[Even Sheng Quan can misjudge someone.]

[Time’s almost up!]

[I’m dying here—just open your mouth already!]

Sheng Quan, however, showed no impatience. She kept her lightboard raised, her expression unwavering in its anticipation.

If she wasn’t worried, the host certainly was.

The moment Sheng Quan lifted that “Jin Jiu” lightboard, the host knew this would go down in history as an iconic moment.

With Sheng Quan’s backing, Jin Jiu was guaranteed a straight shot to the finals—and with these two as recurring fixtures, the show’s ratings would keep climbing.

She’d already fantasized about her future: promotions, raises, a house with cats and dogs, maybe even a villa.

And now? Jin Jiu wasn’t singing.

No performance meant no semifinals, no finals, no votes from his billionaire supporter!

In those thirty frantic seconds, the host’s mind raced, desperate to snatch the mic and sing for him.

Miraculously, with twenty seconds left, Jin Jiu finally began.

His entire world narrowed to Sheng Quan.

The first note flowed effortlessly—singing was so ingrained in him that the moment he started, he slipped seamlessly into the music.

Twenty seconds. Eight lines.

Sheng Quan listened, enchanted. No wonder the book later described Jin Jiu’s voice as “a divine balm for the soul.”

If his younger self had relied on raw, dazzling talent, this version was richer, deeper, like a warmth that left you pleasantly intoxicated.

The difference was like comparing a thrilling new vintage to a centuries-old masterpiece.

Her smile deepened. She made no effort to hide her admiration, lifting the lightboard higher.

As the twenty seconds ended, thunderous applause erupted.

Behind the scenes, director Chen Weigang frantically gestured at planted audience members: “Louder! LOUDER!!”

But Jin Jiu barely registered the applause—something he hadn’t heard in years.

His gaze never left Sheng Quan.

Not even while singing.

When he saw her grin—that unmistakable “*I’m blown away*” expression—as she raised her lightboard, something in him stirred.

Haltingly, almost unfamiliar with the motion, he smiled back.

In that moment, seven years of struggle suddenly felt insignificant.

The comments section exploded anew:

[Wait, that was actually good?]

[Who said he couldn’t sing?]

[Knew Chairwoman Sheng’s taste was impeccable.]

[Solid. Voting for him.]

[Only a snippet, but you can tell he’s skilled.]

[False alarm, folks—dude’s got pipes.]

[*chef’s kiss*]

Most viewers, though tuning in for drama, had basic discernment. They could separate “good” from “bad”—and some even trusted that “rich people have impeccable taste.”

During the voting segment, Jin Jiu’s tally climbed steadily on the big screen, ultimately landing at 5,000.

The host exhaled in relief. With numbers like that, he’d advance. Her feline-canine-villa dreams were safe.

Only one question remained: Why hadn’t Sheng Quan voted yet?

Time was almost up!

Perhaps sensing the audience’s curiosity, the camera kept cutting to Sheng Quan—now frowning at her phone while still holding the lightboard.

[What’s Sheng Quan doing?]

[Not voting?]

[She’s talking to some guy (staff badge). Ohhh, she’s annoyed.]

[Any lip-readers here??]

[The guy’s definitely crew.]

[She looks *done*. What’s happening?]

[Just speak up—we want to hear too!!!]

Finally, in the last second, Jin Jiu’s votes catapulted from 6,000 to 106,000.

The voting process was fully transparent—even a single vote updated instantly on the official site. Many viewers multitasked: TV for the show, phone for comments, tablet for real-time stats.

The spike prompted immediate screenshots flooding forums:

[**SureBet**: 100K votes.]

Yet no one was surprised. For Sheng Quan, dropping 100K votes was basically casual flexing—this was the woman who’d once tossed 10 million at a film crew, after all.

The real mystery remained: *What on earth was she arguing about with that staffer?*

The last contestant was purely there to join the fun. While waiting in the passageway, she stumbled upon a juicy piece of gossip up close, leaving her utterly exhilarated. As she sang, her eyes kept darting toward Sheng Quan in the audience, as if she couldn't resist stealing glances at the wealthy magnate while she had the stage to herself.

It was clear she wanted to take full advantage of her time on stage to get her fill of the billionaire.

Perhaps because she was so fired up—or maybe because the song she chose was an adrenaline-pumping anthem—her performance carried more emotion than usual, earning approving nods from the judges.

Meanwhile, the live chat was going wild:

**[You can tell she’s a gossip lover.]**

**[She might as well have ‘I just got the tea and I’m loving it’ written all over her face.]**

**[LMAO she’s singing her heart out!]**

**[Those little side glances are killing me!]**

**[I swear I could hear ‘please let me ride Sheng Quan’s coattails’ in her voice!]**

**[OMG!! That tune is so catchy, I’m obsessed!]**

After finishing her performance, the contestant stood quietly, waiting to leave the stage. When she saw her votes skyrocket to 1,500, she was stunned.

Her original plan—just show up, have fun, then go home and sleep—was officially scrapped. Instead, she would join the other advancing contestants for a week of closed-door training under the show’s guidance before moving on to the second round.

And with that, *"Sing with You"* wrapped up its first episode.

Even though it was only the preliminary round, the ratings held strong throughout the broadcast, especially during the moment Sheng Quan raised her light sign—when viewership shot up like a rocket.

What thrilled the production team the most was their sheer luck: Jin Jiu’s number was second-to-last, meaning the most eye-catching segment landed right at the end. They wouldn’t even need clever editing for the recorded version—just cut it normally, and it would work perfectly!

And they didn’t even have to orchestrate anything—the audience was already doing the work for them.

Just in this one episode, viewers had already spotted:

- **“The Overenthusiastic Clapping Guy”**

- **“The Intense Staring Lady”**

- **“A Male Influencer Touching Up His Makeup Live on Camera”**

- **“Someone Wearing a Mask and Sunglasses—Definitely a Celeb”**

- **“A Bald Director Repeatedly Trying (and Failing) to Sneak to the Front Row”**

But none of these topics could overshadow the two biggest mysteries:

**“What exactly did Sheng Quan say to the staff?”** and **#WhoIsJinJiu?**

Even **#ShengQuanLightSign** lost traction, but these two questions didn’t just linger—they surged even higher after the episode ended.

Sheng Quan’s own commentary? **“Never underestimate humanity’s thirst for answers.”**

After scouring the internet, Ming Qi asked, **“Aren’t you going to clarify things for Jin Jiu?”**

Sheng Quan took the fruit Ming Qi handed her. **“They’ll trust the truth they uncover themselves more than anything I say.”**

**“I just need to guide them into realizing there’s more to the story.”**

She had never been worried about Jin Jiu’s so-called “scandals.”

Right was right, and wrong was wrong. Jin Jiu had reported the poisoning incident immediately, and the culprit had served three full years in prison. Not a single cent from that concert had gone into Jin Jiu’s pockets—if Starlight Entertainment’s marketing team couldn’t clear this up, they might as well all resign.

As Sheng Quan had expected, netizens searching for Jin Jiu were bombarded with old accusations—**“can’t sing,” “scammed fans with a concert,”** and the like.

But here was the thing: *the entire internet had just heard Jin Jiu sing.*

Even those who missed the live broadcast could find clips circulating online.

*How was that voice anything less than amazing?*

Sure, Jin Jiu had only sung for twenty seconds—but those twenty seconds were enough to prove his talent.

Modern audiences weren’t easily fooled. Some long-time entertainment industry fans even knew more about behind-the-scenes operations than rookies in the business. The old tricks didn’t work anymore.

Back in the day, fans rarely dug into which company a star was signed to or who their boss was. Now, the first thing people asked was: **Which company was Jin Jiu with before?**

The moment the marketing firm’s name surfaced, everything clicked.

**[Ohhh, that shady company? It went under two years ago.]**

**[I’ve seen this name in scandals before—there are still at least ten posts exposing their dirt.]**

**[Before seeing the company name: ‘Jin Jiu scammed his fans? Is Sheng Quan making a mistake?’ After seeing it: ‘Ah, another victim of corporate exploitation.’]**

**[Called it. Sheng Quan first invested in films because of Qin Heng from *The Road of Life*—and Qin Heng is known for his integrity. No way she’d support someone with a bad reputation.]**

**[Plus, she definitely has insider info we don’t.]**

**[Okay, but let’s not act like rich = always right. Just because Sheng Quan’s loaded doesn’t mean everyone she likes is a saint.]**

**[Nah, we’re just saying—at her level of wealth, she doesn’t *have* to tolerate anyone she dislikes!]**

**[LMAO someone lip-read Sheng Quan asking staff why she couldn’t top up more, and they said the limit was 100,000 per transaction.]**

**[No wonder she only voted 100,000!]**

**[Our max is 100k because that’s all we can afford. Hers is 100k because that’s the show’s cap!]**

**[Legend.]**

**[Check Weibo! Sheng Quan just posted!]**

Sheng Quan’s first Weibo post went up at midnight. Despite her claims of prioritizing beauty sleep, she uploaded a grainy, almost antique-looking video with the caption:

**"I regret not knowing you back then. But I’m grateful it’s not too late now."**

After posting, she set her phone down and smiled at the crescent moon in the sky.

This message wasn’t for the internet—it was for Jin Jiu.

The moment Jin Jiu sang those twenty seconds, she knew everything had changed.

In the vast darkness where Jin Jiu had silently drifted, all he needed was the faintest glimmer of light—even just a single beam.

**“Not just a beam—I want a whole flood of it. Yes, arrange a big bouquet for Jin Jiu’s room. And make sure the card I gave you is placed properly. Thanks!”**

As she applied her skincare, Sheng Quan asked over the phone, **“But isn’t the show supposed to be closed-door training? Will you get in trouble for delivering flowers? If the director says anything, just tell them I asked you to. They probably won’t mind.”**

On the other end, the staff member assigned to accompany Sheng Quan by Strawberry TV glanced at the people beside her.

**“Uh… I don’t think… they’ll complain.”**

As soon as the call ended, the station director and the chief producer sprang into action:

**“You heard her—flowers! Big ones! Go buy—no, wait, you’ll pick wilted ones. I’ll go myself!”**

In the end, the chief producer personally bought the bouquet, and the station director placed it on the dormitory table himself, even spritzing it with “dew” for effect.

After several adjustments to ensure the best camera angle, he finally stepped back, satisfied.

“Remember, you must capture Jin Jiu’s reaction when he sees this bouquet. For post-production, I’ll need to talk to the team about adding subtitles. When it’s edited, the audience has to know this was sent by Chairman Sheng.”

A crowd of people swarmed in, then swarmed back out just as quickly.

A moment later, Jin Jiu pushed the door open and stepped inside, followed by an excitedly chattering An Baixing:

“Oh my god! I still can’t believe Chairman Sheng actually came for you. I knew it—with a voice like yours, it had to be for you… Wait, where did these flowers come from?”

He rushed forward in delight, but Jin Jiu’s face instantly paled.

A chill ran through Jin Jiu’s body, as if those words were flashing before his eyes again:

—*I regret ever loving you.*

“There’s a card too! Wow, it’s addressed to you, Jin Jiu! Come on, open it—it must be from a fan! These flowers are gorgeous, look, there’s still dew on them!”

An Baixing pulled Jin Jiu to the table.

His hands trembled faintly, the voice inside him screaming, *Run. Get away.* But then his mind flickered with the memory of Sheng Quan’s bright, shimmering gaze fixed on him.

In the end, he opened the card.

Neat, elegant handwriting greeted him:

—*Jin Jiu, I’m so happy I get to love you.*