The Paranoid Film Queen Doesn’t Want to Remarry - Chapter 27

Chapter 27

“Xu Weishuang, come here.”

Hearing that command was like a beacon of light in her endless darkness and agony—the surrounding tide of despair instantly receded.

Xu Weishuang shifted away from Liu Yuebai’s presence and saw Yan Muyu nearby. Yan Muyu’s gentle eyes enveloped her, turning the cold, damp atmosphere into a clear, soothing spring brook under a warm spring sun.

Yan Muyu always brought warmth—even when she tore into Xu Weishuang with madness and possession, there was no trace of hatred in her attitude. What Xu Weishuang felt instead was deep passion: Yan Muyu loved her body, her expressions, her obedience.

Xu Weishuang knew Yan Muyu’s love wasn’t like Liu Yuebai’s—it was not familial or resentful. It was a pure, unburdened desire, exactly what Xu Weishuang needed. With her, she felt calm, safe.

Liu Yuebai also recognized Yan Muyu’s voice in the shared makeup room and quietly smiled as she looked on. She nodded politely and introduced herself, maintaining a cordial demeanor despite whatever resentment she might have felt.

Yan Muyu affectionately took Xu Weishuang’s hand, touching her face and straightening a strand of hair—actions Liu Yuebai noticed. Though Liu Yuebai tried to maintain composure, she sensed a twinge of envy—but also relief that Xu Weishuang was cared for.

After finishing the greeting, Liu Yuebai left to prepare, while Xu Weishuang quietly followed Yan Muyu to a secluded corner—escaping the emotional storm.

Yan Muyu tucked her hair, leaned in closely, and softly asked, “Are you nervous about going onstage?” She didn’t mention Liu Yuebai or the tension earlier; her purpose was to comfort Xu Weishuang before the performance.

Xu Weishuang, caught between confusion and relief, allowed herself to calm down. She needed someone to guide her through this moment—someone who knew how to take control. And Yan Muyu did exactly that.

She leaned in, kissed Xu Weishuang gently, and let her hands glide over her waist, offering soothing intimacy. Their breaths mixed, creating a brief moment of warmth and comfort—an island of peace in a tumultuous sea.

When Xu Weishuang tried to deepen the kiss, Yan Muyu gently stopped her, reminding her, “We still have to record the show.” That simple kiss, though tender, was a grounding moment.

Xu Weishuang nodded, catching her breath—her heart pounding, yet soothed by Yan Muyu’s presence.

They remained close until Yan Muyu suddenly pulled away and asked quietly, “Who do you take me for?”

It wasn’t a question of accusation, but one of bewildered intimacy—spoken softly, with a faint smile that didn’t entirely mask its raw emotion. It was like the youthful Yan Muyu who once sought fairness from an unforgiving elder: strong, defiant, yet vulnerable.

Xu Weishuang couldn’t – or wouldn’t – answer. Yan Muyu’s smile held a hint of anger beneath its warmth.

After returning to the contestants’ waiting area, Xu Weishuang remained still, pondering Yan Muyu’s question. The edge in that question moved something inside her, reminding her once more of the tangled depths of their relationship—especially now, as their divorce looms, yet here they are, entwined again.

She thought Yan Muyu would mind, but the other woman only gently comforted her at first and didn’t say much. Even after asking that question, she didn’t wait for an answer.

Xu Weishuang found Yan Muyu increasingly hard to read. Not used to digging too deeply into things, she simply pressed the matter down and stopped thinking about it.

Besides, the show was about to begin.

“Actress” had been surrounded by heated discussion since its inception. The teaser released in advance went viral, and most people following the show were openly criticizing Xu Weishuang—largely because of her connection to Yan Muyu.

Sometimes, disliking someone makes you even more obsessed with them. These people scrutinized her every move, trying to find more flaws to justify their hatred and influence others to feel the same.

Many of Xu Weishuang’s detractors behaved this way. The moment the teaser dropped, they rushed in faster than actual fans, scanning every frame for her appearances.

The production team had intentionally used her relationship with Yan Muyu to draw traffic, so the teaser included a lot of shots of Xu Weishuang—even when she wasn’t acting, she appeared in reaction shots during other actors’ scenes.

But soon, people noticed something strange: Xu Weishuang wasn’t even watching.

The editors picked up on this and intentionally inserted several shots of her looking distracted, captioned with:
[What exactly is she looking at?]

“She’s just sitting there with her head down, not watching at all. If she weren’t occasionally moving, I’d think she was asleep.”
“Maybe she really was sleepy and just couldn’t fall asleep because of the environment.”
“Someone bring a bed for her to nap anytime, anywhere.”
“This is wild—she’s supposed to be competing, right? Look at how nervous everyone else is. But not her. Ultimate chill, like she knows she won’t get eliminated.”
“Exactly. One really talented actor made a tiny mistake and was eliminated. Meanwhile, this resource-backed queen gets a free pass? Why is she Yan-laoshi’s wife? Yan-laoshi is so hardworking!”
“Ugh. Don’t get me started. Even Director Liu, who never compliments anyone, said she’s unparalleled. I don’t know how to feel anymore.”
“Let’s see what kind of “unparalleled” this resource-backed queen can offer.”

Despite all that hate, these viewers still watched the teaser closely, many even skipping ahead to Xu Weishuang’s audition scene to confirm just how “untalented” she was.

But they didn’t expect that within just five minutes, her acting would need no professional knowledge to be felt. It was intuitive. Raw. Immersive.

People couldn’t describe it clearly. Compared to seasoned veterans and skilled newcomers, Xu Weishuang had something else—a pull, a gravity that drew viewers into her world effortlessly.

Her gaze, her body language—each movement was seamless yet carried extraordinary emotional weight.

And her acting was completely different from her off-stage self. Many people didn’t like her at first glance—not unless they were purely focused on looks.

She was stunning, but her beauty was cold, lifeless, hard to approach. She resembled an exquisite doll, the kind placed in a display case—so beautiful that touching her felt like risking damage and incurring a fine.

But when Xu Weishuang acted, she was fire. It was like all the emotions bottled up inside her burst out. Every breath, every gesture exuded intensity.

Her performances were the opposite of her private self—vivid, alive, electrifying. Impossible to look away from.

The audience may not be professionally trained, but they could feel something powerful. And sometimes, that’s more than enough to judge an actor’s skill.

If Xu Weishuang were just “technically” good, her haters might’ve had some room to spin it. But this performance left them speechless. Even those who wanted to slander her couldn’t find an angle.

“Is this really the woman the media said had no talent?”
“I’m no expert, but in just five minutes she had my heart aching. Only Yan-laoshi used to do that. Now, she joins that rank.”
‘How is there any issue with her passing the preliminary round?”
“Finally, my precious Xu gets the recognition she deserves. She was excellent from day one. Don’t forget her debut film won her Best Supporting Actress. The media used to call her the rising star of entertainment!”
“Having talent doesn’t mean she’s not a resource-backed queen. This show is just the beginning. Who knows how many opportunities she’ll steal next?”
“Since when is using your skill considered “stealing”? At least she’s better than those emotionless idol actors!”
“Am I the only one who found her self-introduction hilarious? Could Xu Weishuang secretly have a hidden goofy side?”
“The rookie actor next to her looked stunned after hearing that intro—LOL.”
“Our dear Teacher Luo must be thrilled. Finally someone in entertainment who can rival her in deadpan delivery.”
“You mean someone who offends people without even trying?”
“LMAO, Teacher Luo still wins. She’s roasted half the industry.”

As the teaser continued, Xu Weishuang’s scenes kept appearing. But as it went on, the negative comments diminished, replaced by more balanced—or even supportive—voices.

Of course, part of that came from Shi Yan’s hired PR team, who were tasked with rehabilitating Xu Weishuang’s image after the teaser dropped.

So by the time the show aired live, most comments about Xu Weishuang were fairly positive.

The appearance of the four mentors sparked excitement from both the live audience and online viewers. The host then explained the competition format:

Each mentor, along with invited guest judges, would decide whether a performer passed.

Four votes: the actor advances immediately.

One to three votes: pending—live audience decides via vote.

Zero votes: immediate elimination.

Actors received their scripts one day prior. On performance day, they were responsible for character assignment and rehearsal—a real test of adaptability and analytical skill.

A pre-recorded behind-the-scenes clip would play before each performance. This added a reality show flavor and gave stagehands time to prep the set.

Backstage, Xu Weishuang couldn’t see what was happening on stage. Her group was scheduled early. Soon, someone came to fetch them.

Her group included Jiang Ye, a veteran actress known for playing supporting roles—once a youthful standout, now cast mostly as mothers.
The other member, Zhuang Shitao, was an idol-turned-actress whose recent period dramas had boosted her popularity.

Xu Weishuang remembered entering the rehearsal room and being greeted warmly by Zhuang Shitao. She remained aloof, simply nodding to both women.

By then, the teaser had aired. Xu Weishuang hadn’t seen it, but Zhuang Shitao had—and now knew she couldn’t beat Xu using normal tactics.

So, she showered Xu Weishuang with fake praise while subtly assigning her the least likable character in the script.

As a former idol, Zhuang Shitao knew how to play nice on the surface. She calculated that even if Xu refused the role, she’d look petty. Either way, Zhuang would gain sympathy and votes.

Her plan was airtight. Even with cameras rolling, no one could accuse her of scheming. But Xu Weishuang didn’t take the bait. She silently accepted the script, never objecting to the role.

Zhuang smirked privately, looking down on her.

“What a fool—can act, sure, but doesn’t know how much a bad character hurts public votes. What good is talent if no one likes you?”

“Actress” was a variety show, after all. Acting mattered, yes, but audience approval mattered more.

Popularity meant roles. It meant investment. Zhuang didn’t bother reminding her—Xu Weishuang had Yan Muyu behind her. Probably didn’t care about such tricks.

Still, they were the same—neither nobler than the other.

“The stage is ready. Please welcome Xu Weishuang, Zhuang Shitao, and Jiang Ye,” announced the host.
The voice came muffled through the speakers from the stage to the back.

Xu Weishuang looked up at the path leading to the stage. Behind the curtain, a faint light glowed.

Staff finished checking their equipment and guided them to the curtain.

On stage, under the lights, in the eye of every camera—Xu Weishuang didn’t feel nervous. She felt… curious.

Every time she acted, she felt this same wonder. Because each time, she peeled herself away, little by little.

Becoming someone else. Releasing all her hidden emotions. It didn’t feel like “acting”—it felt like being.

She didn’t know whether she loved acting. Others said she was good. Her teacher said she was a once-in-a-generation talent.

She didn’t care if she had talent. She started studying acting because of Liu Yuebai.

And yet, she had made it this far.

Once she stepped onto that stage, Yan Muyu would be watching. Those gentle eyes would swell with emotion, just as they had when they last acted together.

Pride in her growth. And a hunger to devour her completely.

Xu Weishuang never told anyone—back in school, she often watched Yan Muyu’s recordings. Though, to be fair, many students did.

Teachers often used Yan Muyu’s scenes as acting references.

But what Xu Weishuang felt while watching wasn’t quite the same. As she stared at the screen, she felt something dangerous bloom inside her.

She could feel the pressure in Yan Muyu’s performances—so intense she couldn’t stand it. She wanted to fight back.

Professor Lin once said she was a contradictory person: obedient on the surface, but aggressively dominant when she performed.

Anyone who acted with Xu Weishuang was either completely overwhelmed by her, or totally controlled by her. Her emotions poured out with force, and she didn’t care if her scene partners could keep up.

Later, she married Yan Muyu.

She became more submissive, quietly enduring Yan’s every whim.

But sometimes, watching Yan perform—Xu Weishuang still couldn’t look away. She stared at that raw, powerful Yan Muyu on screen and imagined herself standing across from her, like that time in the theater, during their scene—Matching her strength. Overpowering her completely.

Devouring her whole.