I Turned Out to Be the Dead White Moonlight of the Canary - Chapter 18

Song Shi’an went skiing, while Yan Sheng reported directly to the company.

Wen Lan assigned her to a new project team. He Meng’s short dramas typically featured rich storylines and high-quality costumes, props, and sets.

This time, the script they needed to write leaned toward a serious, dramatic tone.

Achieving a serious drama style within a short drama format was quite challenging.

Most of He Meng’s existing screenwriters were accustomed to writing lighthearted romances or comedic parodies—none could handle this style.

Since Yan Sheng had just joined, Wen Lan transferred her to the project.

The other screenwriters had no objections, as Yan Sheng was joining a new team and wouldn’t interfere with their work.

Zhao Tingran was reportedly poaching a director.

She had also recruited a batch of newly graduated actors from film school. He Meng’s signing rates were relatively high in the industry, and their contracts weren’t the exploitative kind used by smaller companies.

Zhao Tingran genuinely wanted to carve out a niche in short dramas beyond cringe-worthy slapstick.

This time, she was investing heavily.

Many argued it wasn’t worth it—after all, people watched short dramas just for fun.

Song Shi’an had initially thought the same.

Zhao Tingran asked her, “Do you just want to run a short drama company?”

Song Shi’an thought seriously and replied, “I don’t have any particular ambitions.”

She had zero career aspirations.

Still, Song Shi’an approved the funding and let Zhao Tingran do as she pleased.

After all, He Meng had been quite profitable over the years.

Zhao Tingran had big ambitions—she wanted to build a full-fledged production company.

Song Shi’an lacked ambition but provided the money, making them an oddly compatible pair.

Zhao Tingran tasked Yan Sheng with writing a script that would satisfy the director.

It had to meet both short drama constraints and the director’s standards.

The director in question was a young talent who had recently helmed a hit political intrigue drama.

Zhao Tingran was dead set on recruiting him.

The director was young, fresh out of film school, and had struck gold with a low-budget web series that became a sensation. The production was scrappy, with cheap costumes and sets, but the plot was outstanding.

The romance subplot and the actors’ performances were also top-notch.

Currently, he was with a small company. Zhao Tingran had checked out the leads’ other works and found them nowhere near the same caliber.

The company was small, with no major backing, and the director hadn’t broken into the industry’s inner circles. Though many firms were courting him now, Zhao Tingran knew most weren’t genuinely interested in talent—they just couldn’t stand seeing a small company produce a dark horse.

Despite He Meng being a short drama company, Zhao Tingran was confident she could lure him in.

It also helped that the director prioritized storytelling above all else.

That was why she pushed Yan Sheng so hard to deliver an exceptional script.

On her very first day, Yan Sheng found herself shouldering this immense responsibility, feeling the pressure instantly.

After the morning meeting, her team leader and colleagues shot her sympathetic looks.

Once Wen Lan and Zhao Tingran left, a cute-looking girl handed Yan Sheng a snack. “Poor Sheng Sheng. Hang in there. Zhao the Devil might not understand scriptwriting, but her standards are ridiculously high.”

“Good luck.”

“My script got rejected ten times by her last time, ten times! What does she know about scripts anyway?”

Listening to her colleagues’ complaints, Yan Sheng couldn’t help but worry about her own future.

“Is it really that bad?”

“You’ll understand once you’ve worked under her,” team leader Wei Chaoyu said with a smile.

Yan Sheng was at a loss for words.

She still needed to find her footing.

After the meeting, Yan Sheng approached Wen Lan to ask if there were any specific themes she should work on.

Wen Lan handed her a few novel copyrights the company had acquired, telling her to freely choose one to adapt.

[Wow, this world is just one big chaotic mess,] Shi Jiu remarked, sounding thoroughly amused.

And so, Yan Sheng began her grueling days of scriptwriting, which would surely lead to hair loss.

First, she stayed up all night reading the original novel, then cautiously reached out to the author—only to awkwardly discover the author was just as socially anxious as she was.

Yan Sheng could only suggest she’d write a draft first, then let the author review it to see if it worked. If the author approved, she’d submit it to Wen Lan for final review.

At least there was one upside: she didn’t have to handle tasks outside her job description.

Perhaps because she was already acquainted with Wen Lan, and rumors circulated that she and Song Shi’an were dating, no one dared to assign her menial tasks.

Yan Sheng also noticed that Hemeng didn’t seem to have a culture of making employees do random chores—you were hired to do a specific job, and that’s what you did.

People were only hired when there was a real need.

Even with her busy schedule, Yan Sheng still made time every day to check Song Shi’an’s social media.

Song Shi’an didn’t post often—just once every two or three days.

Mostly scenic shots from her travels, snippets of her skiing trips, or group photos with friends.

Song Shi’an’s friends were all stunningly beautiful.

One day, while mindlessly scrolling during a creative block, Yan Sheng came across Song Shi’an’s latest post—a photo with a friend kissing her cheek, looking intimate.

Zhao Tingran had liked it.

Yan Sheng could only see Zhao Tingran’s like; she had no insight into anything else.

She knew nothing about Song Shi’an’s social circle.

[Little Yan Sheng, don’t tell me you’re jealous and upset? How can you expect someone like Song Shi’an—a total player—to genuinely like you? Don’t overthink it. With so many alphas around her, it’s just fun and games,] Shi Jiu chimed in again.

Yan Sheng lowered her eyes, her voice subdued. I told you, don’t talk badly about her.

You’re hopeless, Shi Jiu sighed.

From the moment she joined the company until her probation ended, Yan Sheng barely had a break—overtime became the norm from day one.

But with Song Shi’an away, coming home to an empty apartment every day felt dull.

For an entire month, Song Shi’an hadn’t reached out—not a single message.

The only way Yan Sheng could stop herself from overthinking was by staying up late, pouring herself into the script.

After a month of grinding, she finally managed to draft half the plot to Zhao Tingran’s satisfaction—enough to submit for now.

With Zhao Tingran taking the script to negotiate with the director, Yan Sheng finally had some free time.

For once, she left work early.

While waiting for her food delivery, she absentmindedly checked Song Shi’an’s Xiaohongshu account—she’d gotten the username from a coworker.

As usual, it was filled with casual life updates.

Restaurant recommendations, ski resort reviews—just fun, lighthearted content.

After finishing, Yan Sheng casually scrolled through the comments and immediately spotted a highly upvoted one.

“When will the young miss officially announce her relationship with Qinghe?!!”

“Ahhh! Qinghe next door is already openly declaring her love!”

The replies beneath were filled with fans shipping the couple, so Yan Sheng followed the trail to the blogger named Gu Qinghe.

After watching all the videos and browsing the comment section, she learned that the other woman also seemed to be a wealthy heiress—Gu Qinghe, speculated by some to be from the Gu family of Chuang Sheng Group’s chairman.

This was because one of Gu Qinghe’s home photos matched the background from an interview with the chairman.

Though no one had guessed Song Shi’an’s exact identity, the things she shared clearly weren’t accessible to ordinary people.

Thus, netizens naturally assumed they were shipping an elite couple.

Gu Qinghe: gentle, lively, top-tier omega X Song Shi’an: cool, reserved, top-tier alpha.

Fans had been shipping them for a long time. The two often hung out together, and neither had ever denied the rumors.

Gu Qinghe frequently fed the fandom with sweet moments, occasionally even earning likes from Song Shi’an.

“Host, doesn’t this mean Song Shi’an is playing both sides—flirting with omegas and alphas alike?” Shi Jiu couldn’t resist probing.

Yan Sheng remained silent.

“Look, given Song Shi’an’s personality, if she didn’t allow it, even Gu Qinghe wouldn’t dare post so freely. She doesn’t even spare face for Zhu Yuandong or Yan Wuyou.”

“Besides, if she really disliked it, would she let Gu Qinghe kiss her? A cheek kiss is still a kiss.”

“Who knows what happens privately—probably more than just cheek kisses.”

Though Yan Sheng had told Shi Jiu to stop badmouthing Song Shi’an, the latter couldn’t help herself.

“Little Yan Sheng, I’m genuinely worried about you. Whatever history you have with Song Shi’an, do you really know her?” Shi Jiu pressed.

“And you need to face the truth—if Song Shi’an only wants you as a lover, she doesn’t love you. Don’t get trapped in this.”

Just as Shi Jiu finished speaking, Yan Sheng’s mood darkened further.

Then, her phone buzzed with a message from Song Shi’an.

A location pin dropped—the most exclusive villa district in Cangnan City.

Sister: [My heat cycle might start tomorrow. I’ve arranged a driver to pick you up. Take leave and be ready—the car will arrive in an hour.]

At that moment, Yan Sheng finally understood: to Song Shi’an, she might truly be nothing more than a tool for weathering heats.