The Paranoid Film Queen Doesn’t Want to Remarry - Chapter 25

Chapter 25

 

Xu Weishuang knew—both she and Yan Muyu had crossed the line. Neither of them had followed the agreement they made at the start.

 

Yan Muyu wanted to continue this relationship, or at least, continue their physical intimacy. Her intentions were clear—she wanted things to go on as they were.

 

And Xu Weishuang couldn’t resist the temptation.

 

Xu Weishuang understood that Yan Muyu was a master of control. Whether it was during their intimacy or over Xu Weishuang’s psychological state, Yan Muyu always had the upper hand.

 

She probed step by step, sometimes asserting dominance, showing her control; other times, she was gentle, luring Xu Weishuang in with sweet words.

 

Perhaps even that moment of confusion and vulnerability in the rain, when they met at the theater, had all been part of her flawless plan.

 

She always wore a mask. Whatever face she showed Xu Weishuang might never have been real.

 

Xu Weishuang didn’t know anymore. She could no longer read Yan Muyu—but one thing she understood clearly: Yan Muyu wanted her.

 

Everything stemmed from that desire.

 

Yan Muyu had said it before—Xu Weishuang was always obedient. Between them, they matched perfectly in all their quirks and fetishes. With Xu Weishuang, Yan Muyu never had to restrain herself.

 

She could release everything upon her.

 

Xu Weishuang was under her control, endured her aggression, yet never lost herself.

 

Yan Muyu wanted obedience, but even more so, she enjoyed the cold indifference that remained after Xu Weishuang submitted.

 

For someone who wanted to possess everything, this was an unending conquest—an infinite pleasure.

 

She could never find another Xu Weishuang, nor did she want to lose this perfect match.

 

To Xu Weishuang, this had nothing to do with love, but there was an undeniable physical and psychological need between them.

 

The other was like her only refuge in the cold and dark, both of them tainted and filthy, yet unable to erase each other’s marks.

 

Xu Weishuang leaned closer to Yan Muyu, who was holding medicine to check the wound on her ear. Though Xu Weishuang was completely naked, Yan Muyu still wore an expression of gentle concern.

 

She was toying with her—Xu Weishuang knew that.

 

But she was also genuinely caring.

 

Yan Muyu would punish her, hurt her occasionally, but she never liked to see her injured.

 

“It’s a bit inflamed,” Yan Muyu said softly as she brushed aside her hair and examined the side of her face.

 

Xu Weishuang pressed her lips together and didn’t reply. All she felt was pain—a sharp sting that burned like fire, unbearable.

 

But she had endured it for a long time, all the way through filming. By the end, she was numb.

 

Now, as Yan Muyu disinfected the wound with alcohol, the pain intensified. Xu Weishuang shut her eyes, her breathing quickened.

 

When Yan Muyu finally applied the anti-inflammatory medicine, she gently blew on Xu Weishuang’s right ear. The cool air, tinged with Yan Muyu’s subtle fragrance, drifted into her nose.

 

Xu Weishuang had always liked that scent. She had even tried wearing the same perfume, but it never smelled the same on her as it did on Yan Muyu.

 

Yan Muyu’s breath mingled with the scent and drifted toward her. Xu Weishuang looked up, seeing the smile in her eyes.

 

“Kiss me, little pet.” Yan Muyu hooked her finger around the black collar on Xu Weishuang’s neck, pulled her closer, and whispered softly.

 

Xu Weishuang was a tamed pet, so she obediently listened.

 

She leaned forward and kissed Yan Muyu’s lips. The latter responded unconditionally, parting her teeth to invite her in deeper.

 

Xu Weishuang had been trained. She knew what her master wanted, and she didn’t hesitate. She kissed Yan Muyu deeply.

 

The softness, the fragrance, the searing heat.

 

Xu Weishuang quickly lost herself in it. Her body instinctively pressed against Yan Muyu, the latter’s clothes rubbing against her bare skin.

 

It was the perfect moment for an embrace. Xu Weishuang had a fleeting thought of hugging her tight.

 

But Yan Muyu wouldn’t allow it. She bit her lip, pinned her hands, and abruptly pulled away.

 

Xu Weishuang, still lost in the sweetness of the kiss, looked at her in confusion. Yan Muyu licked her lips and gave her an unreadable smile.

 

Xu Weishuang couldn’t understand it. But it didn’t matter.

 

She only needed to obey.

 

Obedient pets always got rewarded.

 

Looking at Yan Muyu, she really did seem like a pet—only moving when given commands.

 

Yan Muyu loved this. She led her to the bed and then pushed her down.

 

Xu Weishuang’s upper body fell into the soft bedding—not painful. But then Yan Muyu followed, grabbing the back of her neck, and that hurt.

 

She used great force, her fingers pressing against Xu Weishuang’s throat from behind.

 

The position made it worse. Her body was sunken into the bedding, forcing her to lift her head slightly, but Yan Muyu had her throat pinned, making her feel like she was suffocating.

 

And she didn’t hold back. She used full strength from the start, forcing Xu Weishuang into a primal, reflexive struggle.

 

Xu Weishuang instinctively resisted—trying to push up, trying to pry off her fingers. But that resistance only lasted five seconds.

 

Once Yan Muyu leaned in and bit her nape, Xu Weishuang went completely still.

 

“Xiao Shuang, you’re learning to take it faster and faster,” Yan Muyu said, tightening her grip.

 

Yet even so, Xu Weishuang never fought back again.

 

This wasn’t the first time she had been treated like this. Even the most self-controlled people would react on instinct, but Xu Weishuang had long since learned to suppress that response.

 

But Yan Muyu wanted more.

 

She forced her to repeatedly endure sudden attacks—over and over—to train her into still submitting, even when her body’s instincts cried out to rebel.

 

Only to her.

 

Her scent. Her temperature. Her breath.

 

She wanted Xu Weishuang to remember it all—deeply, down to her bl00d and flesh.

 

Yan Muyu didn’t like hurting her, but sometimes pain helped memories sink deeper.

 

She didn’t mind pushing further, breaking past more boundaries. She had controlled Xu Weishuang six years ago—she could do it again.

 

This time, she would set new rules. This time, she would never let her escape again.

 

Yan Muyu couldn’t bear to lose her—not anymore. Xu Weishuang had become her everything.

 

She looked down at the woman beneath her, who was now nearly unconscious from lack of air, but still offered no resistance.

 

She had restrained her instincts so thoroughly, it was as if she’d handed her life over to Yan Muyu.

 

But Yan Muyu knew—come morning, she would still leave.

 

Her face darkened as she watched Xu Weishuang’s body tremble with strangled breaths.

 

The strange, wheezing sound coming from her throat was a sign: her limits were reached.

 

Yan Muyu exhaled heavily, and at last, released her.

 

And in Xu Weishuang’s eyes—there it was.

 

Excitement.

 

That raw, uncontrollable excitement born from the edge of danger. Direct, blazing—pure desire.

 

Beautiful.

 

Yan Muyu laughed, almost madly, pulling the disheveled Xu Weishuang up and pressing her down again—plunging her into suffocation once more.

 

Xu Weishuang couldn’t live without that desire.

 

Beautiful.

 

That meant their relationship… would never end.

 

…

 

The show’s official recording was set for next Friday and would be aired live. The audition footage would be aired two days earlier as a prologue episode on the platform.

 

An audience voting system was being added—viewers could vote for their favorite actors. If a supported actor was eliminated, high vote counts could earn them a place in the revival match.

 

With the prologue episode airing, the show—already highly anticipated—began trending all over social media again.

 

Yan Muyu had huge popularity, and the format of 50 actors performing live was new and compelling. Audiences were instantly drawn in.

 

The production team even promoted Yan Muyu’s connection with Xu Weishuang. After all, Yan Muyu had been married for six years but had never brought her spouse into the public eye. There had barely been a single candid photo of them together, so when she suddenly began attending events frequently with Xu Xia, the media erupted with speculation.

 

Because of this, some people claimed Xu Weishuang was being forced into the show by Yan Muyu’s influence.

 

After all, she hadn’t acted in six years and had only a small web drama recently. Why should someone like her get on such a high-profile show?

 

Everyone knew this show would explode in popularity. Actors had been fighting for slots. Xu Weishuang, with no standout works, naturally became the prime target of attacks.

 

Even Yan Muyu faced some backlash.

 

Though Yan Muyu had a strong public image, she had just as many haters as fans. Of course, they wouldn’t let this chance pass.

 

Still, Yan Muyu had talent, fame, and status in the industry. The media wouldn’t dare go too far, and her fanbase was organized—bad publicity was quickly managed.

 

But Xu Weishuang didn’t have those advantages. Even though Shi Yan had PR helping manage things, the criticism was relentless. People needed a target to lash out at, and she became it.

 

More importantly, Shi Yan didn’t want Yan Muyu dragged into this too deeply, so she decided both women should stay silent.

 

She’d seen Xu Weishuang’s audition performance and had already talked to the production team. They promised not to edit her footage maliciously. Once the prologue aired and audiences saw her real performance, they could clear her name more easily.

 

“Ms. Xu, Shi-jie said it’s best if you don’t check social media these days. If possible, please let me manage your accounts for now,” Xiao Shiyi said, approaching her the day after auditions.

 

Xu Weishuang had already heard some of what was happening online. She didn’t enjoy scrolling through that anyway, so she handed over her account and password.

 

Yan Muyu had to work these next few days and wasn’t staying at the hotel. With no other jobs lined up, Xu Weishuang simply stayed there, waiting for the official filming to begin.

 

Xiao Shiyi suggested, “Ms. Xu, you could visit some scenic spots in Xià Nán City—I heard there’s a 3A-rated site, and it’s beautiful this season.”

 

Xu Weishuang shook her head. “Could you get me a floor-length mirror instead?”

 

“Of course!” Xiao Shiyi didn’t question her reasons—if the boss wants something, no questions asked.

 

Working quickly, Xiao Shiyi had the mirror delivered by that afternoon. Xu Weishuang didn’t feel like going out or sightseeing; she placed the mirror by the window and, once Xiao Shiyi had left, focused entirely on her daily basic acting practice.

 

As Teacher Lin had said, she had lost six years—if she wanted to act well again, she needed to work harder than anyone else. And Xu Weishuang was clearer than most about her own acting issues, because she felt them more intensely.

 

She found it hard to step out of character. Even six years ago, while shooting that one project, she took a long time to come back to herself. Others, once deeply in character, could snap out of it quickly if something interrupted them. She couldn’t.

 

She was addicted to that feeling of transformation—perhaps because she always disliked herself, she craved becoming someone else.

 

Teacher Lin said it was her gift. Xu Weishuang didn’t fully believe it before, but after practicing and learning to step out of roles more smoothly—relieving that agony of being torn between character and self—she finally began to accept her gift.

 

So she quietly practiced, while online, the commotion about her escalated.

 

Originally, chatter around her stemmed from Yan Muyu’s popularity and opportunistic smear campaigns—but Xu Weishuang had almost no presence or fanbase. Her few remaining fans from six years ago weren’t enough to defend her. Nor had she much to boast about: no major projects in six years, only a small web drama with cheap production and flimsy writing intended purely for ship-support. Her supporting role showed little acting skill.

 

And in photos and clips from the show, her expressionless, cold demeanor led many to say, “Can a poker-faced person act well?”

 

Criticism flared.

 

Then a minor idol—who had recently risen to fame in historical romance dramas—shared stills from Xu Weishuang’s web drama with the caption: “But sister is so pretty.” This idol often reposted such dramas for fun, and fans knew it. But releasing it at this moment looked deliberate.

 

Her fans tried to clarify she didn’t realize the issue, just liked a pretty face. But netizens jumped in and insulted the idol’s fans for supporting “such poor acting.” A fan fight broke out, exporting the discussion beyond entertainment circles. Clips of Xu Weishuang’s acting were deliberately edited to mock her.

 

And once her name was dragged into the discussion, Yan Muyu got pulled in too. Yan Muyu’s fans defended her, saying, “Why should our sister suffer just because she’s Xu Weishuang’s legal wife?”

 

Basically, everyone assumed Xu Weishuang was incapable. They focused on Yan Muyu, accusing the showrunners of pushing Xu Weishuang onto the stage as a topic generator.

 

Eventually, the issue went viral. Even the actors at Xià Níng Theatre heard about it. Chén Xīn, who generally avoided social media, saw the online conversation about Xu Weishuang’s backlash, and finally learned why she’d left the theatre.

 

Frowning, Chén Xīn browsed the online posts. People were criticizing Xu Weishuang, saying she had no acting skills, that her best-supporting-award six years ago was unearned, only due to the director’s coaching.

 

Angered, Chén Xīn opened her own account to defend Xu Weishuang. The move ignited the debate even more.

 

Xià Níng Theatre didn’t operate in entertainment circles, but it was well-known. People knew it had embraced a very young lead actor—the youngest in its entire history—drawing attention.

 

Chén Xīn didn’t use the official theatre account, but her personal account had a lot of followers:

 

“Wait a minute—did I just see Chén Jiě online?!”
“Seriously? Someone’s defending Xu Weishuang? A resource kid with theatre backing?”
“No, Chén Jiě never uses social media—she just acts in plays.”
“Maybe she knows Xu Weishuang since she’s Yan Muyu’s wife? She’s just defending a friend.”
“Doesn’t matter—being that pretty is enough, even if she has no talent.”
“Facts: she’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah, this show’s got good-looking people—we don’t mind!”
“Resource kid? Let a real actor in!”
“With Yan Muyu backing, she’d breeze through auditions.”
“Come on, Yan Muyu’s husband is serious about her work—she won’t mess up her own reputation.”

 

Xiao Shiyi commented: “Sounds like people really dug into this… Shi-jie asked Xu not to read any of this. But we need to keep an eye.”

 

Yan Muyu did see some of it too—but, as a competent manager, Shi Yan advised her against publicly responding. The prologue was coming in three days, and nobody had dug up anything scandalous. No one could legitimately remove Xu Weishuang from the show now.

 

Shi Yan told Yan Muyu: “They’re not after her spot—they just want you to say something, to take some of your resources away.”

 

Even if Yan Muyu gave in, it wouldn’t cost anything significant.

 

“Just handle it,” Yan Muyu said, trusting Shi Yan entirely on this.

 

Shi Yan agreed and mobilized her team to assess which resources they could offer and which were being targeted. But she wouldn’t give them away cheaply—after all, she wasn’t a pushover talent.

 

If they demanded, they’d be asked to repay—and more.

 

Meanwhile, online sentiment would be left alone for now. They’d wait for the prologue release and turn the narrative around, showcasing Xu Weishuang’s acting and blowing the reversal out of proportion later—because the more attention now, the bigger the impact later.

 

Suddenly, Shi Yan noticed something: “Hey, does Xu Weishuang know Liú Yuèbái?”

 

Liu Yuèbái was a rising director: two hit shows and a successful film this year, with both box office and critical acclaim. She was one of the hottest new directors now. Also, she was incredibly beautiful—just as attractive as many celebrities—with a large fan following.

 

Shi Yan hadn’t expected Liú Yuèbái to get involved.

 

“Not sure—Xu never mentioned her,” Yan Muyu replied, then saw a social media post saying:

 

“No one can match her.”

 

And beneath it was a photo of Xu Weishuang accepting her Best Supporting Actress award six years ago. She wore a gown, still so young, radiating brilliance. Under the spotlight, she glowed like surrounded by golden stars. Her eyes—so clear—they gleamed with purity.

 

Yan Muyu stared at that image and Liu Yuèbái’s words, disbelief and emotion cooling her gaze completely.

 

…

 

Meanwhile, Xu Weishuang was completely unaware of the online storm—she had obediently handed over her phone and stayed inside each day, practicing. Eager to show deliverance, Xiao Shiyi watched her with growing respect for her dedication.

 

Finally, show day arrived. Xiao Shiyi escorted Xu Weishuang to the venue. Dressing areas were separate, but Yan Muyu once again called Xu Weishuang to her side. Xiao Shiyi quietly teased, “Why does Yan Muyu still want to see her now? They’ve been married six years—isn’t this excessive?” But to her, “little worker bees can’t question feelings.”

 

A few main mentors—plus one special guest who had yet to be announced—were present backstage when they walked in.

 

“Ms. Xu, that’s director Liú Yuèbái,” Xiao Shiyi whispered.

 

Xu Weishuang froze, her breath catching and body stiffening as Liú Yuèbái approached.

 

“Xiao Shuang,” Liú greeted her softly. “Long time no see.”

 

Xu Weishuang felt a surge of pain at the sound of her voice. Memories flooded her mind. Her limbs went numb. Her breath quickened—Xiao Shiyi noticed.

 

“No greeting after six years?” Liu asked, voice soft.

 

Xu Weishuang couldn’t reply; her throat filled with bitter emotion, choking her. Memories of pain threatened to consume her.

 

“I can’t stay here,” she thought.

 

Then a familiar voice broke through.

 

It carried warmth—and command.

 

Xu Weishuang lifted her head without hesitation and walked straight to Yan Muyu—passing Liu Yuèbái, who followed her gaze.