Mastering the World’s Vast Horizons

The Tianyuan Group headquarters is located in Ausburg City, overseeing two publicly traded companies with a combined market value exceeding 40 billion Hong Kong dollars. Originally rooted in shipping, the group has since shifted its primary focus to entertainment and hospitality. The family steering the conglomerate is the Song family, descendants of a prestigious Portuguese lineage.

In Ausburg, the Song and Wei families are known as the twin titans of the casino industry. The current head of the Song family, Song Yuan, is dubbed the “Little Gambling King,” rumored to be the only person with the stature to challenge the legendary gambling king Wei Quan’s clan.

The backstory of Song Yuan is no secret in the Hong Kong and Macau business circles.

In the early 1980s, his father passed away from a stroke, leaving behind assets worth 9 billion and a fragile business empire. Song Yuan, then just in his early twenties, sold off most of the family’s cargo ships and mortgaged them to Harbor Bank, securing a massive loan. He promptly poured all the funds into building entertainment facilities in Ausburg.

He transformed the passenger ship Royal Pearl into a floating casino, ferrying guests from Shenzhen, Foshan, Zhuhai, and Hong Kong to international waters for leisure. This novel model, which also helped evade certain taxes, directly slashed the revenues of the gambling king’s casinos by half, channeling hundreds of millions instead into the Royal Pearl.

Shortly thereafter, the Fifth Gulf War erupted in the Middle East, causing global oil prices to soar and squeezing shipping profits. The international shipping industry plunged into a downturn, leading several shipping magnates in Hong Kong and Macau to declare bankruptcy. The Song family, however, had foresight and narrowly escaped ruin, a testament to Song Yuan’s acumen.

By the late 1980s, Song Yuan aggressively entered Hong Kong’s media sector, first acquiring the Oriental Press Group, then investing in the Broadcasting Corporation and Stellar Entertainment. Rumors circulated that his enthusiasm for film and television stemmed from the need to cleanse his financial dealings, many of which had been less than transparent; the entertainment industry, it was said, allowed him to legitimize his wealth.

True or not, Song Yuan was indeed a formidable figure in the business world of Hong Kong and Macau, his methods surpassing most first-generation tycoons.

Ordinary people seldom managed to secure appointments with Song Yuan, given his ceaseless engagements. That he proactively sought a meeting with Sheng Jiayi was all the more peculiar.

Even more unusual was his request—he insisted on meeting Sheng Jiayi alone.

“He’s still unmarried,” said He Xiyue as she leaned against the sofa, watching Sheng Jiayi apply eyebrow makeup in the mirror.

He Xiyue was born in Taipei, initially working as a dancer before turning to acting. Without notable success on screen, she shifted to producing and quickly rose through the ranks of Orange Harvest Group. Rumor had it that Tao Yongming, the leader of the Taipei Brotherhood, was her sworn brother, and she maintained a complicated, ambiguous relationship with Zhao Shirong. Zhao’s connections across various social strata were managed by her.

After Mrs. Zhao passed away from illness a few years prior, He Xiyue officially joined Orange Harvest’s board and concurrently took up the CEO role of Orange Harvest Entertainment. In the world of fame and fortune, she was known for her decisiveness and ruthless efficiency. The only exception was her indulgent care for the artist Sheng Jiayi. Some unscrupulous tabloids even absurdly speculated that Sheng Jiayi was He Xiyue’s illegitimate daughter.

Yet the media weren’t entirely mistaken—Sheng Jiayi was indeed He Xiyue’s protégé, treated almost like a daughter.

“I told him that meeting you alone was fine, but we must ensure absolute privacy and security. So he agreed to let me choose the venue… Honestly, Song is one of the rare golden bachelors across Greater China. I’ve met him a few times; he’s quite handsome, the epitome of a mature man.”

Sheng Jiayi finished penciling her brows and began selecting earrings from a velvet-lined box, a long array of various styles. As the sky cleared, a thread of golden sunlight streamed in, reflecting off the sparkling jewels.

Outside the window, a faint mist softened the view of the azure harbor. Victoria’s waters were deep and broad, and on a clear day, the sea displayed distinct layers of color—light green near the shore, deepening to indigo further out, with white sailboats dotting the surface, their masts overlapping like a forest.

“Helen, could you open the door for me?” Sheng Jiayi called without turning, hearing a knock.

“On it, miss,” He Xiyue rolled her eyes and rose to answer.

Breakfast arrived on a tray, delivered upstairs by a European butler. As a star striving to maintain her figure, Sheng Jiayi avoided high-carb foods. On the pale wooden tray were a cup of Italian pour-over black coffee, a plate of sliced apples, and a small bowl of stewed bird’s nest.

“You should eat a bit more,” He Xiyue observed, scrutinizing Sheng Jiayi’s slender frame. “You’re too thin.”

“I have what I need,” Sheng Jiayi replied nonchalantly, stirring the gelatinous bird’s nest with a silver spoon.

“Living in a hotel has its perks—you don’t have to manage chores. But this isn’t sustainable. Property prices have been rising steadily these past years. If you’d bought a place two years ago, you’d have made millions by now. I’ll arrange a real estate agent for you soon; you can check out some good developments while you have time.”

“I’m not buying,” Sheng Jiayi said. “Renting out a few storefronts would be fine. By the way, what about Song? You said he’s still unmarried?”

“Yes.”

“Why is he still single at thirty-five? Is there some physical issue?”

He Xiyue often admired Sheng Jiayi’s ability to phrase the most cutting remarks in the gentlest tones—Song himself would probably be dizzy with anger if he heard them.

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to marry. His girlfriends haven’t stopped—he’s dated four or five Asian beauty queens, but none lasted long. He changes them frequently.”

“I thought people like them always marry strategically.”

“Old money marries old money, new money marries new money. He’s neither, so he ends up marrying models or actresses.”

“You want me to marry him?” Sheng Jiayi pushed the tray aside and held a red rose diamond earring against her ear for comparison.

“Every woman dreams of marrying into wealth. I’m not doubting you; I just don’t trust a woman’s instincts. Let me warn you: I’ve looked into his background—he’s quite a complicated man. Rumor has it he maintains numerous mistresses besides the official girlfriends… You wouldn’t want to marry someone like that, right?”

Sheng Jiayi smiled faintly. “Me? Unless I finish fifty movies for Orange Harvest, I’d have to pay a billion in compensation to break my contract. How could I marry?”

Zhao Shirong was no saint; securing the best resources for her and then letting her go was common practice. Contracts like Sheng Jiayi’s were widespread in Hong Kong’s entertainment industry, often more brutal. From dazzling superstars to anonymous actors, many were shackled by unequal terms, appearing glamorous but ultimately money-making machines to others.

“You might be able to come up with a billion, and he definitely can,” He Xiyue gauged her expression and sighed with relief when Sheng Jiayi showed no reaction. “Alright, you’re a good girl. Remember not to stay out too late.”

“Got it.” Sheng Jiayi got up to fetch her bag.

She wore a blue knit top that revealed her slender shoulders and elegant collarbones, paired with deep blue wide-leg jeans that visually lengthened her already long legs.

Her long hair was tied high in a ponytail, its length reaching just past her waist.

Her makeup was minimal—usually just three steps: base, brows, and lipstick.

She knew she was beautiful and understood how to showcase it best, never burdening herself with unnecessary embellishments.

She casually grabbed a black and gold handbag from the cabinet, prompting He Xiyue’s side glance. “Rare to see you carry such an affordable bag out.”

Though bags worth thousands were not cheap, by Sheng Jiayi’s standards—luxury Hermès purchases were the norm—this was practically an afterthought in her wardrobe.

Sheng Jiayi was already at the door. Hearing this, she turned back with a slight snort. “No need.”

Celebrity outings were always troublesome. Paparazzi lurked at the hotel garage, watching for any sign of Sheng Jiayi’s movements.

Her usual car was off-limits; a driver arranged by Song Yuan’s side awaited her downstairs. Two identical black cars were parked in the garage.

Customized BMW VR7 armored vehicles capable of withstanding armor-piercing rounds and small grenades.

Sheng Jiayi stared at the car for a long moment until the window slowly lowered, and the driver stepped forward to open the door. Someone was already seated in the back.

Rarely appearing before the media, Song Yuan himself had come personally.

Sheng Jiayi was momentarily stunned.

“Miss Sheng,” the man nodded in greeting.

The Song family’s ancestors had intermarried with Portuguese nobility, but Song Yuan’s features were not the typical mixed-race visage.

His face was sharp, with strong contours and commanding brows.

An innate sense of peril made Sheng Jiayi’s heart skip a beat.

“Mr. Song,” she smiled slightly and leaned to sit beside him.

The scent of orange blossoms immediately filled the car. Upon closer inhalation, a faint sweetness of honey lingered in the base notes—a soft yet resolute fragrance.

It was as if bathed in a layer of pale golden sunlight, with dappled shadows of trees cast upon the floor. White gauze curtains fluttered at one corner in the breeze. The old balcony beyond was empty, save for wandering pigeons, fluttering clothes on drying racks, and the vigorous chirping of summer afternoon insects.

The air was hazy and dim, perpetually veiled by a thin mist of memory—an unreachable yesterday.

“So now I understand why Miss Sheng rose to fame so swiftly in Hong Kong,” Song Yuan said. “Meeting you in person today, you truly live up to your reputation.”

“You flatter me,” Sheng Jiayi replied, her smile revealing two sweet dimples on her cheeks.

The car sped through the financial district, then drove along the coastline before merging into the crowded urban streets.

He Xiyue would not allow Song Yuan to take Sheng Jiayi anywhere beyond her control. She had arranged for them to dine at an exclusive members-only private restaurant, a favorite haunt of major stars and media executives in Hong Kong’s entertainment circle. The annual membership fee exceeded 100,000 Hong Kong dollars. Nestled in a British colonial-era commercial building, the bank headquarters had moved to Central, leaving this classic Edwardian structure leased by various upscale clubs for gatherings or offices.

From afar, Sheng Jiayi spotted the grand classical building, its white triangular pediment spanning both sides of the street. Above the exaggerated arched portico stood massive marble Ionic columns, while a cylindrical tower soared above. Most embassies and foreign firms in Hong Kong shared similar architectural styles—a legacy of the British Empire’s colonial heyday during the Victorian and Edwardian eras, their ornate classical designs still scattered across the island.

“Have you been here before, Miss Sheng?” Song Yuan asked, noticing her gaze fixed outside.

“No. My agent comes here often.”

“Only Miss Sheng would call Ms. He her agent.”

Sheng Jiayi paused. “Does Mr. Song have any insights?”

The car had stopped on the courtyard lawn. Attendants in white uniforms approached to open doors.

Song Yuan did not answer immediately. They walked through a corridor paved with black and white tiles and entered through an open archway. Ascending a wooden spiral staircase led them to an upper floor housing the much sought-after Western restaurant He Xiyue had mentioned.

A blonde, blue-eyed waiter greeted them first. “Mademoiselle Sheng et Monsieur Song, n’est-ce pas?” (“Miss Sheng and Mr. Song, correct?”)

Sheng Jiayi nodded. “C’est moi.” (“That’s me.”)

“S’il te plaît, passe par là,” the waiter said. (“Please, this way.”)

“You understand French?” Song Yuan asked.

Sheng Jiayi did not deny it. “A little.”

“And Portuguese?”

“I speak Spanish and understand some Portuguese, but not fluently.”

“If you speak Spanish, Portuguese is easy to learn,” Song Yuan said. “You should learn some Portuguese.”

Sheng Jiayi smiled and retorted, “Why?”

They sat in a private room beside a massive Sholyan-style arched window—windows typically divided into three parts by mullions, with a large central arch flanked by two smaller straight windows. Her alma mater, Hong Kong University, had several buildings adorned with this style.

Outside the window was the courtyard, lush with shrubs and a circular marble fountain.

Sheng Jiayi casually pointed to a few dishes and handed over the heavy, stone-like menu to the waiter. Then, she rested her chin on her hand and fixed her gaze on Song Yuan, awaiting his reply.