The main story describes a Chinese influencer-run industry that sold courses teaching women techniques to attract wealthy partners and then faced regulatory and public backlash after students reported poor outcomes. The influencer Zhou Yuan operated a program called Black and White Sexual Intelligence Academy that claimed to teach charm and persuasion, charging low-cost trial lessons and higher-tier packages that reached as much as 88,000 yuan for mentorship and offering offline camps priced between 2,999 and 4,880 yuan. The academy reportedly generated more than 24 million yuan in revenue by promoting exaggerated poses, scripted lines, and staged luxury lifestyles, and by upselling adult products and medical beauty services at marked-up prices.

The business model described involved recruiting customers with inexpensive trial courses and provocative short videos, segmenting paying clients into tiered programs, and then monetizing through expensive follow-on services and goods. The programs targeted mostly women aged 35 to 50, including stay-at-home wives and traditionally raised women lacking financial independence, and allegedly taught tactics for formalizing extramarital relationships while also advising wives on retaining spouses, generating profit from opposing sides of marital conflict.

Students and commentators reported that the training often failed to deliver promised results, with some saying relationships grew more distant and a few cases accelerating divorce. Viral videos of students practicing taught techniques drew ridicule and criticism for crossing into inappropriate content. Public scrutiny intensified when China Women’s News criticized the influencer for treating women as objects and reducing their value to tools for pleasing men, and the influencer’s main Douyin account was permanently banned. Local market authorities then ordered the cessation of the academy’s online and offline activities and opened an investigation.

The narrative places the influencer’s operation in the context of a broader industry of similar socialite and matchmaking bootcamps, citing past examples where programs required cosmetic procedures at partner clinics and staged luxury personas for social media, with critics characterizing the industry as monetizing anxiety rather than building lasting skills. A financial analyst quoted in the coverage described the model as selling consumable services that do not create long-term assets, and noted that changing economic conditions and reduced spending by wealthy men have eroded the market for such programs, leaving many participants financially and emotionally worse off.

Original article (china) (mentorship) (entitlement)

Overall verdict: the article is mainly a descriptive exposé and does not give a normal reader clear, practical help. It tells a cautionary story about a lucrative-but-predatory influencer business that sold charm-and-matchmaking courses, but it mostly reports what happened rather than offering actionable instructions, deeper explanation of mechanisms, or concrete guidance a reader could use immediately.

Actionability: the article offers almost no direct, usable steps a reader can follow. It describes the sales funnel (cheap trial lessons, provocative videos, tiered upsells, offline camps, markup on products and services) and gives price examples and revenue figures, but it stops at reportage. It does not give step-by-step advice on how to evaluate such programs before paying, how to recover money, how to report misconduct, or how to protect personal data and mental health when involved. The references to regulatory action and bans are factual but not translated into clear instructions about where or how a harmed consumer should seek redress. In short, there is little a reader can do tomorrow based solely on the article.

Educational depth: the article provides surface-level explanations of the business model and situates this influencer’s program within a broader industry trend. It names tactics used (scripted content, staged luxury, upselling) and observes who was targeted (women 35–50, stay-at-home spouses), but it does not deeply analyze underlying causes, such as why demand emerged, the psychology of sales funnels and social proof, the legal framework for consumer protections, or how platforms and regulators vet or fail to vet such offerings. The numbers given (prices, reported revenue) illustrate scale but are not accompanied by transparent sourcing, breakdowns, or context that would let a reader assess how representative or reliable they are. Overall the piece is explanatory at a surface level but not diagnostic or analytic enough to teach someone how the industry operates in detail or how to detect similar schemes reliably.

Personal relevance: the information is materially relevant to people who might be considering paid personal coaching, social-media-based courses, or services marketed through influencers—particularly middle-aged women or individuals with limited financial independence. It matters for money and emotional wellbeing for anyone targeted by similar programs. However, for readers outside that demographic or not engaged with influencer commerce, the relevance is more general and less immediate. The article does not personalize risk factors or provide guidance on how to tell if one is being targeted, limiting its practical relevance.

Public service function: the article performs a basic public-service role by exposing a harmful operation and documenting regulatory response, which can alert readers to the existence of these schemes. But it falls short of being a useful public-service guide: it provides no clear warnings on how to spot such operations, no step-by-step reporting channels consumers can use, and no safety guidance for people currently involved or at risk. As a result it is more informational than prescriptive.

Practicality of any advice present: the article mostly recounts events and criticism. Where it hints at harms (students reporting poor outcomes, increased divorce, ridicule), it does not translate those into realistic steps a reader could follow, such as how to document transactions for refunds, how to seek legal or regulatory help, how to disengage safely from manipulative groups, or how to assess the credibility of a coach. Any “lessons” are implicit—beware upsells, staged content—but not operationalized into checklists or simple routines an ordinary person could apply.

Long-term usefulness: by describing an industry trend and regulatory pushback, the article could prompt readers to be more skeptical of similar offers in the future. But because it lacks guidance on durable prevention strategies (consumer rights basics, how platforms vet creators, ways to build genuine skills without exploitative programs), its long-term value for helping readers avoid similar pitfalls is limited.

Emotional and psychological impact: the coverage may create understandable alarm or moral outrage, particularly among people who see themselves as potential targets. Because the piece focuses on sensational elements (staged luxury, extramarital tactics, viral ridicule) without offering coping advice, it risks leaving readers feeling anxious or helpless rather than empowered to act constructively.

Clickbait or sensationalizing: the article leans on vivid examples and dramatic outcomes to attract attention. It does identify problematic tactics and consequences, but some of the language and highlighted incidents appear chosen for shock value rather than to provide measured, instructive analysis. That reduces its credibility as a practical consumer guide.

Missed opportunities: the article could have taught readers more about simple verification steps for online courses, red flags in influencer marketing, consumer complaint procedures, data privacy risks, or how to assess whether a skill-based program creates lasting assets. It could also have given resources for emotional support or legal recourse for people harmed by manipulative programs. None of these were provided in actionable form.

Practical, general guidance the article failed to provide (useable by a normal reader):

Before paying for any influencer-run course, verify the seller and the offer. Check for multiple independent reviews outside the platform where the seller markets the course; be cautious if only paid testimonials or platform-hosted comments exist. Ask for a clear written contract or terms that specify what you are buying, the exact services, the refund policy, and how disputes will be handled. Treat vague promises of “life change” or “wealthy partners” as red flags.

Assess financial risk by treating course fees as a purchase, not an investment. Decide in advance the maximum you can afford to lose. For large packages, insist on an itemized invoice and request a cooling-off period before committing. Use payment methods that allow chargebacks (credit cards or platforms with buyer protection) rather than irreversible transfers.

Spot common red flags in high-pressure upsell funnels: free or very cheap trials that pivot quickly to “limited-time” expensive mentorship offers; heavy use of staged luxury imagery without verifiable third-party proof; requests to buy offline or bundled services only through partner businesses; scripted role-playing videos presented as proof of success. If the program encourages secrecy, extramarital behavior, or actions that could harm your relationships or legal standing, disengage.

Protect yourself if you’ve already participated and suspect fraud or harm. Save all communication, receipts, screenshots of promotional claims, and any recordings of pressured sales calls. Contact the platform where the influencer operated and file formal complaints, including copies of evidence. Check local consumer protection agencies and administrative regulators for complaint procedures. If money was taken via bank transfer, contact your bank promptly to ask about chargeback or dispute processes.

Guard emotional wellbeing. If participation in such a program caused relationship strain, shame, or anxiety, consider reaching out to trusted friends or a counselor for support. Avoid public shaming or revenge actions that could escalate conflict; focus on restoring financial stability and seeking constructive remedies through proper channels.

Learn basic critical-evaluation habits to avoid similar schemes. Compare independent sources, look for third-party verification (journalistic coverage, regulatory action, professional accreditation), and ask which concrete, measurable skills the course teaches and how those map to long-term outcomes. Prefer programs that offer transparent curricula, demonstrable before-and-after evidence tied to verifiable metrics, and instructors with verifiable credentials and a track record outside social media dramatization.

By following these practical safeguards—verifying sellers, limiting financial exposure, recognizing common upsell tactics, documenting transactions, using platform and bank protections, and seeking emotional support—you gain immediate, realistic steps to reduce risk and respond if harmed. These are general, commonsense measures applicable to any influencer-driven commercial offer.

"charging low-cost trial lessons and higher-tier packages that reached as much as 88,000 yuan for mentorship and offering offline camps priced between 2,999 and 4,880 yuan."

This highlights class/money bias by focusing on prices and tiers. It helps readers see the business as taking advantage of customers and frames the operation as monetizing people. It hides any neutral or positive reasons for pricing and does not show the company’s perspective or market context.

"promoting exaggerated poses, scripted lines, and staged luxury lifestyles, and by upselling adult products and medical beauty services at marked-up prices."

This uses strong words that push feeling: "exaggerated," "scripted," "staged," and "marked-up." Those words paint the program as fake and greedy. It helps the critics’ view and hides any possible legitimate teaching or value in the materials.

"targeted mostly women aged 35 to 50, including stay-at-home wives and traditionally raised women lacking financial independence"

This is sex-based and cultural bias in wording. It frames the students as dependent and vulnerable and links their gender and upbringing to neediness. It helps a view that these women were exploited and hides any agency or diversity among participants.

"allegedly taught tactics for formalizing extramarital relationships while also advising wives on retaining spouses, generating profit from opposing sides of marital conflict."

This shows a moral-bias framing with a loaded claim. The word "allegedly" is used but the rest states actions that imply wrongdoing. The phrasing makes the business look duplicitous and profits-from-harm while not giving evidence or the program's account, so it favors the negative interpretation.

"students practicing taught techniques drew ridicule and criticism for crossing into inappropriate content."

This condenses public reaction and uses the words "ridicule" and "inappropriate" to push moral judgment. It helps readers adopt a negative view of the material and hides any sympathetic or contextual explanations for the practice videos.

"China Women’s News criticized the influencer for treating women as objects and reducing their value to tools for pleasing men, and the influencer’s main Douyin account was permanently banned."

This is political/cultural bias in citing a critic and an action. Quoting the criticism and the ban together frames the influencer as rightly punished. It helps the regulatory and social condemnation narrative and hides any discussion of due process or nuance about the ban.

"A financial analyst quoted in the coverage described the model as selling consumable services that do not create long-term assets, and noted that changing economic conditions and reduced spending by wealthy men have eroded the market for such programs"

This uses expert appeal to support a market-critique bias. Citing an analyst gives authority to the claim that the model is unsustainable. It helps the view that the industry is inherently hollow and hides counterarguments or data that might show adaptability or other revenue streams.

"the academy reportedly generated more than 24 million yuan in revenue by promoting... and by upselling adult products and medical beauty services at marked-up prices."

This uses a reported large revenue figure alongside negative actions to imply scale of wrongdoing. It lends weight to condemnation by pairing money and moralizing words. It helps readers conclude exploitation at scale and hides the source detail or how revenue breaks down.

The passage carries multiple clear and nuanced emotions that shape how the reader responds. One dominant emotion is anger, seen in words and phrases describing regulatory backlash, public criticism, and permanent bans; terms like “backlash,” “criticized,” “permanently banned,” and authorities ordering cessation convey strong disapproval and a punitive response. The anger is fairly strong in the text because it frames the influencer and the academy as culpable and deserving of sanctions; its purpose is to signal wrongdoing and to align the reader with institutions and commentators who condemn the practices. Another prominent emotion is disgust or moral outrage, suggested by descriptions of treating women “as objects,” “reducing their value,” and “crossing into inappropriate content.” This feeling is moderate to strong and is used to deepen condemnation by appealing to readers’ sense of dignity and decency, encouraging revulsion at the practices described. Sympathy and sadness toward the affected women appear as well; phrases about customers being “financially and emotionally worse off,” “students reported poor outcomes,” and relationships growing “more distant” evoke concern and pity. These emotions are moderate in intensity and serve to humanize the victims, prompting readers to feel compassion and worry for the women targeted by the industry. Fear and anxiety are present in descriptions of an industry that “monetiz[es] anxiety” and exploits financially dependent women; the language suggests vulnerability and risk, producing a moderate degree of alarm meant to warn readers about predatory business models. Shame and embarrassment are hinted at through mention of “ridicule,” “viral videos,” and staged poses that drew criticism; that tone is mild to moderate and underscores social disapproval, making the practices appear not only wrong but publicly humiliating. There is also a sense of cynicism or skepticism in phrases that describe exaggerated claims, staged lifestyles, and selling “consumable services that do not create long-term assets.” This skepticism is moderate and functions to undermine the credibility of the industry and its promises, steering the reader toward doubt rather than acceptance. A muted sense of disappointment is detectable in references to failed promises and unmet expectations; words like “failed to deliver promised results” carry low-to-moderate disappointment and aim to temper any initial allure the programs might have had. Finally, a pragmatic, critical tone from authorities and analysts conveys determination and corrective intent: actions by market authorities and investigative steps communicate resolve, a moderate feeling used to reassure the reader that harm is being addressed.

These emotions guide the reader’s reaction by combining moral condemnation (anger, disgust), empathy (sympathy, sadness), caution (fear, anxiety), and doubt (skepticism). Together they encourage the reader to side with critics and regulators, feel concern for the victims, and lose trust in the influencer’s claims. The emotional framing moves the audience from curiosity about a sensational service toward disapproval and support for intervention.

The writer uses several persuasive techniques to amplify emotional impact. Loaded language and vivid descriptors—such as “treating women as objects,” “staged luxury lifestyles,” and “monetizing anxiety”—replace neutral phrasing to provoke moral judgment and discomfort. Repetition of the industry’s monetary figures and pricing tiers emphasizes the scale of commercialization and the idea of exploitation, making financial motives seem central and excessive. Contrast is used when the text places promised glamour and wealth—“scripted lines,” “staged luxury personas”—against reported poor outcomes and regulatory bans; this juxtaposition heightens a sense of betrayal and exposes deception. Citing consequences—student ridicule, accelerating divorces, permanent bans, and investigations—serves as narrative escalation, making the situation appear increasingly serious and inevitable. The inclusion of authoritative voices, like market authorities, China Women’s News, and a financial analyst, adds credibility while also reinforcing evaluative judgments, blending emotion with apparent evidence. Personalizing harms through specific age groups and life situations (“women aged 35 to 50,” “stay-at-home wives,” “traditionally raised women lacking financial independence”) fosters empathy and makes the problem concrete rather than abstract. Overall, these tools—charged wording, repetition of monetary detail, contrast between promise and result, escalation of consequences, appeal to authority, and personalization—work together to heighten emotional responses and steer readers toward condemnation of the influencer and sympathy for the affected women.