How To Deal With Being Transmigrated As The Scumbag Ex-Wife - Chapter 47

47: Directors’ Exchange Meeting

“Can you stop filming just the back? Let me see the face! (screaming)”

“No matter where the Second Princess goes, President Ming always follows. If anyone says this isn’t love, I’ll knock their head off! I don’t believe anyone’s best friend follows them around every day like that.”

“Huh? Why is this surprising? Did some people actually think they weren’t together? Didn’t the gossip already confirm that YQJ divorced PX because of MY?”

“Even so, they look so good together. I’m just a shameless face-con stan / Shiba Inu.”

The buzz around Look Up becoming the opening film of the Starlight Film Festival and its nomination for the Asian New Wave category paled in comparison to the attention on the couple’s romance. People didn’t seem to care much about Look Up’s achievements; after all, the film’s quality spoke for itself. Being selected as the opening film for a festival aimed at global filmmakers was already the highest recognition.

As for whether it would win an award, netizens weren’t too familiar with Yu Qingjia’s competitors. They naturally hoped she’d take home the prize to make up for the regret of the Jinhua Awards. But even if she didn’t win, it wasn’t a big deal—her fans already recognized her talent. At the very least, they were eager to support her next film, Immortality, in theaters.

“So when are they going to make it official on Weibo?”

“Last time the Second Princess liked a post, and President Ming made a statement about the Jinhua Awards. Wasn’t that basically an announcement? Everyone knows already; there’s no need for some meaningless official post.”

“Exactly, no need +1. They’re both pretty low-key. President Ming doesn’t like too much public attention, especially since there’s a kid involved. It’s enough that we know they’re together.”

“Hehe, maybe Yu Qingjia’s in another whirlwind romance and will break up just as fast. Maybe Ming Yin’s worried about being embarrassed?”

Amidst the chatter, there were some snarky comments, but fans didn’t bother engaging. In their eyes, Yu Qingjia was so outstanding that she naturally attracted jealousy. Those haters were just envious of her success after transitioning to directing, while they could only stew in their own bitterness. Losers like that didn’t even deserve a glance.

Starlight Film Festival Main Venue

As a rare female director, Yu Qingjia didn’t wear a gown like most actresses on the red carpet. Instead, she appeared in a tailored black suit, exuding confidence.

The moment she stepped onto the red carpet, countless cameras turned to her—

“It’s Yu Qingjia! The Look Up crew is here!”

“Yu Qingjia looks amazing today, such a strong presence. She’s clearly confident!”

“Being chosen as the opening film is a huge affirmation from the committee. Everyone’s curious if she’ll win an award this time.”

Amid the cacophony of voices and shutter clicks, Yu Qingjia heard excited screams as she walked the red carpet. Following the sound, she spotted her fans gathered outside. When they saw her look over, their faces flushed with excitement:

“Second Princess, you’re so cool! We love you!!!”

“Ahhh, we love Xiao Yu!”

“Go Look Up! Go Xiao Yu!”

At her last film festival in Kyoto, her fame was limited, and she had few fans. But this time, at the Starlight Film Festival held domestically, local fans had come out in droves to support her.

Yu Qingjia walked toward them. Seeing her approach, the fans quieted down, their faces red with barely contained excitement. Noticing their handmade signs, she smiled and asked the short-haired girl at the front, “How long have you guys been waiting here?”

Suppressing her excitement, the girl replied, “Since five in the morning. We were afraid we’d miss you if we came too late.” The girls around her chimed in, saying even the latest arrivals had been there for two hours. Yu Qingjia also spotted a few young male fans.

She smiled, took a group photo with them, and signed autographs. “Thanks for your hard work. Go home early, okay? I’m heading inside soon, so don’t wait out here for nothing.”

Her fans nodded eagerly, thrilled to have gotten photos, autographs, and even a conversation with her.

As Yu Qingjia prepared to wave goodbye, a round-faced fan suddenly blurted out, “I hope you and President Ming stay happy together!”

The comment stirred the crowd. Yu Qingjia glanced at the fan, who bashfully buried her face in her hands, too shy to meet her eyes. Glancing at the nearby media, Yu Qingjia smiled faintly and said, “Thank you.” Then she turned back to the red carpet, joining her crew for interviews.

“She admitted it! She admitted it!!!”

“It’s actually real… but they’re such a perfect match!”

“Sob, Xiao Yu didn’t deny it. It’s true love.”

The media, catching this moment, could barely contain their excitement as they rushed to report the news. Although online interactions between Yu Qingjia and Ming Yin had fueled speculation about their relationship, no one had officially confirmed it—until now. Yu Qingjia’s acknowledgment was fresh and bound to generate buzz.

Facing a flurry of cameras, Yu Qingjia maintained a poised smile. She spotted a familiar reporter from a previous film column interview calling out to her.

The reporter, thrilled to see her, raised the microphone. “Look Up was selected as the opening film. What are your thoughts?”

Yu Qingjia smiled warmly. “It’s a huge recognition from the committee. I’m thrilled.”

The reporter continued, “There are many participants at this festival. What are your expectations?”

Glancing around, Yu Qingjia said, “I heard Gaspard Roland is attending this year’s festival. I’m not at his level yet, but if I get the chance, I’d love to talk with him and learn about his approach to cinematography.”

Gaspard Roland, a titan of European cinema, wasn’t called the “Father of Western Cinema” for nothing. His mastery of visual storytelling was unparalleled, and Yu Qingjia hadn’t expected the legendary director to attend this year’s Starlight Film Festival.

Fifteen years ago, after directing Swan Street, Gaspar had retreated from the public eye, teaching quietly at a Western film academy. Even the Jinyue Awards couldn’t persuade him to serve as a judge. His rare appearance at Starlight suggested something—or someone—had drawn him here.

The reporter’s eyes flickered, likely recalling a recent online post by someone claiming to be Gaspar’s student, saying the director admired Yu Qingjia. Though unconfirmed, Gaspar’s presence at the festival fueled speculation about a connection.

Noticing the reporter’s expression, Yu Qingjia could guess his thoughts. Before her strange dreams about her “sister,” she might’ve dismissed this as overthinking. But now, it felt like a plot her sister might’ve written.

Still, she kept those thoughts to herself. This world was real to her, and Gaspar’s contributions to film history were undeniable. If she could discuss ideas with him, it’d be an honor and a rare chance to learn.

The reporter smiled. “A lot of filmmakers are here for Director Gaspar. I can only wish you luck.”

Yu Qingjia made a playful gesture and winked at the camera. “Luck received. Thanks!”

The reporter chuckled. As the next crew took the red carpet, the interview wrapped up smoothly.

After the red carpet, the Look Up crew entered the venue. With so many attendees, the hall was packed with faces from all over, making it hard to distinguish nationalities. Their seats were near the aisle but toward the back, while the front rows were reserved for renowned filmmakers.

On her way to her seat, Yu Qingjia spotted Fang Linyi and Zhao Xian chatting in the front row—both prominent international directors. She couldn’t compare to them. As she passed, Zhao Xian glanced at her, his Look Up not contemptuous but appraising.

Once seated, Yu Qingjia scanned the crowd and recognized the director next to her: Park Moon-ji, who directed River Reflections. Park had been impressed by Yu Qingjia since she won the Sakura Award, and her previous film had gained significant attention in Korea—a rare feat for a Chinese-language film. He’d initially thought she was a skilled commercial director, but Look Up proved him wrong.

Park nodded politely. “It’s great to see you at the festival. I didn’t get to greet you last time. Your work is impressive.”

Surprised but pleased, Yu Qingjia smiled and engaged in a quiet conversation with him. She admired Park’s talent at such a young age, and the growing international presence of his country’s film industry was noteworthy.

Nearby, Pan Xing, listening to Yu Qingjia discuss incomprehensible film jargon with another director, fiddled with her fingers in boredom. Moments later, she noticed someone switch seats next to her.

Glancing over, she saw Si Lingyou sitting stiffly, staring straight ahead.

Pan Xing: …

Catching her helpless look, Si Lingyou felt a twinge of grievance but forced a smile. “I heard Sister Xing’s been busy lately. Are you holding up okay?”

Others might’ve taken this as sarcasm, implying Pan Xing wasn’t used to such a hectic schedule. But Pan Xing knew Si Lingyou was genuinely guileless. Rolling her eyes, she replied, “I’m fine.”

Si Lingyou cautiously added, “It’s getting warmer lately. Don’t catch a cold, Sister Xing.”

Faced with such earnest concern, Pan Xing sighed inwardly, her expression softening. “I heard from Brother Weng you’re doing a competitive reality show soon?”

Si Lingyou’s eyes lit up, surprised that Pan Xing knew her schedule. “Yes, Life’s Performance. I’ve been training with an acting coach for a while, but I’m not sure if I’ll make it past the first round.”

Pan Xing reassured her, “You’re nominated for Best Supporting Actress. Have some confidence.”

Si Lingyou almost blurted out that Yu Qingjia had taught her well but stopped herself, glancing at Yu Qingjia, who was still chatting. She swallowed her words.

She didn’t want to praise Yu Qingjia in front of Pan Xing.

After the Starlight Film Festival’s opening ceremony, various screenings began across multiple venues. Yu Qingjia had planned to watch other films, but it was Xiao Lizhi’s birthday, and Ming Yin had come to S City specifically for her. Skipping out to watch movies instead of spending time with them felt wrong, especially since she and Ming Yin had just confirmed their relationship.

As she prepared to head back to the hotel, a festival staff member approached her quickly. Pausing, Yu Qingjia waited to see if they were looking for her.

Sure enough, the staff member called out, “Director Yu Qingjia, please wait!”

Raising an eyebrow, she stepped closer. “What’s up?”

The staff member said, “Directors Fang Linyi and Zhao Xian are having tea in the lounge and asked if you have time to join them.”

This caught Yu Qingjia off guard. Fang Linyi and Zhao Xian were towering figures in Chinese cinema—Fang based abroad, Zhao domestically. Though no public reports confirmed their friendship, top directors in China inevitably crossed paths. Even if they didn’t vibe personally, they respected each other’s achievements.

Zhao Xian had once criticized her online, but Yu Qingjia didn’t take it personally—it was just a difference of opinion. She wasn’t naive enough to dismiss Zhao Xian’s artistry over it. Still, being invited to tea by these two was surprising.

Were they impressed by her potential and wanted to offer guidance?

The thought flickered briefly. Smiling, she said, “Of course I have time. Is it just Directors Fang and Zhao?”

The staff member led her to the lounge, adding, “Directors Dong Qiang and Yao Zhi are there too.”

Dong Qiang and Yao Zhi were also prominent Chinese directors, classmates of Zhao Xian from university. While not as acclaimed as Zhao, they were still first-tier directors with solid foundations, though they hadn’t produced much recently.

Yu Qingjia couldn’t quite figure out their intentions. This felt like a private gathering, why invite her?

The staff member soon brought her to the lounge, knocked, and opened the door.

Inside, three men and one woman sat around a table drinking tea: Fang Linyi, Zhao Xian, Yao Zhi, and Dong Qiang. Seeing her enter, Dong Qiang greeted her warmly, “Come sit! We were just talking about you.”

Her familiar tone prompted Yu Qingjia to respond smoothly. She took the empty seat beside Dong Qiang, greeted the four seniors politely, and smiled. “I never imagined I’d get to have tea with you all. It’s my honor.”

“No need for all that ‘senior’ talk. Your work is impressive too. We just wanted to chat,” Fang Linyi said, waving off the formality. Though his tone was friendly, his expression carried a hint of gloom.

Yu Qingjia recalled his recent film, Dream. Its stark color contrasts and oppressive atmosphere marked a departure from his usual style, reflecting the personal tragedies he’d faced—his wife’s death and his son’s fatal accident. Dream wasn’t a box office hit but was undeniably a high-caliber work. Fang Linyi still seemed to carry that grief.

Dong Qiang spoke up, “I’ve seen both of your films. Look Up is clearly a step above Star Making Plan, and it did well at the box office. Why pivot to big-budget special effects films?” Her confusion was evident.

Yu Qingjia didn’t bristle at the question. “When we were scheduling Look Up, we considered the summer slot, but it was packed with blockbusters. Unlike you seniors with established clout, I’m a young director without formal training. I couldn’t risk competing with those films.”

She wasn’t in a position to grandstand about “saving Chinese cinema,” even if that was her underlying goal.

Yao Zhi nodded understandingly. Even he, less renowned than Zhao Xian, avoided clashing with blockbusters. For a young director like Yu Qingjia, it was a sensible choice.

“My decision proved right. If not for Summer Pet 2, films like Forest Beyond the Window or February 19th wouldn’t have struggled so much at the box office,” Yu Qingjia said, resting her chin on her hand. “Since audiences love special effects blockbusters, why can’t I make one? I want to create a blockbuster infused with our cultural heritage.”

Dong Qiang, who’d seen Look Up and sensed Yu Qingjia wasn’t driven by profit, nodded approvingly. She didn’t care what others filmed as long as she wasn’t forced to make such movies.

Before Yu Qingjia could continue, a low voice interrupted, “You think February 19th is a good film?”

It was Zhao Xian, who’d been watching her with that appraising gaze since she entered. His tone wasn’t hostile, but it made her slightly uncomfortable.

Yu Qingjia anticipated where this was going but nodded. “Artistically, yes.” Narratively, though, it was trash.

That’s why so many online criticized the Jinhua Awards for bias—general audiences cared about story, not cinematography or framing.

As expected, Zhao Xian followed up, “If so, why do you think the Jinhua Awards had to go to you? Zhou Jin is talented too.”

The room’s atmosphere grew tense. Zhao Xian’s online dispute with Yu Qingjia, followed by her unfair treatment at the Jinhua Awards—where Zhao had ties to the jury—made his question sound like a challenge.

But Yu Qingjia didn’t see it as an attack. Zhao Xian, a multiple Jinhua Best Director winner with a lifetime achievement award, was too proud to suppress a young director. He didn’t need to—nobody was his rival.

Smiling confidently, she eased the tension. “First, I believe my work surpasses Zhou Jin’s. Second, it’s the audience questioning the Jinhua Awards, not me.”

To avoid escalating, Dong Qiang interjected, “It’s good to have that drive and confidence when you’re young.”

Zhao Xian studied her silently. Fang Linyi laughed, “Old Zhao, these young folks are something else. We’re all here to improve the industry. Denying someone’s achievements over a difference of opinion or starting infights? That mess with the Jinhua Awards was your crowd’s fault. Picking on a young woman like her is pointless.”

Zhao Xian gave Fang Linyi a look. “You’re the one picking on her. What did I do?”

His words indirectly clarified to Yu Qingjia that he wasn’t involved in the Jinhua fiasco. But face-saving made him probe her stance.

Yu Qingjia didn’t care much. She could let it go, but what about others suppressed by the Jinhua Awards who never got a voice?

Before she could respond, Fang Linyi said, “Your group messed up. A prestigious award meant to uplift filmmakers turned into a bureaucratic mess. Pei Lao was right—it needs reform or scrapping. If they can’t get their act together, it’s better off than harming people.”

Zhao Xian, knowing his side was at fault, didn’t argue. Stubbornly, he said, “You’re just bored. Here, take my honorary judge seat.”

Fang Linyi scoffed, “I don’t want it.”

Zhao nearly choked, as if Fang implied he coveted the role.

Yu Qingjia caught Fang’s mention of “Pei Lao” and “reform.” Could it be the same Pei from the Film Roundtable?

Now wasn’t the time to dwell on it. She refocused, saying, “I agree with Senior Fang. I’m not targeting Director Zhao, I respect you greatly. But their actions put you in the crossfire. The fallout caused fans on both sides to clash, which benefits neither of us.”

Zhao Xian had only criticized Yu Qingjia’s views on film industrialization during her interview. The Jinhua Awards drama wasn’t his doing, yet he took the brunt of online backlash. He was frustrated, why was everyone blaming him?

Yu Qingjia didn’t expect him to fully distance himself from the Jinhua clique. Their ties were too deep; Zhao’s rise had partly relied on their support. Now, as one of China’s top directors, cutting ties wasn’t so simple.

She’d done her part by pointing it out. The rest was up to him.

Zhao Xian gave her a long look before changing the subject. “I meant what I said earlier. You shouldn’t waste your talent.”

Toying with her teacup, Yu Qingjia smiled. “I’m just doing what I think needs doing. It’s not about waste.”

Someone had to make high-quality blockbusters to draw audiences back to Chinese films, or they’d flock to foreign ones.

Fang Linyi nodded approvingly. “Then I wish you success. Our generation’s lost its drive and doesn’t buy into that system. It’s up to your generation now.”

Even if he disagreed with her approach, Fang wouldn’t criticize her. Anything good for Chinese cinema had his support. As Yu Qingjia said, the industry should be a garden of diverse blooms.

Back at the hotel after tea, Yu Qingjia changed and washed up, already past 9 p.m. Checking her phone, she saw a message from Ming Yin asking if she’d eaten.

As she replied, she noticed Ming Yin’s status switch to “typing…” but no message came. Setting her phone down to get water, she heard a knock at the door. Her phone pinged with a new message from Ming Yin: “Open the door.”

Amused that two words took so long to type, Yu Qingjia opened the door to find Ming Yin standing there.

Stepping aside to let her in, she closed the door. “Coming over this late, won’t Xiao Lizhi ask questions?”

Ming Yin kissed her cheek and sat on the sofa, brows slightly furrowed with exhaustion. “She’s already asleep. I took her to M.D. Park all day.”

Yu Qingjia had heard Ming Yin’s plan to take Xiao Lizhi to M.D. Park. “Sounds like you had fun.”

M.D. Park, built by M.D. The company around its famous IPs like Meow Sweetie and Long-Ear Bunny, was a global hit located in S City. Xiao Lizhi was a huge fan, and Ming Yin had likely spent a fortune there.

Ming Yin’s dark eyes flicked to her, her tone soft with a hint of exasperation. “Zhizhi had fun.”

Without her daughter’s birthday, Ming Yin would’ve preferred handling files or video calls over enduring the park’s crowds and screaming kids.

Picking up on her meaning, Yu Qingjia massaged her shoulders to ease her tension. “You should eat more. You’re so thin, how’s your body holding up under all this stress?”

Ming Yin, slender and delicate, wasn’t a model or actress but a busy CEO managing a listed company. Her frame seemed too frail for the pressure.

Relaxing into Yu Qingjia’s arms, Ming Yin closed her eyes. “You came back late today.”

She’d watched the festival’s opening livestream and knew when it ended, texting Yu Qingjia then. The delayed reply suggested something had held her up.

Yu Qingjia paused her massage. Ming Yin opened her eyes, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“Fang Linyi and Zhao Xian invited me for tea and a chat,” Yu Qingjia explained. “Do you know who’s in the Film Roundtable?”

Ming Yin shook her head. “Only Aunt Song. She was briefly married to my grandfather, but they divorced over differing values. Why ask?”

“Just something Fang Linyi said about Pei Lao wanting to reform the Jinhua Awards. I think it might be the same Pei from the Roundtable,” Yu Qingjia mused. “No solid proof, but their styles seem similar.”

Ming Yin nodded. “The Roundtable folks aren’t simple. That’s why I hope you’ll use this chance to network, it’s more reliable than some Ma clique.”

Yu Qingjia leaned over the sofa, grinning. “With you like this, I don’t know how to thank you.”

Ming Yin’s Look Up darkened slightly, her tone flat. “I don’t like hearing ‘sorry’ or ‘thanks.’ Say something else.”

“Something else?” Yu Qingjia pondered, then asked directly what she wanted.

Ming Yin’s expression remained neutral, but a faint smile flickered in her eyes. “Say ‘I like you.’”

Caught off guard, Yu Qingjia saw the growing amusement in Ming Yin’s eyes and laughed. Her serious demeanor was oddly captivating. Leaning in, Yu Qingjia playfully bit her lip, watching it flush with color, then whispered in her ear, “I like you.”

Yu Qingjia’s passion for film was boundless. The festival showcased exceptional works, with the most popular being the Golden Jade Award contenders and the Asian New Wave nominees, where Look Up led in votes.

Normally, Yu Qingjia would’ve watched the Golden Jade contenders to study their strengths, but with her new relationship and Ming Yin’s visit for Xiao Lizhi’s birthday, ditching them for movies felt inconsiderate—especially in the honeymoon phase.

Sensing her dilemma, Ming Yin calmly said, “I’ll go with you. Problem solved.”

Yu Qingjia agreed. They watched films together when Ming Yin was free; otherwise, she went alone. Their busy schedules didn’t cause friction, as both understood work couldn’t stop for love.

The only downside was Xiao Lizhi often staying in the hotel with her caretaker, Xiao Mang, playing games.

The Golden Jade Award, the festival’s centerpiece, was held after other categories. The Asian New Wave awards, a highlight, were scheduled two days earlier.

Asian New Wave Awards Ceremony

Yu Qingjia and her crew took their seats. Unlike the opening, most attendees were unfamiliar, except for a few lead actors from films she’d watched.

After everyone settled, the host spoke briefly, introduced the jury, and invited the guest of honor to announce the winners: “Please welcome Mr. Gaspard Roland, Honorary Chairman, to present the awards.”

The room fell silent, then buzzed with excitement.
Gaspar was presenting their awards?

Even Yu Qingjia froze for a second. She’d heard he was at the festival but hadn’t met him. She never imagined he’d be the Asian New Wave presenter.