Scumbag Woman, But Pampering My Wife - Chapter 12

A line of text appeared in the chat box, only to be quickly retracted.

The system wailed, “No no no! Why retract it!”

Qin Jue swiftly tapped the undo button and flipped her phone face down on the table, avoiding Lin Yuebai’s gaze.

Her chat history with Lin Yuebai remained blank.

She didn’t want their first message to be something unpleasant.

The system wanted to protest, but sensing the task was complete, it grumbled into silence.

Strangely, despite the retraction, the protagonist’s emotional turmoil only intensified.

Watching the other person standing there with reddened eyes and trembling body, looking ready to collapse any second…

Jing Xin had barely glanced through two pages of the script before approaching the production team to greet them, only to meet Qin Jue’s icy stare.

The director leaned toward Qin Jue, “Jing Xin’s been trending well lately. If you’d consider—”

Even the director felt Jing Xin didn’t suit this production’s vibe, but capitalists only understood data. A brainless rich heiress like Qin Jue probably had no real opinions—only seeing popularity, not acting skills.

The director was certain Qin Jue’s sudden interest in producing was just to impress her family. This impatient ambition was regrettable, though typical of investors.

Qin Jue arched an eyebrow, “Not considering her. Next.”

Jing Xin stood frozen as if publicly slapped, her face alternating between pale and flushed. After her breakout role last year, she’d amassed legions of fans. Though lacking acting chops, she’d secured numerous endorsements and made a fortune. Surrounded by sycophants, she’d never faced rejection.

Yet here stood Qin Jue—someone she couldn’t afford to offend.

Gritting her teeth, Jing Xin stepped behind the cameras and hissed, “Director Qin, my uncle—”

Her uncle’s connections had secured her privileges, the very reason she could look down on others.

Qin Jue reclined in her chair, studying Jing Xin’s indignant expression with amusement.

Here stood a cannon-fodder character facing the novel’s villain—an absurdly comical encounter.

Qin Jue leisurely appraised her, “Who’s your sugar daddy?”

Jing Xin muttered a name.

“Director Qin, I’m really in need of a project right now. Had I known you were producing, I’d have visited personally. Blame my agent for not informing me earlier. Let’s settle this privately, shall we?”

Her whisper reached only Qin Jue’s ears.

From afar, Lin Yuebai watched silently, nails digging into her palms.

She should’ve grown accustomed to unfair treatment, yet seeing Jing Xin nearly pressed against Qin Jue sent dull throbs through her chest.

Glancing at her phone’s empty chat—only the “message retracted” notification remained.

Lin Yuebai couldn’t define this emotion, standing isolated until called under the spotlight for her audition.

Live chat comments:

“…Jing Xin’s getting what she deserves.”

“LMAO the producer’s expression is so coldly badass—I’m kinda falling for it.”

“Am I the only one noticing how skilled the producer is at pen spinning? And that red nail polish? Absolutely love it!”

“Just tried it myself and nearly poked my eye out. Ended up getting scolded by my mom when she walked in.”

“It’s Lin Yuebai! Seems like big sis isn’t in the best mood today?”

“Did anyone else catch the complicated look Lin Yuebai gave the producer? Do they know each other?”

“They probably do, being in the same industry circle.”

“Let me drop some knowledge—the producer is Qin Jue, one of the shareholders of Starlight Entertainment.”

“Holy crap, guys! This is the same Starlight Entertainment that saved my favorite artist from disaster!”

“Exactly! No wonder they know each other. Please go easy on our Yuebai, she’s had it rough—even went hungry before.”

“When’s the court date for DreamTrue Entertainment’s case? I’d love to attend (and throw rotten eggs).”

Qin Jue leaned back in her chair, rhythmically tapping the desk with her black pen.

Lin Yuebai had momentarily lost herself staring at this woman who seemed unlike anyone she’d ever met before.

Wearing a professional yet focused smile that appeared utterly convincing at first glance, Qin Jue sported a loose-fitting suit with a carelessly draped tie bearing subtle goldfish patterns. The androgynous outfit, paired with her perfectly manicured red nails, exuded a uniquely workplace-appropriate allure.

Lin Yuebai couldn’t explain why she associated “workplace” with “allure”—there was just something mesmerizing about Qin Jue’s presence that demanded attention.

Yet Qin Jue’s expression toward her held no particular distinction from how she looked at anyone else, leaving Lin Yuebai with an inexplicable pang of disappointment.

How could someone who’d just sent her mocking, malicious texts now act as if nothing had happened?

Qin Jue announced: “Scene 3, let’s begin.”

Scene 3—A junior intern sees her hard work claimed by a senior colleague who receives praise from management, powerless to reclaim the fruits of her sleepless week of labor.

Before the camera, Lin Yuebai closed her eyes briefly to immerse herself in the emotion.

She’d experienced something similar during her trainee days—the office became a dance studio, the manager became a senior trainee, and the sleepless computer work became endless choreography revisions…

The intern clutched her makeshift “proposal” (a blank sheet representing her meticulous market analysis and execution plan), desperately hoping for the manager’s approval.

Passing this internship meant solving her financial struggles—no more rent worries, even if it meant living farther away or tightening her belt daily. At least there’d be stable income.

“Manager, here’s the project proposal I—”

“Just leave it there,” the stand-in actor dismissed, casually tossing the paper onto the desk.

But during the meeting, that same paper now rested in the hands of a senior colleague from her team, who delivered an impassioned, saliva-flying presentation…

The young intern was first in disbelief, her mouth slightly agape, eyes brimming with fury.

The senior employee looked at her with a hint of smugness and provocation.

Isn’t an intern’s work just there to be plagiarized?

After the presentation, the manager nodded in satisfaction. “As expected of a company veteran. Well done.”

The intern sat stiffly in her seat, gripping the hem of her clothes tightly. Just as she was about to stand up, she was held back by colleagues who weren’t even there.

The pain and anger on her face seemed almost tangible, her fists clenched as if she were about to lash out at that senior employee any second.

In this script, the intern was supposed to be heartbroken and restrained, but Lin Yuebai’s performance gave her a lurking tension, as if she were biding her time for revenge.

It made people worry whether the senior employee might mysteriously tumble down the stairs after leaving the meeting room.

At the same time, it made them think—if it were this intern, she probably wouldn’t resort to something so simple.

Both the system and Qin Jue fell silent.

System: “The protagonist’s gaze is terrifying.”

Qin Jue, conflicted: “Should I still deliver my lines?”

System: “If you don’t, I’ll electrocute you.”

After the audition, Lin Yuebai walked alone down the hallway when a voice called out to her from behind.

She stopped and looked up, meeting a necktie embroidered with a subtle goldfish pattern.

The woman held a golden keycard between two fingers and slipped it into Lin Yuebai’s br3ast pocket. The scent of roses and agarwood lingered faintly in the air.

“I know you’ve worked hard, but…”

“You don’t actually think you can get what you want without offering something of equal value, do you? Let’s see how much you’re willing to give up for the lead role, little girl. If you can’t even show this much sincerity, you might as well quit the entertainment industry.”