How To Deal With Being Transmigrated As The Scumbag Ex-Wife - Chapter 50

50: Another Genius

Though Yu Qingjia didn’t take it to heart, online discussions about the director of The Rest of Our Lives and her grew increasingly heated, with a sudden surge of people bashing the director while hyping her up to the skies.

After noticing these comments, Chen Ruo first coordinated with several major fan accounts to ensure they wouldn’t engage in the online disputes, then instructed the PR team to get to work.

With both Huayue and Xinghui’s paid trolls jumping into the fray, the debates intensified. Even Madam Yu couldn’t help but ask Yu Qingjia if she felt upset about it.

The question puzzled Yu Qingjia until she skimmed the online comments. She realized many netizens believed she was jealous of a talented newcomer and was deliberately suppressing them. Naturally, some opposed this view, and the comment sections turned into a storm of arguments:

“After watching all this, I’m not taking sides. Yu Qingjia’s already a polarizing director. She’s always said she hopes Chinese cinema can flourish with diversity, and I agree with that. She hasn’t even commented, so there’s no need to drag her into this.”

“Lol, anyone can talk about a big game. The Second Princess is one of China’s top young directors. A random newcomer outshining her must sting, right?~”

“Stop with the shady remarks. The commenter above is clearly a hater. I bet Huayue’s behind this, hyping themselves by tying it to Yu Qingjia. She hasn’t said a word since The Rest of Our Lives came out, yet they’ve spun it into her suppressing a newcomer. Looks like Huayue’s staging this whole thing.”

“YQJ’s fans are so gross. She won one award and you think she’s an international master? Her films are just okay, yet you hype her to the moon. Laughable.”

These were the milder comments. Many reportedly contained vile language and were deleted or muted by Weibo after being reported.

Yu Qingjia only glanced at a few comments and noticed she’d trended several times because of this.

She couldn’t stay silent any longer. After some thought, she posted on Weibo:

“@YuQingjiaV: Been busy falling in love lately, so I only found out I was trending again after a heads-up. Just watched The Rest of Our Lives, it’s a very interesting video. The creator’s skill is impressive, and I feel inferior. Though I’m puzzled by a few shot choices, overall, it’s an excellent short film. Wishing @PengZhaoLovesFilming a bright future.

P.S. If @PengZhaoLovesFilming could clarify my confusion, I’d be thrilled.”

She attached GIFs of the shots in question with her doubts.

After posting, Yu Qingjia anticipated haters would seize on her “feel inferior” comment to mock her. She didn’t care. The narrative had built her up too high, so she deliberately lowered her stance. As a director who transitioned mid-career, it was reasonable for her to “not understand” a skilled director’s choices.

Yu Qingjia knew when to be humble and when to be bold. Bowing her head now wouldn’t hurt her.

As expected, shortly after posting, her comment section was flooded with haters mocking her lack of formal directing education, saying her fans overhyped her as a genius when she was just a half-baked amateur who should use her money to study instead.

Yu Qingjia brushed it off. As she scrolled through the comments, her agent, Chen Ruo, called:

“You should’ve told me before posting. I could’ve prepared a response.”

Understanding the importance of managing her public image, Yu Qingjia replied patiently, “Got it. I’ll check with you first next time.”

Seeing her calm response, Chen Ruo felt her efforts weren’t wasted. She’d been fuming while battling Huayue’s trolls.

She strongly suspected this was all Huayue’s orchestrated drama. She didn’t doubt the existence of geniuses, but ones like Yu Qingjia were rare. How could someone unknown suddenly emerge from a short video contest?

And Peng Zhao was even more remarkable. Her investigation revealed he wasn’t a film school graduate, his major wasn’t even arts-related. Could someone like that be a genius like Yu Qingjia?

What struck Chen Ruo as most suspicious was that Peng Zhao, only 24, was somewhat handsome, the kind of “pretty boy” popular in the industry.

High looks, mid-career pivot, and young talent—wasn’t that just a male Yu Qingjia?

Chen Ruo suspected the contest and Peng Zhao’s rise were Huayue’s staged act, with the film likely made by a ghostwriter.

Hearing Chen Ruo’s theory, Yu Qingjia raised an eyebrow in surprise, then laughed. “It’s possible, but a ghostwriter’s unlikely. The video’s style, though subtle, shows the director’s personal touch.” Some shots felt off, like a novice pretending to be a master, creating an awkward dissonance.

She couldn’t understand why such a contradictory figure existed—not the kind of contradiction Gaspar mentioned, but a mix of inexperience and maturity.

Chen Ruo couldn’t help but say, “So what if it shows style? Does that prove he made it?”

Yu Qingjia rubbed her temples helplessly. “I’m saying if there’s a ghostwriter this talented, they wouldn’t be unknown. If Huayue found such a director, why push Peng Zhao to compete with me? Why risk offending someone by doing something so thankless?”

A ghostwriter director isn’t easy to hide. Film sets are full of eyes, and exposure would be devastating for everyone involved.

Chen Ruo knew this but couldn’t believe there were so many geniuses. This was practically a male Yu Qingjia.

“Fine, you’re right,” Chen Ruo sighed after a pause. “Are there really that many geniuses out there?”

Thinking of those odd shots, Yu Qingjia rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

No one could guarantee such things, and the world wasn’t that simple.

…

Yu Qingjia’s direct response pushed the debate to new heights. Her gracious attitude softened some netizens’ negative impressions, but haters clung to her “feel inferior” remark, mocking her fans for hyping her when she admitted she couldn’t compare. They thought her fans were delusional.

After her statement, a few “acquaintances”—judges from the Golden Flower Awards—posted on Weibo, praising The Rest of Our Lives’s craftsmanship and commending Yu Qingjia’s humility, saying she hadn’t let small successes go to her head.

Their condescending tone enraged netizens:

“Go to hell! Forgot how you were roasted off Weibo last time?”

“Acting all high and mighty. Yu Qingjia at least admits she’s not as good, while you gang up to bully others to preserve your pathetic pride.”

“Why do you always target Yu Qingjia? She hasn’t done anything to you. Jealous she’s younger and better?”

The judges, once forced off Weibo by backlash, didn’t back down this time. They analyzed The Rest of Our Lives’s strengths in detail, throwing in jargon to explain Yu Qingjia’s questions about Peng Zhao’s work, bewildering netizens. Most didn’t understand the terms and took their explanations at face value.

Yu Qingjia nearly laughed at their forced explanations. They never missed a chance to undermine her, spouting nonsense to impress laypeople. To industry insiders, it was a joke, but no professional would publicly call them out.

She didn’t bother engaging. If she refuted them, they’d double down, accusing her of pretending to know more than she did, leading to more online spats. She didn’t have time for that.

Three days after her response, Huayue officially announced on Weibo that they’d signed Peng Zhao, the director of The Rest of Our Lives, attaching his photo.

This skyrocketed Peng Zhao’s popularity—

“Damn, this guy’s too good-looking! Are directors this hot now? Won’t he steal the actors’ spotlight?”

“He’s my college classmate! He studied economics, but turns out he’s got this talent. Makes me feel like a total loser.”

“Handsome, non-arts background, talented new director—sounds like a male Yu Qingjia…”

“Conspiracy theory: Is Peng Zhao Huayue’s manufactured ‘genius director’? Maybe the real director’s someone else. Why else would they keep tying him to Yu Qingjia for hype?”

After Peng Zhao’s signing, many netizens leaned into “conspiracy theories.” They might not understand the film, but they weren’t fools. Yu Qingjia came from an entertainment family, likely exposed to the industry from a young age, while Peng Zhao’s background had nothing to do with directing. Could there really be another such genius?

More people began to believe this was Huayue’s staged drama. Participants who’d worked hard on their contest submissions felt played.

A short video contest meant to discover talent turned out to be a launchpad for a “genius director.” What was the point of their efforts?

Just to prop up this supposed genius?

Even those with no hope of winning felt Huayue was toying with them.

The online sentiment shifted overnight.

Netizens who’d admired the “genius director” now felt disdain—not for Peng Zhao himself, but for Huayue’s deception. If Huayue wanted to promote a genius, they could’ve done so directly. Why waste everyone’s time?

Huayue was thrust into the spotlight, facing netizens’ questions and accusations.

…

Lanyuan Villa No. 7

Invited by Xiao Lizhi to stay over at Ming Yin’s house, Yu Qingjia was scrolling Weibo on her tablet. Reaching for a cookie on the table, her hand met smooth, warm skin instead.

Startled, she saw a delicate, pale hand covering the cookie plate completely.

“…” Yu Qingjia blinked, looking up at Ming Yin, who was supposed to be working on documents. Ming Yin stared back, her dark eyes full of disapproval, her usually gentle gaze now deep and cool.

Yu Qingjia: “…”

As expected of the Ming family’s head, her aura was intimidating. No wonder Xiao Lizhi was always so obedient around her.

But Yu Qingjia wasn’t here to work for her.

Raising an eyebrow, she said, “I’m your girlfriend, not your employee.”

Ming Yin’s gaze darkened, her tone softening. “Eating too much might keep you awake. You’ve already had half the plate.”

Yu Qingjia reluctantly withdrew her hand. She wanted to see how Huayue would respond, but Ming Yin had just robbed her of her joy. As she tried to pull back, Ming Yin grabbed her wrist, holding it gently.

Yu Qingjia looked at her questioningly. Ming Yin’s brows furrowed slightly, her pale pink lips pursed as if hesitating.

Just as Yu Qingjia was about to ask, Ming Yin said tentatively, “You’re my girlfriend, of course. I didn’t mean to treat you like an employee. I overstepped—”

“Pfft…” Yu Qingjia couldn’t hold back a laugh. Ming Yin, slightly embarrassed, closed her mouth, her fair face tinged with a faint blush, her eyes and brows exuding charm. She glanced at Yu Qingjia, about to pull her hand back, but Yu Qingjia held on.

“Shy?” Yu Qingjia’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I was just teasing. You don’t have to take it so seriously.”

Ming Yin’s gaze fell to the computer screen, her jade-like face flushed, adding a touch of allure. She murmured, “Mm.”

Yu Qingjia wanted to tease more but noticed Ming Yin tensing up. She dropped the playful mood and changed the subject. “Do you think Huayue would really do something this dumb?”

Promoting a talented director isn’t hard. They could’ve used popular influencers to generate buzz, anything smarter than this.

Ming Yin relaxed, though with a hint of regret, quickly composing herself. “If Huayue planned this, it’s not dumb. The public buzz has already earned them plenty. As for the upset netizens, they’ll forget soon enough and keep supporting them.”

“For example, Huayue was mocked heavily before, but when they hold events, people still join, don’t they?” Ming Yin explained. “The so-called ‘rigging’ is just a flimsy excuse. Even without Peng Zhao, someone else would’ve won. Their core interests aren’t harmed, they just want to gain something or vent. In time, they’ll forget being used and keep supporting.”

As expected of the Ming family’s head, even casual chats were grounded in rational analysis.

Seeing Ming Yin’s calm demeanor, Yu Qingjia asked, “So, do you think Huayue staged this?”

She was more curious about Ming Yin’s perspective than theoretical analyses.

Ming Yin closed her laptop and looked at her. “I’m not sure, but maybe not.”

That surprised Yu Qingjia. When Chen Ruo had suggested it, she thought it unlikely, and her reasoning didn’t hold up with Ming Yin. She was curious why Ming Yin said that.

A faint smile crossed Ming Yin’s face. “Call it my sixth sense.”

Yu Qingjia didn’t buy into sixth senses, believing they were just subconscious observations of subtle clues. Ming Yin must’ve noticed something but wasn’t saying.

Glancing at the clock, Ming Yin asked, “It’s getting late. Want to rest?”

Yu Qingjia looked at her in surprise, touching her forehead. “Did Xiao Lizhi rub off on you? It’s barely past nine.”

She’d spent the day playing with Xiao Lizhi, who got sleepy by 9:30, dozing off in her arms.

Ming Yin’s expression was helpless. She’d asked because she thought Yu Qingjia might be tired, not because she wanted to end the chat. Before she could explain, she noticed Yu Qingjia’s phone light up, her brows furrowing slightly. After a pause, she said, “Your phone’s flashing.”

Distracted, Yu Qingjia grabbed her phone. It was a WeChat message from Chen Ruo.

Her brows shot up in surprise at the message.

Noticing her reaction, Ming Yin asked, “What’s so surprising?”

Yu Qingjia slid the phone toward her. “Take a look.”

Seeing the open phone, Ming Yin’s eyes darkened briefly before scanning the message.

“Do you still think Huayue did this?” Yu Qingjia propped her chin, smiling at her.

Ming Yin frowned after reading. “Sending a lawyer’s letters is too stupid.”

With things escalating, Huayue trying to silence netizens was a misstep. If they’d just taken the criticism, the backlash wouldn’t have grown. This move was like digging their own grave.

Yu Qingjia agreed, unsure what Huayue’s executives were thinking, but it wasn’t her problem.

Noticing her expression shift, Ming Yin asked, “What’s on your mind?”

Snapping back, Yu Qingjia smiled. “Thinking how amazing President Ming is.”

Ming Yin glanced at her, picked up her laptop, and started to leave. Yu Qingjia, caught off guard, followed, only to trip and let out a yelp.

Hearing the noise, Ming Yin turned and saw Yu Qingjia stumbling toward her. She reached out to steady her, but Yu Qingjia’s momentum pulled them both onto the couch.

“Hiss—”

They tumbled onto the soft, cushioned couch, but Ming Yin’s waist hit something, her face paling in pain.

Yu Qingjia wasn’t much better off, the laptop jabbing her chest, making her wince. The pain was bearable, though, and the position felt familiar. When she’d first arrived in this world, she’d tripped onto Ming Yin, landing them on an intimate double bed.

About to reminisce, she saw Ming Yin’s face twisted in pain. Panicking, she tried to get up, but the door swung open, and Xiao Lizhi ran in with a pillow. “Mommy, I had a nightmare—”

Her voice stopped as she saw them tangled on the couch, blinking in confusion. “Are you playing a game?”

Yu Qingjia hadn’t expected Xiao Lizhi to walk in. She scrambled up, pulling Ming Yin with her.

Ming Yin, still wincing, said helplessly, “No, Xiao Yu tripped, and Mommy tried to help her.” But they’d ended up on the couch.

Xiao Lizhi, though puzzled, accepted the explanation, nodding obediently. Clutching her pillow, she approached, saying plaintively, “I had a nightmare, Mommy. Can I sleep with you tonight?”

Ming Yin glanced quickly at Yu Qingjia, soothing her daughter expertly. “Okay, go back to your room. Mommy will be there soon.”

Xiao Lizhi nodded sweetly, then turned to Yu Qingjia. “Goodnight, Xiao Yu!”

“Goodnight, Xiao Lizhi.”

The small figure hugged her pillow and left. Yu Qingjia turned to Ming Yin, who was rubbing her waist. “I need to get Zhizhi to sleep. If you’re not tired, can we keep talking after?”

Yu Qingjia pursed her lips. “Nah, let’s talk tomorrow.”

What a shame.

No one expected Huayue to send lawyer’s letters to major fan accounts, accusing them of spreading “false rumors” about a “rigged contest” and “fooling everyone,” damaging the company’s image, demanding they delete their posts and issue apologies.

This move infuriated netizens. How shameless could Huayue be, denying responsibility and calling others liars?

Even Yu Qingyi couldn’t fathom their logic. “I don’t get how Huayue’s survived this long.” With such bizarre moves, they must have powerful backing to still be standing.

Having just reviewed scripts with Manager Zhang, Yu Qingjia dropped by Yu Qingyi’s CEO office. Hearing her sister’s disbelief, she shrugged casually. “It’s not the first time Huayue’s done something weird.”

Those odd shots from The Rest of Our Lives flashed in her mind, but she pushed the thought aside and asked, “By the way, now that Huayue’s signed Peng Zhao, what’s Tianyue planning?”

Yu Qingyi glanced down at her documents, unconcerned. “Xinghui has you, doesn’t it? One Peng Zhao doesn’t mean much.”

To put it bluntly, no matter how talented Peng Zhao seemed, Huayue wouldn’t treat him the way Tianyue treated Yu Qingjia. He’d face constant limitations and might not even get opportunities.

Yu Qingjia wasn’t sure whether to thank her sister for her trust or admire her calm confidence. Sighing, she said, “I kind of hope he gets proper support and training. His skill’s pretty high.”

Yu Qingyi shot her sister a look, her brows knitting together. This sympathetic talk gave her goosebumps. Changing the subject, she asked, “So, why’d you come by today?”

“I was checking those two film scripts. Since I had time, I came to see you.” Yu Qingjia gave her a strange look.

Yu Qingyi laughed. “Thanks for the effort.”

This was why she wasn’t worried about Huayue finding talented directors. Her sister wasn’t just talented herself but also helped with other film projects and even mentored directors. Peng Zhao would only be Huayue’s filming tool.

“No need for flattery.” Yu Qingjia waved off. Tianyue and Xinghui’s interests were tied to her, and reviewing scripts wasn’t a big deal.

Yu Qingyi smiled, saying nothing more, but thinking of Peng Zhao made her frown. “You even @’ed him on Weibo, and he hasn’t responded at all.”

This guy had ridden her sister’s name for marketing, letting her take heat for days, yet stayed silent, fully embracing the “male Yu Qingjia” persona without even replying to her Weibo.

Typical Huayue behavior, his attitude matched their style.

Regarding Peng Zhao’s lack of response, Yu Qingjia found it odd too. If he was Huayue’s “genius director,” shouldn’t he have answered her questions to show his superior skill?

Unless Huayue didn’t want him to, barring him from posting freely on Weibo.

Or…

He couldn’t explain his own work.