Exchange of Movie Queens - Chapter 28

As Xi Mo lowered her gaze, Ruan Yesheng seamlessly picked up the emotional thread of the scene.

 

 

She stared at Xi Mo for a few seconds before shifting her dazed eyes to the “corpse of her father” in her arms. Though brief, the transition was agonizing, like tearing flesh from bone. Her expression shifted gradually from grief and fury to ashen despair.

 

 

Deng Xun was dead.

 

 

For Deng Sui, everything that had happened tonight—and much of what would follow—was over.

 

 

In many films and TV shows, whenever a character “passes away,” the actors playing their loved ones would clutch the body, wailing and screaming the deceased’s name while violently shaking them, as if determined to rattle their bones loose. Perhaps the person wasn’t even fully dead yet—such shaking would surely finish the job. Who even decided this was the way to mourn?

 

 

Fortunately, Lin Qitang hadn’t demanded such theatrics during rehearsals, nor did the script impose strict guidelines. Ruan Yesheng was free to react based on her understanding of the character.

 

 

Though Deng Sui had been clever and spirited in her youth, with a gentle disposition, that didn’t mean she was weak. On the contrary, she possessed an unyielding resilience—one of the traits that would later enable her to govern from behind the throne. Now, seeing Deng Xun’s bloodied, brutalized body, Deng Sui knew there was no bringing him back. That sword hadn’t just taken her father’s life—it had also torn away the tender innocence of her girlhood. Amidst the bl00d, she transformed. Though grief threatened to consume her, she stubbornly suppressed it, locking the pain deep within her bones.

 

 

Her father had been murdered.

 

 

She couldn’t afford weakness—not if she wanted to one day avenge him.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng’s emotions grew increasingly raw. Her eyes reddened, her head bowed lower, tears welling up to blur her lashes—yet she refused to let them fall.

 

 

True sorrow didn’t require eye drops and loud sobbing. When the pain cut deep enough, there was no strength left for performative wailing.

 

 

Not a single word escaped Ruan Yesheng. Her head remained lowered, hair ornaments disheveled, shoulders trembling. The camera zoomed in on the faint veins pulsing at her forehead, the collar of her robe slightly askew from earlier panic, revealing the strained tendons of her neck as she fought back sobs. One arm cradled the “corpse,” while the other hand shakily reached out, clutching Xi Mo’s sleeve like a lifeline, gripping it tightly.

 

 

Her father was gone.

 

 

But she still had Ding’e.

 

 

This crying scene was pivotal. Lin Qitang had already explained that at this moment, when Ding’e saw Deng Sui instinctively grabbing her sleeve like she had as a child in times of distress, she was supposed to embrace her just as she had back then.

 

 

Yet Xi Mo didn’t move.

 

 

After years of acting, she had mastered emotional scenes—whether crying herself or reacting to others’ tears. But now, she found herself unable to perform.

 

 

To her surprise, she realized she had gained a new fear.

 

 

She was afraid of seeing Ruan Yesheng cry.

 

 

 

In various works before, she had seen Ruan Yesheng cry. Perhaps it was through the cold screen, so it didn’t mean much to her. Proud as she was, she believed she could cry better. But this was the first time she witnessed Ruan Yesheng’s tears up close on set. They were so near each other, the lighting casting on their faces, allowing her to clearly see the tears trembling on Ruan Yesheng’s lashes, the slight tremors of her body from pain, her disheveled hair and accessories, even the warmth of her fingers clutching at her—all vividly portraying her sorrow.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng was truly a bewitching creature.

 

 

When she cried, people genuinely wanted to comfort her from the heart.

 

 

In that fleeting moment, Xi Mo felt a hint of helplessness stir within her. She didn’t like seeing Ruan Yesheng cry, even feared it, because she had no idea how to soothe her and make the tears stop. This brief hesitation kept Xi Mo from immediately following the script’s direction.

 

 

Meanwhile, Lin Qitang was growing frantic.

 

 

The atmosphere was perfect, this emotionally charged crying scene executed flawlessly. For actors, summoning such raw emotion was incredibly difficult. If he called “cut” now, all their previous efforts might go to waste—it would be such a shame. Even if they reshot, Xi Mo and Ruan Yesheng might not recapture the same intensity.

 

 

Fortunately, Lin Qitang was no amateur. He immediately grabbed an assistant and rushed to an empty spot opposite Ruan Yesheng and Xi Mo, leaving only the assistant director to monitor the screens.

 

 

The assistant, bewildered, stumbled along as Lin Qitang dragged him into position.

 

 

Since Lin Qitang hadn’t called “cut,” Xi Mo remained in character, though she hadn’t proceeded with the next action. Her peripheral vision caught Lin Qitang and the assistant. Years of acting experience helped her instantly grasp the director’s intention—since filming hadn’t stopped, neither should she. She kept her gaze subtly aware of them without breaking character.

 

 

Lin Qitang abruptly pushed the assistant to the ground, then pulled him into an embrace.

 

 

The assistant was utterly confused: “?”

 

 

Xi Mo: “…”

 

 

Lin Qitang simply looked at his assistant and softly delivered a line from the script: “…Miss, don’t cry.”

 

 

The assistant grew even more baffled: “??”

 

 

Xi Mo: “…”

 

 

This scene wasn’t being recorded live for sound, so Lin Qitang’s words wouldn’t matter—everything would be muted in post-production, with dubbing and sound effects added later. As long as the visuals worked, it was fine. Nowadays, some directors would feed lines during crucial scenes while actors performed, and some actors even relied on assistants to prompt forgotten lines. While convenient, this practice eroded many actors’ line delivery skills. With poor performances salvaged by dubbing, few in the entertainment industry could perform with live sound anymore.

 

 

Determined to preserve this scene and not waste the actors’ brilliant performances, Lin Qitang took matters into his own hands.

 

 

 

Lin Qitang held his assistant in his arms, imagining himself as Ding E and the assistant as Deng Sui, while saying to Xi Mo, “Ruan Yesheng, remember what I told you before. At this moment, Deng Sui, who has just witnessed her father’s death, is extremely fragile. She desperately needs Ding E. So when Xi Mo grabs your hand seeking comfort, hesitate for a moment, then embrace her!”

 

 

The word “embrace” made Xi Mo shiver.

 

 

From her angle, Ruan Yesheng couldn’t see Lin Qitang’s actions as she was facing away from him, but she could hear his instructions. She maintained her in-character posture, while the veteran actor playing Deng Xun’s corpse with a sword through his chest remained as professional as ever.

 

 

“First reach out your hand, then slowly embrace,” Lin Qitang demonstrated by gently hugging his assistant. The assistant, a burly and masculine man, suddenly looked like a delicate bird nestling against someone, frozen in place.

 

 

Assistant: “…”

 

 

Facing Xi Mo, Lin Qitang continued, “Ruan Yesheng, the Ding E you’re playing now has complex emotions. Having just killed Deng Xun and seeing Deng Sui, her heart must be in turmoil, yet she can’t show it on her face. Don’t rush the process. Slowly extend your hand, then hold Xi Mo tightly! Show the deep bond between master and servant who grew up together since childhood!”

 

 

Xi Mo: “…”

 

 

Since when do you understand what a “bond” is, Lin Qitang? If you love acting so much, why don’t you do it yourself? You could even play both roles!

 

 

Feng Tangtang, watching from the sidelines, was confused by Lin Qitang’s shouting. What was this about a bond? Wasn’t it supposed to be between the male lead Emperor Liu Zhao and the female lead Deng Sui? Now even the female lead and supporting character had some master-servant bond? In Feng Tangtang’s goldfish-like simple mind, this historical palace drama seemed to have an awful lot of bonds.

 

 

When she mentioned this to Gu Qisong beside her, he woodenly asked, “What’s a bond?”

 

 

Feng Tangtang: “…”

 

 

Never mind.

 

 

However, Lin Qitang’s reminder did snap Xi Mo back to reality. The strange discomfort she felt earlier was temporarily pushed aside. The previous segment could be edited out later. She was still in character, and as long as she maintained her performance from now on, it wasn’t too late for her.

 

 

Channeling Ding E’s appropriate reaction, Xi Mo’s fingers trembled slightly. Her hands were covered in artificial bl00d, and one camera focused on her physical performance. Finally, she raised her hand and clasped Ruan Yesheng’s fingers gripping her sleeve. Ruan Yesheng responded by shaking her shoulders more intensely. Xi Mo then pulled Ruan Yesheng into an embrace, resting her head against her.

 

 

Ding E embraced Deng Sui.

 

 

She also gently held Ruan Yesheng.

 

 

In this embrace, she ignored her own heartbeat yet seemed to step into another world. Here, she could feel Ruan Yesheng’s warm breath and the rapid pounding of her heart—so close that it almost felt like it was beating against her skin. The intensity made Xi Mo feel inexplicably awkward, more so than in any other acting scene she’d done, to the point where her back began to sweat.

 

 

Nevertheless, the show must go on.

 

 

“Miss,” Xi Mo whispered as Ding E.

 

 

Her hand rested on Ruan Yesheng’s back, gently patting. “Don’t cry.”

 

 

 

It was as if all the pent-up emotions had finally burst through the dam. Deng Sui’s grief could now be temporarily laid to rest, and Ruan Yesheng’s tear-filled eyes lowered as her lashes trembled, sending teardrops rolling down her cheeks.

 

 

Clutching the veteran actor’s “corpse,” she leaned into Xi Mo and sobbed like a little girl, her voice hoarse and unstoppable.

 

 

“Director Lin, Director Lin,” the burly assistant, still held in Lin Qitang’s embrace, awkwardly said, “The demonstration’s over… Could you, uh, let me go now?”

 

 

Lin Qitang shot him a look that clearly conveyed, “A legendary director like me gracing you with this opportunity is an honor for a mere mortal like you,” before releasing the assistant and calmly returning to the monitor to review the scene they had just filmed.

 

 

The night shoot concluded perfectly, and Lin Qitang excitedly shouted, “Cut, excellent! Everyone take a break—makeup artists, touch-ups!”

 

 

Feng Tangtang clapped enthusiastically while the rest of the crew sighed in relief and broke into smiles.

 

 

The moment the veteran actor heard “cut,” he sprang up. Knowing he was a revered figure in the industry, Xi Mo and Ruan Yesheng respectfully said, “Thank you for your hard work, Teacher Li.” The veteran actor nodded, exchanged a few words of praise with them, and was then escorted by the crew to rest.

 

 

Earlier, when Ruan Yesheng had listened to Lin Qitang explaining the scene, she had nearly died laughing inside. But she had a knack for this kind of split-personality act—amused in her mind yet delivering flawless acting, her tears utterly genuine. Now that the scene was done, she relaxed instantly, her eyes still wet as she burst into laughter, proving she was a consummate professional who saved her giggles for after filming.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng collapsed against Xi Mo in laughter.

 

 

Xi Mo, who had been holding her all along, frowned. “Only laughing now? Your reaction time is that slow?”

 

 

Tilting her head in Xi Mo’s arms, Ruan Yesheng blinked up at her and whispered, “You’ve held me this long—what’s a little longer? I’m still recovering.”

 

 

Xi Mo didn’t argue or let go, only grumbled, “Wipe your tears already.”

 

 

Ruan Yesheng instinctively dabbed at her eyes, the corners still red, her smile now even more coquettish. “Ugh, crying ruined my makeup.”

 

 

Seeing the stark contrast between her tearful performance and her current demeanor, Xi Mo felt the urge she’d had earlier—to comfort her, even fear her crying—had been utterly shredded and fed to the dogs.

 

 

“Xi-jie, let me touch up your makeup.” The makeup artist jogged over—there were still scenes to film.

 

 

With others approaching, Ruan Yesheng couldn’t keep up her playful act. Now in character, she instantly schooled her expression into icy detachment, straightening up and standing slowly before coolly saying, “Alright, let’s head over there.”

 

 

Watching Ruan Yesheng switch personas in a second, Xi Mo thought she was truly a master of split personalities.

 

 

As Ruan Yesheng walked away, Xi Mo remained seated, her own icy mask in place. Feng Tangtang bounded over and affectionately asked if “Ruan Ruan” wanted water. Xi Mo nearly shot her a frosty glare out of habit, but remembering she was also playing a role, she instantly softened into a gentle, flower-like smile, accepting the water bottle. “Tangtang, I was just thirsty—thank you.”

 

 

She, too, had effortlessly embraced the art of split personalities.

 

 

 

The night shoot at the Deng residence wrapped up around eleven. While some crew members stayed behind to tidy up, the rest dragged their exhausted bodies back to the hotel.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng and Xi Mo were staying at the same hotel and shared a ride back. Though Ruan secretly wanted to strike up a conversation, the presence of Lu Qingming and Gu Qisong in the car kept her quiet. Occasionally, she’d steal glances at Xi Mo, only to find her wearing an unmistakable “keep away” expression. The car remained silent, especially after Lu moved to the front seat—Xi Mo had dropped her acting facade.

 

 

Perhaps she was genuinely tired, revealing her true self in this exhaustion. For someone as proud as Xi Mo, maintaining a persona for others every day except during filming must have been draining.

 

 

Ruan watched as Xi Mo’s head gradually drooped, yet her posture remained impeccably upright against the seat—falling asleep in that stubborn, almost acrobatic position.

 

 

The air conditioning was a bit too cold. Ruan quietly pulled out a thin blanket from the back and draped it over her.

 

 

At the hotel, they took the elevator together. When the eighth floor arrived, Xi Mo gave a perfunctory wave, muttered “see you tomorrow,” and strode out without looking back.

 

 

As the elevator doors began closing, Ruan immediately hit the open button and said to Lu Qingming, “I just remembered I need to discuss something about the script with Ruan Yesheng. You two go ahead.”

 

 

The dead chicken incident from earlier still weighed on Lu’s mind. “Let Gu Qisong accompany you. He can escort you back to your room afterward.”

 

 

“It’s just a few floors. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

 

 

Lu could be stubborn. “Then have Gu wait for you. He’ll see you back.”

 

 

Ruan frowned.

 

 

Seeing her expression, Lu hesitated before relenting. “Fine, we’ll go up first. But hurry back. You never used to have much to say to that Ruan woman. Even though you’re in the same production now, aside from necessary scenes, keep your distance. You know how many people try to leech off your fame. Xi Mo, remember to stay clear of irrelevant people.”

 

 

Ruan mentally rolled her eyes and stepped out without responding.

 

 

Yan Tinghuan was in room 0825, likely already asleep. Xi Mo, next door, swiped her keycard—then paused, sensing someone behind her. She turned to find Ruan following. “Something wrong?”

 

 

“Do I need a reason to see you?” Ruan countered.

 

 

Xi Mo’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly as she opened the door. “Want to come in?”

 

 

Despite Xi Mo’s tired demeanor, Ruan noted this was progress—the old Xi Mo would never have invited her in. She wasn’t greedy; this small change alone was sweetness enough to cherish.

 

 

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Ruan lowered her gaze. “No, I just wanted to say… without someone like Gu Qisong around, be careful. That incident today could’ve been serious.”

 

 

Xi Mo studied her. Ruan’s expression was composed, yet there seemed to be a flicker of something elusive—shyness? Xi Mo blinked, wondering if fatigue was playing tricks on her.

 

 

 

Just like the cliché plots often seen in TV dramas, the female lead who had silently admired someone for a long time originally had no connection with that person—she could only watch from afar. But suddenly one day, due to a so-called twist of fate, the female lead and her crush became entangled in some troublesome situation together. Amidst the worry, the female lead finally mustered the courage to approach that person with all sorts of legitimate excuses.

 

 

As she watched, Xi Mo suddenly felt that faint trace of awkwardness from when she had held her during filming return. Keeping her expression composed, she said, “Mm, I know.”

 

 

That peculiar sensation crept up Xi Mo’s spine. She paused, feeling she should be a little gentler with Ruan Yesheng at this moment, and added, “Thanks for the reminder.”

 

 

Ruan Yesheng smiled, simply looking at her with eyes that seemed to bloom like flowers.

 

 

“It’s late. Aren’t you going back to rest?” The atmosphere was growing increasingly uncomfortable for Xi Mo—the problem was, she didn’t even understand when this kind of atmosphere had developed. She felt she should end this conversation as soon as possible to free herself.

 

 

“I’m heading back now.” Ruan Yesheng nodded at her, gave her one last glance, then turned and walked away, her steps light as air.

 

 

Xi Mo stared at her retreating figure, thinking, She’s just like she was back in university.

 

 

But back then, Xi Mo hadn’t been very willing to spend time with her because Ruan Yesheng had shamelessly pestered her. Now, as she watched her, she suddenly realized Ruan Yesheng had actually been wonderful even back then.

 

 

Xi Mo stood dazed for a moment, about to close the door, when she heard a call from behind: “Xi Mo.”

 

 

She turned her head and saw Ruan Yesheng had suddenly stopped and turned around.

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“You haven’t said goodnight to me yet.” Ruan Yesheng stood bathed in the hazy corridor light, hands clasped behind her back, smiling at her.

 

 

You haven’t said goodnight to me yet.

 

 

Xi Mo’s ink-black eyes froze.

 

 

Back in university, after evening self-study, her family would send someone to pick her up every night. Sometimes, Ruan Yesheng would walk with Xi Mo all the way to the parking area. Xi Mo would tell her not to follow, but Ruan Yesheng would always say she had to pass the parking area to get back to the dorm anyway, leaving Xi Mo with no choice.

 

 

Before Xi Mo got into the car, Ruan Yesheng would say, “We’re classmates. You haven’t said goodnight to me yet.”

 

 

She couldn’t remember whether she had always responded with a goodnight.

 

 

It was too long ago—she had forgotten.

 

 

“Goodnight.” Leaning against the doorframe, her long hair cascading over her shoulders, Xi Mo whispered to her.

 

 

Satisfied, Ruan Yesheng left, took the elevator back to her room, and, just like the girl she once was, flopped onto the soft blankets.

 

 

Her heart raced, brimming with laughter.

 

 

At this moment, she felt truly happy.