After Divorce, I Can Hear the Future

Chapter 23: Investing in the Movie

“Brother Lu, you’re a genius!”

While handling formalities for the new account, Zhao Haisheng brought up Baofeng Technology’s recent market activity.

The day after Lu Liang had cleared his holdings last Thursday, Baofeng Technology caused a stir again, with its stock hitting the ceiling and floor prices within the same session.

That day, trading volume reached 1.85 billion yuan, with a turnover rate of 65.7%—staggering for a newly listed stock. It could even be considered a complete change of hands, attracting more risk-takers, all hoping for Baofeng’s legend to continue.

But by the following days, the stock hit continuous lower limits for five sessions straight before barely stabilizing yesterday. Its price plunged from a peak of 327.15 yuan to close at 191.14 yuan.

The entire market was in mourning. Most people had bought in at high prices, becoming trapped. Among them was Zhao Haisheng himself.

If it weren’t for this year’s bullish market, which had doubled securities employees’ incomes, Zhao might have regretted it for a long time.

“Who could’ve known I had such foresight?” Lu Liang boasted, adopting the tone of an armchair strategist. “At the time, I just had a feeling—what goes up must come down.”

“That’s for sure. Brother Lu, you’ve definitely got a knack for this!” Zhao replied with a forced smile, while silently rolling his eyes.

At first, Zhao had suspected Lu Liang might have insider information, but he’d since dismissed the idea. It was purely luck. Some people just hit the jackpot once or twice in their lives. For a few, it’s life-changing; for others, it’s just a fleeting moment of fortune.

...

By midday, Lu Liang had finalized his new account. His transaction fee was now reduced to 0.012%, and he gained access to international trading in Hong Kong stocks, U.S. stocks, forex, and precious metals.

The account also came with an annual $1 million foreign exchange quota, convertible directly within the account without needing to visit a bank. For higher amounts, however, he’d need bank approval due to the country’s strict foreign exchange controls.

What interested him most was the margin service: by freezing 2 million yuan, he could secure a loan of up to 10 million yuan. The funds could only be used for market investments and not withdrawn as cash—essentially giving him an 8 million yuan credit line.

The interest rate was steep: 0.04% daily, 1.2% monthly, and 14.4% annually—just shy of the legal usury threshold. Factoring in the frozen funds, the real annual rate exceeded 14.4%.

Still, Lu Liang understood the game. He signed the paperwork without objection, knowing it was a mutually agreed transaction.

Afterward, Zhao took Lu Liang next door to the Bank of China to apply for an international card.

While yuan withdrawals worked the same at any domestic bank, handling dollars was trickier. With an international card, the funds belonged entirely to him, bypassing the exchange rate fluctuations and intermediary fees of domestic banks.

Zhao explained that Bank of China’s international division operated independently, granted extensive authority to cater to global clients while respecting privacy and human rights—far more than domestic banks, which were tightly monitored.

By 2 p.m., Lu Liang had nearly completed everything.

Just then, Wu Tianzheng called, informing him that the Happy Mahua team had arrived at Linjiang Pavilion’s Tian Shui Room.

Lu Liang apologized to Zhao, “Sorry, I have other plans later. I’ll treat you next time.”

“Brother Lu, you’re doing me a favor helping me meet my performance goals. I wouldn’t dare let you treat me! Next time, it’s my treat,” Zhao replied, smiling broadly. Lu Liang’s frequent transactions would increase Zhao’s bonuses.

“Alright, then. I’ll hold you to it,” Lu Liang said, laughing as he drove off.

Years of being in real estate taught him that such relationships were purely transactional—neither side owed the other gratitude.

If anything, Zhao owed Lu Liang a dinner and a spa day, given that Lu Liang was the client with the funds while Zhao was just another service provider.

...

At around 3 p.m., Lu Liang arrived at Linjiang Pavilion, located near the World Expo site.

He gave his name to the staff and was guided to Tian Shui Room on the second floor, where six people were waiting.

“Mr. Lu, you’re here,” Wu Tianzheng greeted him warmly and began introductions. “This is Zhang Chen, General Manager of Happy Mahua; Director Yan Fei; and the renowned sketch actors Shen Teng and Ma Li.”

Wu’s smile was plastered on, but Lu Liang only recognized Shen Teng among the group.

“Mr. Shen, I saw your sketch performance last year—it was brilliant,” Lu Liang said with a polite smile, shaking hands with everyone.

Seeing the team up close, he suddenly understood why Wu and most investors doubted the film.

Since Mr. Benshan left the stage, the influence of Spring Festival Gala sketches had waned year after year. If not for the cold winters up north, leaving people stuck indoors on New Year’s Eve, even its remaining viewership might disappear entirely.

The sketch actors from the Gala, with their diminishing fame, seemed ill-suited to carry a movie’s box office success.

Though there was always a 1% chance of a dark horse success, investors weren’t gamblers. The funding structure of this film spoke volumes.

Of the 15 million yuan budget, 10 million came from Happy Mahua’s own pocket. The remaining 5 million was sourced from independent investors, including Shen Teng, Ma Li, and Director Yan Fei themselves.

When a film’s cast and crew start investing their own money, it usually signals a lack of external confidence.

Inside the private room, the sound of pages turning filled the air as Lu Liang reviewed the screenplay and proposal.

Apart from Wu Tianzheng, everyone else anxiously awaited his verdict. The team was out of options—hence their long journey from Beijing to Magic City to court Lu Liang.

After a dozen minutes, Lu Liang closed the file, his calm demeanor causing their hearts to sink.

They’d seen this look countless times recently and braced for yet another rejection.

“You’re short 5 million, right? I’ll invest,” Lu Liang said with a faint smile. “I think this story has great potential. Put your heart into it, and it could be a hit.”

The room froze in stunned silence before Shen Teng’s emotions erupted. “Mr. Lu, are you serious about investing in our film?”

“What? Are you picky about investors now?” Lu Liang joked.

“No, no, you misunderstood! I’m just overwhelmed,” Shen Teng stammered, his voice trembling.

As Happy Mahua’s lead performer, an investor, and the film’s leading man, this movie was pivotal to his career.

Since its inception, the project had faced rejection after rejection, leaving the team riddled with self-doubt. Was their script really that bad?

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