Chapter Seventy-Two: An Attempt at Persuasion

Liu Qingshan’s intentions had clearly been achieved, with the first effects manifesting in Wang Huansheng. While inwardly relieved, Wang was already considering how he would negotiate with the law firm.

The term “law firm” is an industry expression; in the mainland, the formal name is “legal practice.” It’s a foreign model of partnership, where several lawyers join together to establish a practice, becoming partners in the firm. Yet Wang Huansheng was only an ordinary partner, with limited rights and merely a token share of the profits—his partnership was in name only.

To become a true partner in a partnership-based firm, one’s ability to bring in clients and generate revenue is paramount. Relationships with the other partners and the firm’s culture also matter, but the most critical factor is having your own clients—clients who follow you wherever you go. Wang’s current situation was just that: the business he’d received from the company Park Hyejin worked for came through the firm’s partnership network. If he wanted his own clients, he needed to develop his own business. That’s why he was so eager to secure Liu Qingshan as a future, major source of cases.

Though right now Liu Qingshan’s business was still personal, Wang knew well what the as-yet-unregistered Snowfield Studio would become. Understanding Liu’s present circumstances was exactly why Liu was willing to entrust both current and future matters to him.

Both men knew that once a contract was signed, Wang, as the appointed attorney, would be bound for quite some time to serve only Liu’s interests. Snowfield Studio, after all, was set to become a remarkable enterprise, not only bearing the label of a joint venture but also operating in the boundless-potential, high-tech sector of the film industry. Even the world’s most cutting-edge teams in similar fields were still feeling their way forward. This meant the studio’s future capital investment would be limitless.

For Wang, the bigger the client’s investment, the higher his commission would rise. Even if substantial profits weren’t immediate, he would be held in higher regard by his peers at the firm. When Liu Qingshan saw Wang Huansheng leaving in haste before dinner was even over, he couldn’t help but smile quietly to himself.

For Liu, winning over just one lawyer psychologically was enough. All subsequent trivialities, including the studio’s qualifications and paperwork, could be left entirely in Wang’s hands.

The situation was much the same on Shahrukh’s end—he too needed legal support to run errands and handle affairs, and Liu reckoned that Jawahar, the owner of Dad Hotel, had already made arrangements.

“Hyejin, have you considered coming over to help me? Of course, you don’t need to quit your job immediately; you can wait for the right time,” Liu asked.

Park Hyejin, a seasoned professional, could see through Liu Qingshan’s intentions, especially after witnessing his frequent exchanges with Wang Huansheng. When he finally broached the subject with her, she smiled and countered, “I’m just a foreign worker. What is it about me that you value? And what do you have to tempt me?”

“Your exceptional social and analytical skills surprised me, Hyejin. Plus, I need someone I trust to look after Sis Xishan’s future.”

She had only guessed half of Liu Qingshan’s motives, and his second reason caught her off guard. Wasn’t he supposed to start pitching the company’s bright future, or promise her irresistible authority?

“So you want me to help you because of your Sister Xishan? Why?” Hyejin didn’t push for details, her workplace experience telling her to wait.

“I’ve already told you—this just isn’t the right time. Snowfield Studio is still in its infancy; what I need isn’t a manager yet, and as for assembling the team, that’s my job.”

“Fine. How do you plan to arrange things for Kim Xishan? And why are you helping her so much? Have you really fallen for her?”

“I can only tell you she’s the only family I have now. You know I’m basically an orphan. Last night, in the new house, she was the only one who showed me any care.”

“Why did you stress ‘now’ in your answer? And does my sister not care about you? Who’s been running around for you these past days?”

“First, I didn’t mean to stress that word. Second, by care, I mean personal feelings—between a man and a woman. Don’t twist my words.”

Hyejin ignored the slight tension in his voice, lowering her own as if relishing the gossip. “So, is it that she doesn’t agree?”

Liu Qingshan nodded almost imperceptibly. “She’s willing to be with me, but she refused a formal relationship.”

“What does that mean?”

“Enough—if you’re still curious, ask her yourself. I’m still confused! Let’s get back to business, shall we?”

“Tch…” Hyejin scoffed, “Fine, if you won’t say, you won’t. But you still haven’t said how you want me to help.”

“You know Xishan’s current contract situation. I want you to try applying to your company to take over her renewal negotiations, then gradually help her disentangle herself from them.”

Originally, Liu Qingshan hadn’t planned for Kim Xishan to remain tangled with her current company, but lately, his thinking had changed. The reason was her South Korean nationality and the strong tradition of national pride in that country, which he had overlooked before.

He worried that if Xishan fell out with her company over contract disputes, returning to her homeland to further her career might become exceedingly difficult. The company’s obstacles were one thing, but worse would be if they quietly painted her as a traitor back in Korea.

For Kim Xishan, this would be fatal—a complete disaster for her career as an artist.

In any country, artists in the entertainment industry often change companies or start their own studios after their contracts expire, driven by career needs and personal planning. It’s a natural part of growth: to thrive in such a competitive field, one must constantly adapt, challenge, and reinvent oneself.

For many, the main reason for not renewing is a shift in career focus; Kim Xishan was no exception. Like anyone else, artists seek the path that suits them best, and once they find it, they follow their hearts and move on.

The entertainment industry is fast-changing, and artists must constantly adjust and reposition themselves, making new decisions as required.

Yet what should be a normal process becomes problematic in Korea because Kim Xishan’s desired destination is China. Historical reasons and systemic differences make this a sensitive matter, though there is no need to elaborate further.