After the Breakup, the Crazy Movie Queen Clings to Me Every Day (GL) - Chapter 27.2

After their performance, Wen Fei led Lan Jingli on a stroll through the century-old hotel, eventually stopping at a unique hidden library.

“Want to check this place out?”

“Sure.”

Calling it a library wasn’t entirely accurate. The room was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, with bookshelves stacked high against the walls and plush sofas scattered throughout. It felt more like a luxurious lounge for relaxation.

“You seemed distracted during the dance,” Wen Fei said, handing Lan Jingli a thermos. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, yet it made Lan Jingli’s heart flutter slightly.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Lan Jingli replied, feeling surprisingly calm.

“You were thinking about someone.”

Wen Fei’s gaze remained steady, her voice matter-of-fact, carrying an unsettling directness, like an X-ray that left no room for evasion.

Lan Jingli shook her head helplessly, unsure how to explain to Wen Fei. She wasn’t one to easily share her personal matters.

When her mother abandoned her in the countryside, she had spent countless days and nights longing for her return, clinging to the hope that she would come back for her.
For a long time, Lan Jingli couldn’t shake off the feeling of being abandoned, unable to understand why it kept happening.

Through endless waiting and disappointment, she learned to heal herself.

It’s normal not to be loved. There’s no rule that says you’re entitled to love just because you were born.

I just need a little more patience and time.

“I wasn’t really thinking about anything specific. I’ve just been sorting through my thoughts lately, trying to figure things out. But it was wrong of me not to focus on work,” Lan Jingli apologized sincerely.

“I hate it when people zone out while singing with me. It makes me feel so sad, like I’m being ignored,” Wen Fei stated her feelings plainly, her robotic demeanor even more pronounced.

“Then what should I do?”

Wen Fei tilted her head, as if deep in thought. “My throat hurts. If you ask the hotel kitchen to make me a bowl of sweet soup with kumquats and snow pears, I’ll let it go.”

Then, as if remembering something, she held up two fingers. “Wait, make that two bowls. Jia Yang loves it too, and I want to bring her one.”

“You two are good friends? One like fire, the other like ice,” Lan Jingli muttered as she walked out.

At the door, Wei Yixi rushed over, breathless. Seeing Lan Jingli emerge, she immediately asked, “Jingli, are you okay?”

“Xi Xi, slow down! I’m fine. Why are you asking?”

“I… I saw Tan You. She’s here too, and so is Wei Xueyin. Do you want to leave first? I can tell your manager you’re not feeling well.” Wei Yixi bent over, gasping for breath, and it took her a while to recover. “You don’t have anything else scheduled today, so just saying you’re sick should be enough.”

Lan Jingli smiled softly at Wei Yixi’s anxious expression.

“What are you laughing at? Are you so heartbroken you’ve gone crazy?” Wei Yixi reached out to touch Lan Jingli’s forehead.

“I’m not heartbroken, really,” Lan Jingli insisted, maintaining her smile.

Isn’t it perfectly normal for Wei Xueyin to visit her fiancée? They’re deeply in love and about to get married. What’s wrong with them sticking together everywhere they go?

All Lan Jingli wanted was to piece her pride back together, to avoid looking so pathetic, so open to ridicule.
She wanted to be able to watch Tan You, wearing the wedding dress she had designed, marry Wei Xueyin with composure.

If I just don’t think about it, don’t dwell on the memories, it won’t hurt so much. At most, there’ll just be a hollow feeling inside.

She suddenly remembered how, as a child, she used to be afraid of the dark. One night, she had run to the half-price movie theater in her village and happened to catch a little-known film called Absolute Truth.

The female protagonist, during a chance encounter at an event, met a mysterious, beautiful, and charismatic pilot. It was love at first sight. After careful consideration, she decided to leave her college sweetheart and arranged to meet him at a café to break up.

As usual, her boyfriend arrived with his favorite book, ordered the cheapest cappuccino, and opened the book, occasionally exchanging a few words with the female lead.

Everything was so ordinary and simple.

When the coffee was finished, the female lead steeled herself and announced their breakup. Her boyfriend’s fingers froze on the page. He laughed, saying she must be joking, but his smile gradually stiffened.

In this irreversible moment, the boyfriend finally snapped. He knocked over the coffee cup and desperately shouted, “Why are you leaving me? We promised to be together forever! Why? Why?”

The female lead remained unmoved by his outburst, as if facing an unbreakable wall of air. Her boyfriend slumped, muttering, “Why are you leaving? I make you lunch every day.”

If she were the one being dumped, she imagined she would only be able to scream, “Why are you leaving me? I even made your wedding dress!”

It sounded even more absurd than a movie scene. To those who knew them, it was clear they were lovers. To outsiders, she would just seem like a tailor chasing after a debt.

It was a complete and utter tragedy.

But now she understood: effort alone couldn’t make someone love you back.

However, effort could help you stop loving them.

“Excuse me, where’s the kitchen?” Lan Jingli asked a waiter politely.

“It’s on the third floor, Miss. Do you need anything?”

“I’d like to make a bowl of sweet soup.”

“Guests are welcome to cook for themselves.”

“Thank you,” Lan Jingli said, patting Wei Yixi on the shoulder. “Go ahead and get ready for your performance. We’ll call each other later and play games at the dorm.”

“Okay, be careful,” Wei Yixi said reluctantly, leaving for her solo performance.

Lan Jingli went to the kitchen and explained her request to the head chef on duty. She only needed half an hour and was willing to pay for the ingredients.

The chef was surprisingly accommodating, pointing out a pot and even peeling the snow pears for her, preparing all the necessary ingredients.

After thanking him, Lan Jingli began brewing the snow pear soup. But her hand slipped, and she realized she’d added the exact amount of osmanthus sugar Tan You liked.

She smiled wryly. Muscle memory was so stubbornly irrational.

How did I ever fall in love with Tan You?

This memory had once been etched in her mind, eternal and vivid. Now, when she tried to recall their first meeting, the scene felt unreal, like an ancient painting blurred by dampness. Tan You’s figure was shrouded in a cold, distant halo.

The rain that day seemed to shift between heavy downpours and gentle drizzles. Tan You stood in the rain, the falling droplets like cryptic sentences, akin to spells in the magical world—their meaning either fortunate or disastrous for those who witnessed them.

Looking back, she realized she had never truly understood whether Tan You was lonely and isolated or content in her solitude. She had been nothing more than a moth trapped in a spiderweb, entangled by a web of love and resentment that had ensnared her completely.

She had naively believed that as long as two people loved each other, their hearts would remain connected, even without words or physical presence.

But people don’t always love each other.

And perhaps she was simply unlucky, destined to never be loved in return.

Spending a year to come to terms with this truth might not be a complete waste of her life.

The pot of pear soup bubbled gently on the stove. Even crawling forward is still progress, she thought. No turning back.

In the private room on the second floor of the banquet hall, Tan You listened to the report on Lan Jingli’s movements over the phone.

“Miss Lan was in the library with Wen Fei earlier. Then she went to the hotel kitchen to prepare a bowl of snow pear soup.”

“What about Wen Fei?” Tan You asked.

“She’s wandering around. It looks like she’ll probably return to the library to wait for Miss Lan.”

“Mm, thank you for your hard work. Triple overtime pay.”

“Thank you, Chairman Tan.”

After hanging up, Tan You continued practicing calligraphy with focused concentration, seemingly in good spirits.

Aunt Wan, who was watching nearby, couldn’t help but ask, “Didn’t you say you’d wait for Miss Lan to come to you? Why are you having her investigated now?”

Tan You paused, her breath catching for a moment. “I’m not doing anything. I just want to know how she’s been lately.”

“Honestly, if you like her so much, worry about her, and don’t want her involved with anyone else, why don’t you just go to her?” Aunt Wan couldn’t bear to watch any longer. She had never truly understood Tan You, but in the past, she could at least guess her intentions based on intuition and habit.

Ever since Tan You met Lan Jingli, her actions had become increasingly bizarre, leaving Aunt Wan completely baffled.

“I don’t really like her, just a little,” Tan You murmured, staring at the Xuan paper stained with a large ink blot. Her irritation and impatience resurfaced.

The human heart was like a plucked zither string—a gentle strum, a slow pluck, then a sharp strike. The other person might feel their heart break, their heart soar, their heart tremble, laughing madly, lost in delusion, driven to madness. Such music was thrilling, and the game became all the more intriguing.

But every melody ends, every feast concludes. Tan You could only ever be the musician, the hostess, the one in control.

Lan Jingli was merely a stray kitten she’d brought home out of pity that day—a suppressant for her sexual urges, the kind with no side effects… No, this current situation was the side effect.

This “little pill” was something she could rely on, enjoy, and coax, someone who would treat her well and dote on her, but never become an addiction.

Convinced she had managed her emotions, Tan You set down her brush, checked the time, and, seeing it was nearly time, rose to head toward the library.

She encountered Shu Su just as she descended the stairs.

“Youyou, where are you going? Wei Xueyin has been looking for you everywhere.”

“Don’t worry about it. Tell her to go home first.”

“Ah, are you always this cold?” Shu Su asked, surprised by Tan You’s aloof demeanor. She had assumed the two were close. “Wei Xueyin has been looking for you for an hour, saying she can’t get through on your phone.”

“I’m busy,” Tan You replied.

“The chef for tonight’s banquet specializes in Sino-French fusion cuisine—a truly unique flavor. Aren’t you going to try it?”

“No, I want pear soup first.”

“Pear soup? You’re skipping the Michelin three-star dishes to have pear soup?”

Though Tan You’s disinterest was almost palpable, Shu Su sensed a hint of anticipation in her words. Strange, very strange.

“Yes, I’m going to the library. Tell Wei Xueyin not to disturb me.”

Shu Su watched Tan You’s elegant, graceful figure retreat, resigned to handling Wei Xueyin herself.

The library’s bookshelves stretched high, stacked with complete sets of books—perhaps a sign of the owner’s affected refinement.

Tan You washed her hands, donned black silk gloves, and began flipping through botany books with a mix of focus and casualness, her gaze occasionally drifting toward the door.

As expected, Lan Jingli returned within half an hour, carrying the pear soup. Tan You’s smile hadn’t yet formed when a familiar voice called out from beyond the door.

“It smells delicious. You’re amazing,” Wen Fei said slowly, her gray-blue eyes with a robotic quality. “Is this pear soup?”

“Yes, freshly sliced pears, very fresh,” Lan Jingli replied quickly.

“Two red dates?”

“Exactly.”

“Thirty grams of silver ear fungus?”

“Measured out precisely.”

“Did you cut the kumquats into quarters?”

“Yes, and I added a spoonful of osmanthus sugar.”

Wen Fei was delighted that Lan Jingli had followed the recipe perfectly, like a machine. She flashed a textbook-perfect smile.

“Jia Yang and I both love this soup. You absolutely have to come visit us sometime. She’s been talking about you non-stop lately.
“I know. She’s been sending me WeChat messages every day, asking me to watch SpongeBob with her.”

“That’s her favorite cartoon.” Wen Fei took one of the bowls of pear soup and scooped up a spoonful to feed Lan Jingli. “Open wide. I’ll feed you.”

“No need.”

“If you won’t share the soup with me, how about we play a grown-up game?”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Lan Jingli found the members of the Lock Girl Group a bit strange. Chen Jiayang joked inappropriately, while Wen Fei, as the leader, had an almost robotic bluntness.
It was all too much to handle.

“You make soup for me, and I’ll teach you how to kiss,” Wen Fei murmured, pressing close to Lan Jingli’s side. “Don’t move. This is called returning the favor.”

Just as Lan Jingli stood frozen, holding another bowl of pear soup, a sharp crack echoed from behind the bookshelf.

In the fragrant, intoxicating library, the sound was as clear as ice breaking on a spring day.

It was the unmistakable thud of a book being slammed back onto the shelf, its force betraying the person’s extreme impatience and simmering anger.

Caught off guard by the presence of others, both Lan Jingli and Wen Fei startled and turned toward the sound.

Beneath the soft glow of the chandelier, a woman as cool and ethereal as the moon emerged slowly. Her pale, slender legs peeked from beneath her tailored skirt, her long hair was styled in an elegant updo, and her eyes, moist and luminous, radiated a captivating, icy beauty.

Tan You’s gaze lingered on Lan Jingli’s hands before calmly settling on her face.

When she saw Wen Fei gripping Lan Jingli’s collar and Lan Jingli failing to immediately pull away, a shadow darkened the woman’s clear, icy eyes. Yet, at the same moment, her delicate, rosy lips curved into a knowing smile.

“What game is so important that you have to play it with her?”