The Movie Queen’s Secret Stand-In Lover [Entertainment Industry] - Chapter 15

“It’s fine.” Yuan Zhi waved off the assistant director, steadied herself, and smoothed out the frown caused by her unease before continuing toward the coffin.

Fortunately, blocking the scene only required a rough run-through of the process—detailed acting wasn’t necessary yet.

“Good, good. Let’s start filming for real.” After instructing the assistant director, Director Qin focused entirely on the monitor.

The clapper loader ran in front of the camera with the slate and called out loudly, “March 21st, Scene 6, Take 1!”

A crowd had gathered in the distance to watch the filming—extras, crew members—all drawn by Yuan Zhi. The male and female leads of this production were both rising talents with some recognition, while the supporting actors were complete newcomers with no fame to speak of. In fact, not just this set, but the entire filming location rarely saw A-list celebrities, so naturally, everyone was curious.

Yuan Zhi paid no attention to the dense crowd behind her. The only person on her mind was the one inside the house. Zhou Ning better not do anything weird! Otherwise, she really wouldn’t be able to hold back her laughter.

She used to see people online saying how someone was “their personal laughingstock,” and now she finally understood what that meant. Wasn’t Zhou Ning exactly that for her? No matter what Zhou Ning said or did, she found it ridiculously funny.

It’s fine. Just ignore Zhou Ning’s existence! Don’t look at Zhou Ning! Don’t even think about Zhou Ning! She was a professional—she’d weathered far bigger storms over the years. A minor distraction like this shouldn’t be a problem.

Yuan Zhi stepped over the threshold again, cast an indifferent glance at the actor playing the emperor (the second male lead), then slowly and heavily walked to the coffin. Gripping the edge, she peered inside… Zhou Ning stood right beside the coffin, rubbing prayer beads between her fingers, eyes tightly shut as she muttered sutras under her breath.

Oh no. She suddenly remembered the day she first saw Zhou Ning with a shaved head. Back then, Zhou Ning had also been dressed as a nun and had solemnly asked her, “What brings you here, benefactress?”

That absurd, speechless feeling! That nightmare-turned-reality sensation! It was inexplicably hilarious.

Yuan Zhi took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the edge of the coffin as she fought back the sudden surge of laughter. But not laughing wasn’t enough—she was supposed to be mourning the death of her beloved younger sister!

Yuan Zhi really wanted to ignore Zhou Ning’s presence and dive into the emotion. Yet Zhou Ning’s head, under the dazzling set lights, shone even brighter than usual, making it impossible to focus.

Silence. Dead silence.

The second male lead was confused. Based on their earlier rehearsal, the award-winning actress Yuan Zhi was supposed to kneel in grief by now.

Director Qin, sitting beside the male and female leads as they all watched the monitor, said, “Pay close attention. Do you notice how Yuan Zhi’s rhythm is different from the rehearsal just now?”

The leads nodded, not fully understanding but sensing something profound.

“Rhythm is rigid, but emotion is alive.” Director Qin watched Yuan Zhi on the monitor—gripping the coffin, unmoving, silent—with satisfaction. “Once you embody the character, you must follow their emotions. Think about it—isn’t this the normal reaction when someone loses a loved one? Shock! Unable and unwilling to believe it.”

Yuan Zhi heard Zhou Ning muttering something under her breath, but she didn’t dare listen too closely—whatever it was, it wasn’t scripture. She had just barely managed to regain her composure, kneeling slowly while leaning against the coffin, her head sinking lower until Zhou Ning’s bald head completely vanished from her line of sight.

Director Qin pointed at the monitor and said to the lead actors, “Look at Yuan Zhi’s bowing posture. Her character is a noblewoman, accustomed to a life where emotions are tightly restrained. But now, she’s overwhelmed with grief and wants to cry—yet she doesn’t want the nun in front of her to see her in such an undignified state. So, what does she do?”

The male lead suddenly understood. “Sister Zhi’s acting is incredible! That kind of suppressed sorrow, where the pain seeps through unintentionally, is what truly breaks your heart.”

Director Qin nodded, his face showing a look of satisfaction, as if pleased with the student’s comprehension.

Yuan Zhi was on the verge of losing it. The director hadn’t called “cut,” probably out of courtesy, giving her more time to get into character. But she just couldn’t!

Zhou Ning was taking her role way too seriously, muttering nonstop with an air of solemnity. Yuan Zhi knew she shouldn’t be curious—listening would only lead to regret.

Yet, she still caught bits of it—

“I’m a monk from the Great Tang of the East, here to worship Buddha and seek scriptures. Demons, don’t argue, shut your mouths. Going west to worship Buddha feels so great, and a few kind ladies help this humble monk stay strong and healthy…”

What… the hell was that? Yuan Zhi was losing it.

Zhou Ning really was a weird one. The assistant director must have told her that her voice wouldn’t be recorded, so she could just mumble anything if it looked like she was chanting. But why couldn’t she just monotonously repeat “Amitabha”? Why did she have to be so extra? Why?!

Yuan Zhi kept her head down, biting her lip hard to hold it in. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh—once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. So many people were watching; she couldn’t afford to embarrass herself. If this got recorded and posted online, rumors might spread that she’d lost her mind.

She controlled her breathing, slowly calming the urge to laugh—until Zhou Ning’s devilish whisper reached her ears again—

“My master searched everywhere for holy scriptures, but you dragged him to the civil affairs bureau. After I kill you, I’ll send you to the neighbor’s, my revered master, Lam Ching-ying…”

Yuan Zhi completely lost it. Her fists clenched as she half-collapsed against the coffin, her whole body trembling. Broken, choked sounds escaped her lips—somewhere between sobbing and laughter, madness and hysteria.

In front of the monitor, Director Qin’s eyes reddened. The lead actors’ eyes brimmed with tears. The entire set was silent, everyone watching Yuan Zhi with pained expressions.

This was what it meant to be a great actor. This was what true skill looked like. Winning all those Best Actress awards wasn’t just luck. Just look at that emotional impact! No need for exaggerated wailing—just kneeling there simply yet making it feel as if she’d truly lost someone irreplaceable.

Once Yuan Zhi had laughed enough, she gave up and pulled herself up using the coffin. Professionalism demanded she keep acting until the director called “cut.” Her body swayed unsteadily—no surprise, given how hard she’d laughed. Her face was flushed from lack of oxygen, and traces of tears still lingered at the corners of her eyes.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up.

The lead actors gasped in shock. Such realistic acting!

Director Qin cast a rather smug glance at the two of them. “What did I tell you? There’s still so much for you to learn! Acting requires knowing when to hold back and when to let go. Too restrained and you’ll look stiff; too exaggerated and it becomes over the top. Now look at Yuan Zhi—isn’t her performance perfectly measured? She’s clearly been crying, yet it seems like she genuinely doesn’t want anyone to notice.”

The second male lead, drawn into the scene by Yuan Zhi, was a beat late in remembering his own lines. He silently stepped behind Yuan Zhi and spoke with deep affection, “San Niang, don’t be sad…”

Yuan Zhi pulled a plain hairpin from her head, turned around, and without a word, thrust it toward the second male lead’s neck. Just end her miserable life already! The moment she opened her mouth now; she wanted to laugh—there was no way she could deliver her lines properly.

The second male lead instinctively grabbed Yuan Zhi’s neck, then froze for a second. There were still lines he hadn’t said! But he had no choice but to follow through with the subsequent dialogue: “Are you seeking death?”

Yuan Zhi had only feigned the stab. When seized, she smirked mockingly and let her hand drop, offering no resistance.

“Fine. This emperor shall send you to reunite with Wu Niang.” A look of intense reluctance flashed across the second male lead’s ruthless face. He closed his eyes, fingers gradually tightening, until the person in his grasp fell silent. Only then did he slowly open his tear-filled eyes.

Yuan Zhi relaxed completely, collapsing lightly to the ground, her face wearing an expression of utter contentment.

“Cut, cut, cut!” Director Qin jumped up excitedly. It was perfect. Pointing at Yuan Zhi’s close-up, he said to the leads, “Did you see that final expression of hers? As if she were truly in hell and had finally found release.”

Yuan Zhi had already braced herself for a retake. But before that, she desperately needed to find a place to laugh silently for a while and cool down.

She glanced at Zhou Ning, who seemed to have been kneeling for too long and was avoiding her gaze, rubbing her knees with her head bowed.

Being an extra was tough work. Yuan Zhi’s heart ached as she looked at Zhou Ning. Had she not paid her enough? Was Zhou Ning really so desperate as to earn this kind of hard labor money?

Director Qin approached.

“Director Qin, sorry for improvising,” Yuan Zhi said, tearing her gaze away from Zhou Ning and smiling shamelessly as she explained. “I just suddenly thought that approach might work better. Compare the two versions—if you think the original was better, I’ll redo it as before.”

“Hahaha… this is great, this is great!” Director Qin ordered someone to bring in Yuan Zhi’s rest chair, grinning. “You’ve worked hard. Take a seat here and rest. Once you’re ready, we’ll shoot a few more wide shots. Later, we’ll move to the palace scene—the set’s already prepared.”

Yuan Zhi sat down on the rest chair, and soon, the makeup artist and hairstylist rushed over. Yuan Xiaoyuan also arrived, holding a cup of coffee.

“Zhi-jie. Iced Americano,” Yuan Xiaoyuan said cheerfully, handing her the coffee.

“Mhm.” Surrounded by people, Yuan Zhi could no longer see Zhou Ning. She was long accustomed to being the center of attention, but for some reason, she felt oddly self-conscious in front of Zhou Ning. She wondered if Zhou Ning was tired or hungry now… but there was no way she could give her special treatment in front of all these people.

“Xiao Yuan,” Yuan Zhi instructed Yuan Xiaoyuan, “count how many crew members there are and call to order some coffee and bread. Everyone’s staying up late because of me, so remember to get the coffee hot—it’s still cold at night.” She recalled that Zhou Ning seemed to prefer her coffee hot.

Director Qin, overhearing this, quickly interjected, “Oh no, don’t do that. You’re already doing me a huge favor by making a special appearance without even charging a fee. How could I let you treat everyone? Of course, it should be on me!”

Zhou Ning stood behind the coffin, gripping its edge as she stretched her numb legs.

“Hey,” the supporting actress, who had stayed perfectly still in the coffin to maintain continuity, suddenly noticed a bald head appear above her and asked with a smile, “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” She didn’t know every extra in the crew, but she was certain this was her first time seeing a bald female extra.

“Yeah,” Zhou Ning nodded, glancing at the Sugar Daddy being fawned over by the crowd before asking the actress, “Why don’t you take a break?” She herself had nowhere to rest, but this girl was clearly a major character—she must have a place to relax.

“Can’t. If my hairstyle gets messed up or my costume shifts, it’ll look like I’ve risen from the dead,” the actress said, raising an eyebrow. “Want to sit for a bit? I can have someone take you to my chair. You’ve been kneeling so long—you must be exhausted.”

“It’s fine,” Zhou Ning replied gratefully with a smile. “I’ll keep you company for a while. Otherwise, lying here alone must be pretty creepy.” Not everyone had died before liking her, fearless of ghosts or spirits.

Yuan Zhi, having finished touching up her makeup and hair, returned to the coffin area for reshoots. Now that she was free, the sight of Zhou Ning rubbing her knees earlier made it impossible for her to smile. Honestly, couldn’t the crew at least provide a cushion?

As she took her place by the coffin, she heard the actress whisper quickly to Zhou Ning before closing her eyes, “Just one more scene and I’m done. Wait for me after you wrap up, okay?”

“Sure! Thanks, Mingyue,” Zhou Ning nodded quickly before kneeling back into position for the shoot.

Standing tall, Yuan Zhi glanced down suspiciously at Zhou Ning’s bald head, a flicker of irritation rising in her chest. The actress had introduced herself as Sun Mingyue—what exactly had Zhou Ning and Sun Mingyue agreed on?