Chapter Twenty-Six: Curtain Falls (Part Two)

“So, what you need from me is, first, a loan, and second, help pushing things along with the media, is that right?” the woman asked softly.

“Yes, consider it a loan. These past days, I’ve approached quite a few people, and with all my effort, I’ve managed to gather less than five million, but I’m still far from the amount needed for that penalty,” Han Dong replied bitterly.

“Fifty million, right? That’s the penalty.” The woman smiled. “‘Huayi’ has always been like this—setting exorbitant penalties. For someone who’s only been in the business for less than five years and has so many expenses, it’s a hefty sum.”

“That’s right.”

The woman gazed at the weary Han Dong, her expression showing disappointed concern. After a while, she finally spoke. “Dongzi, I can help you with this.”

Han Dong looked up, at a loss for words before her exquisite face.

“But I have one condition,” the woman continued.

“I’m listening.”

“After all this, you should realize that your current attitude of avoidance is untenable. Hiding away and letting fate run its course may feel comfortable, but when real problems arise, you’re left with nowhere to turn. Whether you did this for her or not, I hope you’ll at least consider: if you go on like this, is it really the right path?” There was a trace of hopefulness in her tone. “Will you really keep living like this?”

Thinking of his recent struggles and all the indignities he’d suffered, Han Dong fell silent for a moment. “No matter the place, you have to rely on your own strength. That’s always been the case. I was wrong before.”

“So, I can help you. I’ll lend you the money, and I’ll help with the media too. But I have only one condition: you must leave this industry. Head south to Xiangzhou and help me start a company. Can you do that?”

Han Dong stared at her in astonishment. “That’s all you ask?”

She laughed softly, eyes sparkling. “What did you think I’d ask? That you cut off all ties with that woman? Or that you marry me? If that were the case, you wouldn’t be you, and you wouldn’t be the Han Dong I care about.”

“I agree. Once this is over, I’ll leave, and I won’t tell anyone where I’m going.”

“Then it’s settled.” She clapped her hands and smiled. “You’re still the Dongzi I know—decisive when it matters. I believe you’ll do even better in your new role.”

“Honestly, I’ve wanted to live differently for a while now. You’ve given me a new path. Thank you.”

“There’s no need for thanks between us, is there?” she said with a charming smile, her gaze making Han Dong momentarily dazed.

“You really are a fool, Dongzi,” she said, her beautiful eyes glimmering with amusement.

······

The next day, there was a new development in Qin Lulu’s contract saga. Once on the losing side, Qin Lulu suddenly paid the astronomical fifty million penalty, thus unilaterally dissolving her contract with “Huayi” and becoming a free agent.

At the same time, nearly all media outlets, who had previously treated the matter as a major news story and reported on it objectively, shifted their stance—save for a few exceptions. They now rallied behind Qin Lulu, vigorously asserting that she had followed the law, paid the penalty, and that there was nothing immoral about her actions. Some media even claimed this incident was a significant legal lesson for the entertainment industry: if you sign a contract, both sides should abide by it. If a penalty clause is stipulated, then either party should be allowed to pay it and dissolve the agreement—otherwise, what’s the point of the contract? Should we regress a hundred years, placing so-called morality above the law? “Huayi” cultivated Qin Lulu, and she worked for them; theirs was a cooperative relationship bound by contract. When the contract is dissolved, so too is the partnership. Qin Lulu owes “Huayi” nothing. Are we to return to the archaic days when apprentices spent their lives repaying their masters with endless labor? Stretching further, this is a meaningful legal precedent. As the contracting party, a company should evaluate the artist’s potential and importance before signing. If you don’t want her poached, you can set a high penalty—but you must also increase her rights accordingly. Otherwise, why should the artist accept such terms? As for the artist, you must think carefully about the kind of contract you’re signing. Artists today are no longer in the subordinate position they once were; you can only rely on yourself. Just like in sports, where athletes have their own agents—rather than club-appointed ones—these agents fight for their interests and stand by their side. Shouldn’t our entertainment industry move in that direction as well? Perhaps this could be the beginning of true reform.

With this media blitz, the tide turned completely. Qin Lulu went from a position of weakness to being hailed as the vanguard of a new era in the entertainment industry, her popularity soaring. This new perspective ignited the industry; countless stars shared the news on social media—saying nothing directly, but their support was clear.

As public opinion intensified, organizations like the Artists’ Guild and the Pop Music Association were compelled to respond, calling it a meaningful and inspiring event. Several groups announced a joint initiative to explore further reforms. The matter was now entirely resolved: Qin Lulu had achieved a stunning reversal, not only freeing herself from “Huayi” but also bolstering her fame. At this rate, she was likely to ascend to the top tier of stardom by the year’s end.

The ripples from this incident spread even further, sparking transformational changes and ushering in a golden age for Chinese pop music. And it all began with a single, seemingly minor contract dispute.

“So, is it over?” Lin Qihua asked, reading the latest news while watching Han Dong, who was chain-smoking.

“It’s over,” Han Dong replied gravely, taking a deep drag—so forceful that he doubled over coughing.

“But why?” Lin Qihua was baffled. The crux of the matter was the fifty million. If Qin Lulu had it, or could have raised it, things wouldn’t have reached this point. The only parties with such resources were rival entertainment companies, but none would have intervened under those circumstances. So the answer must lie with the man before him.

“Though the entertainment world is much improved these days, certain realities remain inescapable—money, power,” Han Dong said quietly.

“So someone stepped in to solve it? Who?”

Han Dong shook his head, saying nothing, simply gazing around with a sense of nostalgia. “Huazi, I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Lin Qihua was taken aback. “So suddenly? Why?”

“No particular reason. I’ve just grown tired of this life—tired of wasting my days in idleness.” Han Dong recalled the events of the past few days, his tone gradually lightening. “I’ve already left the band—no harm done. This place is yours now; the lease has over a year left, plenty of time for you to get through next year. I think it’s time I let go of all these shackles and started anew, tried something different.”

“You’ve really made up your mind?” Lin Qihua was dumbfounded. “Why so suddenly?”

Han Dong shrugged. “I used to have lingering attachments, but now I’ve let them go. Letting go is the right choice. For so many years, I’ve let down my family and friends who care about me. It’s time to start over. At least my parents back home will be a little happier.”

“All right, then.” Lin Qihua knew this was for the best. No matter how he pressed, Han Dong wouldn’t reveal his destination, but as long as they both remained in the industry, they’d meet again someday.

······

“I know why.” Sitting in a booth at the Haiyan Teahouse, Qin Lulu looked far more at ease, though a touch of sorrow lingered in her expression. “My problem is solved, but the price is that he has to change his life.”

“It was ‘Sister Lian’, wasn’t it?” Lin Qihua blurted out. “She intervened?”

“She’s called ‘Sister Lian’?” Qin Lulu gave a wry smile. “Yes. I’d resigned myself to being sidelined for a year—had already made peace with it. Then suddenly, fifty million appeared in my account, and a woman called me.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she was Han Dong’s friend, and that he’d asked her to help me.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you wouldn’t have accepted help. You’re too proud for that—you’d rather be benched for a year.”

“Exactly. I’d never have taken it. What’s a year? What’s a demotion? I’ve never cared. At worst, I’d start over.” Qin Lulu brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, her expression sorrowful. “But that woman gave me a reason I couldn’t refuse.”

“What reason?” Lin Qihua’s suspicions grew.

“To raise that fifty million, Dongzi had to leave this twilight world of underground music, break free from this dark existence, and start over—not as a musician, but in a management role related to music. You know what Dongzi was like before. Now, whether he wants to or not, he has a chance to begin again. I could endure a year, but Dongzi couldn’t go on like that, not because of me.”

Qin Lulu said no more, but Lin Qihua understood. When it came to Han Dong and the two women in his life, he could only scratch his head in helplessness.

“I’m inviting Dongzi to the bar for a farewell party. You should come too,” Lin Qihua said as he watched Qin Lulu stand to leave.

Her body trembled, then she walked away. As she turned, a string of crystal tears silently fell.

Love is never a matter of right or wrong. Sometimes, fate simply leaves us powerless.