The Paranoid Film Queen Doesn’t Want to Remarry - Chapter 28

Chapter 28

 

The stage lights dimmed and rose again—signaling the performance had begun.

 

The play they were performing was adapted from a classic film/drama, originally a stage play, so the script remained largely the same.

 

Xu Weishuang’s role, the one Zhuang Shitao had dismissed, was originally a domineering, brainless villainess—a purely functional antagonist. Traditionally, actors playing this role would simply emphasize how obnoxious and hateful she was, to push the story forward and highlight the protagonist.

 

But this wasn’t the original full production; on this stage, they only had a short scene to perform, focused entirely on the dynamic between these three characters.

 

So Xu Weishuang didn’t have to stick to the original villain formula, nor live up to previous iconic interpretations. Instead, she reinvented the character within this scene.

 

She kept the original lines but changed her tone and expressions. The once haughty, overbearing debutante became proud yet playful, spirited, and charming.

 

When she smiled, her eyes curved softly, her features softened with innocence.

 

Her every nuance carried a childlike sincerity. Even when she delivered threats or struck with her whip, she seemed harmless—cute, even.

 

In the original production, the character was young—but the previous actress, nearly thirty with a doll-like face, still portrayed her with sharp arrogance. That made the character unrelatable.

 

Xu Weishuang seized this moment to infuse the role with genuine youthfulness—a choice far more engaging and faithful to the original’s intent.

 

Not to take anything away from prior performers—their interpretations were iconic and memorable. But Xu Weishuang’s spontaneous revision caught Zhuang Shitao off guard, and she froze, unable to respond, forgetting her lines. The scene risked collapsing.

 

Yet Xu Weishuang remained unfazed. She intensified her cues, compelling Zhuang Shitao to give her the reactions she needed—even guiding her back into character—so the scene stayed alive.

 

Eventually, Zhuang Shitao recovered, realizing she was being pulled along by Xu Weishuang’s rhythm. But she couldn’t break free—her skills weren’t enough to resist live.

 

Her performance became a reaction to Xu Weishuang’s lead, clever enough that lay audiences might still applaude, but any professional actor or director could sense she was overpowered.

 

Zhuang Shitao was furious but helpless—she’d thought Xu was just a dull actor, but now realized how maliciously sharp she was.

 

The third actor, Jiang Ye, who had formal theater training, responded very differently. With strong fundamentals and tons of stage experience, she quickly recognized Xu Weishuang’s shift and followed it intuitively.

 

Jiang Ye didn’t know about the teaser nor about Xu’s connection to Yan Muyu. All she knew was she’d been told Xu was the mentor’s wife, so she was likely protected. She’d seen these undercurrents in the industry—though she disliked them, she’d grown numb.

 

So she didn’t intervene when Zhuang Shitao subtly attacked Xu on stage. With no fame or topic of her own, she was content to sit quietly and act earnestly.

 

Yet she was stunned to see how a simple scene twist caused Zhuang Shitao to panic, whereas Xu Weishuang had captured full control.

 

When her own lines came, Jiang Ye recognized the brilliance behind Xu’s choices. Despite her technical style of acting, she became completely absorbed, delivering a heartfelt response to Xu’s lead.

 

As the trio’s scene drew to a close, the audience’s applause crashed through the theater. Only then did Jiang Ye realize how extraordinary Xu’s performance had been—how she’d carried Zhuang Shitao and pressed forward, while giving Jiang Ye genuine oppressiveness and energy in return.

 

She exhaled, a mix of envy and delight lighting her heart. Playing alongside Xu was unexpectedly invigorating.

 

Zhuang Shitao, however, felt misery taking hold. She knew her performance had been subpar and faced elimination, and—worst of all—she’d been undermined by Xu.

 

Anger flared and tears welled up. She wasn’t only upset—she’d momentarily played the victim, turning to the mentors and audience with teary eyes.

 

Her face, framed by soft, idol-like beauty, was perfect for the act: vulnerable, unwilling to admit defeat, even trembling. She spoke quietly, as if afraid to be heard:

 

“I—I don’t know why Xu‑jie suddenly changed the script. It was fine at rehearsal yesterday.”

 

She politely called her “Xu-jie” (senior), casting herself as the aggrieved junior.

 

Of course, rehearsals had been rocky for all three—the crew only showed snippets to preserve secrecy. Zhuang, having been on variety shows before, knew how this played out.

 

The host, quick to seize the moment, asked: “What’s going on, Zhuang? Why are you crying?”

 

Eyes turned toward her. She kept her face averted at first, but then revealed the pout of a wronged damsel.

 

Then Qiu Shu—the least outspoken among the four celebrity mentors—spoke up:

 

“Xu, Zhuang said you changed the script. Is that true?”

 

Xu Weishuang lowered her lashes, voice cool and measured:

 

“Yes. I felt it would portray the character better.”

 

She was right—professionals would admit it—but Qiu Shu pressed on:

 

“Did you consider how that affects the other actors? Or were you deliberately doing it to sabotage?”

 

Qiu Shu made it clear she was probing whether Xu’s rewrite was a selfish tactic.

 

Later, by a stroke of luck, she landed a role alongside a top-tier idol who was transitioning into acting. Then, she caught the attention of a rich heiress and became her close confidante. With the right connections and ample resources, the talented Luo Qin quickly secured her place in the film industry.

 

Qiu Shu didn’t like any of them. She had clawed her way up from the dirt to reach her current position, yet she was still just a Best Actress—no higher.

 

Whether it was Luo Qin, who got lucky and was supported from the start, or Yan Muyu, who seemed to be blessed by the heavens, both looked down on her like they were born winners. Their eyes were always filled with a kind of contempt.

 

And the woman standing before her now—Xu Weishuang—made her feel even more uncomfortable.

 

Crushing raw talent that overshadowed Zhuāng Shitao, a forceful acting style that ignored everyone else, the arrogance of changing the script on the spot, and a powerful background with Yan Muyu’s protection—every single trait of Xu Weishuang’s struck a nerve with Qiu Shu.

 

But maybe that was a good thing. Xu Weishuang’s sharpness, if unchecked, would inevitably hurt her in the end.

 

Qiu Shu turned her head slightly to glance at Yan Muyu, curious to see what decision the aloof Best Actress would make.

 

Faced with her own wife—would she protect her or not?

 

Either way, it wouldn’t end well. And Qiu Shu was more than happy to watch it unfold.

 

The livestream was still ongoing. Qiu Shu’s provocative words made everyone tense. All eyes and cameras turned toward Xu Weishuang, waiting for her response.

 

“Will it?” Xu Weishuang asked with a trace of confusion.

 

Her expression remained cold, with a faint sheen of sweat from the intense performance just moments ago. Though the confusion in her expression was subtle, the camera zoomed in on her face, catching even the slightest shift in emotion.

 

Qiu Shu couldn’t help but chuckle softly and then fell silent.

 

In a competition like this, a no-name actress with no notable works making such a bold claim was enough to ruin her career.

 

Even with Yan Muyu’s backing, public opinion online couldn’t be silenced. If Yan Muyu tried too hard to shield her, it would only make the backlash worse—possibly even affecting Yan Muyu herself. That thought alone was enough to please Qiu Shu.

 

As expected, Xu Weishuang’s response immediately set off a firestorm in the livestream chat.

 

“So arrogant?”
“Seriously? Her performance was decent, but who does she think she is? Even Yan Muyu’s never acted this cocky.”
“Didn’t see any brilliant acting—just a scheming person who altered the script to sabotage her teammate. If Zhuang Shitao hadn’t cried out of frustration, she might’ve gotten away with it.”
“Zhuang Shitao’s fans, stop stirring the pot. Did you not see that performance? She got completely outclassed by Xu Weishuang.”
“Sure, she’s arrogant, but she’s got real skills. I like that.”
“Oh great, now we’re defending people with no morals? Changing the script mid-scene to trap someone else? What a joke.”
“Of course she’s bold—she won’t get eliminated. She’s got a wife on the judge panel protecting her.”
“Disgusting resource-baby. People were hyping her after the preview episode, and now this? Is Yan Muyu still going to defend her? Letting her move on just to ruin the next group too?”

 

Shi Yan stared at the flood of comments with a pounding headache. He hadn’t expected Xu Weishuang to stir up this much controversy and quickly arranged for a PR team to flood the chat with positive messages.

 

But Xu Weishuang was practically a rookie. She had few fans, and those defending her were mostly Yan Muyu’s supporters, only doing so out of goodwill toward her wife.

 

Everyone knew speaking up for Xu Weishuang now was asking for trouble. Even hired commenters couldn’t drown out the sea of criticism.

 

“The next segment is mentor feedback and voting. First up, let’s hear from Best Actress Yan,” the host continued, unfazed by the chaos. The producers knew a juicy scandal meant viral traffic—there was no reason not to milk it.

 

Yan Muyu smiled slightly and raised her gaze to Xu Weishuang.

 

She knew Xu Weishuang well. Even though her face was still cool and composed, the slight furrow in her brow revealed she realized she’d said the wrong thing.

 

Xu Weishuang had been at home too long, too sheltered. Yan Muyu smiled wryly at herself for forgetting to remind her to be careful with her words.

 

But it didn’t matter—Shi Yan would take care of things. The public would soon forget. With her protection, Xu Weishuang wouldn’t be ruined by something this minor.

 

Yan Muyu’s eyes casually swept past Qiu Shu and then the guest seat where Liu Yuebai sat. The corners of her lips tugged up imperceptibly.

 

So many people were watching Xu Weishuang. It made her uncomfortable.

 

“Zhuang Zhuang still has a long way to go. Teacher Jiang Ye, whom I’ve worked with before, has a very solid foundation. Today’s performance surprised me—it had more spirit than many of her past roles. I’d say this scene is on par with the original production,” Yan Muyu said warmly.

 

After a pause, she looked at Xu Weishuang.

 

Everyone was waiting for her to comment on Xu Weishuang. Everyone knew how strict Yan Muyu was about acting.

 

Shi Yan was probably hoping she’d distance herself—at least avoid voicing any support.

 

Yan Muyu smiled slightly. She wouldn’t make things harder for Shi Yan, so she said, “Given my unique position, I won’t comment on Xu Weishuang. My vote goes to Jiang Ye. Her performance today deserves to move on.”

 

Qiu Shu immediately lost interest. As the second judge to comment, she gave a bland critique, didn’t say much about Xu Weishuang, and also voted for Jiang Ye.

 

Luo Qin personally liked Xu Weishuang’s acting. She found her performance and social instincts quite appealing—another clip to share with fans, which might distract from her own reputation for low EQ.

 

But Luo Qin knew how to restrain herself. She wouldn’t defend Xu Weishuang now—not with her manager watching like a hawk.

 

Still, she was curious: “Xu Weishuang changed the script on the spot, and yet Jiang Ye picked it up without a hitch. I think she was the best of the three.”

 

“Uh…” Jiang Ye hesitated before replying, glancing at Xu Weishuang and Zhuang Shitao. “Xu only adjusted the character setup. The lines barely changed, so it wasn’t hard to follow.”

 

She wasn’t trying to defend Xu Weishuang—just being honest. For such a small change, any well-trained actor who had studied the script could adapt.

 

The lines hadn’t changed. Even if someone stuck to their original interpretation, it wouldn’t have been hard.

 

Jiang Ye had formal training. They often did improv back in school—no script, just raw creativity and control. This was acting 101.

 

And this competition required live performances. An actor should always be prepared for on-the-spot changes.

 

In her view, Xu Weishuang’s choice to improvise wasn’t ideal, but Zhuang Shitao panicking and forgetting her lines without any recovery was even worse.

 

She wasn’t defending Xu Weishuang, but she didn’t respect unprepared “traffic stars” either.

 

Luo Qin raised her eyebrows at that and didn’t press further. “My vote goes to Jiang Ye. I hope to see more great performances from her.”

 

Finally, it was Director Tao’s turn. A senior figure in the industry known for her sharp critiques, she rarely sugarcoated her feedback.

 

She slowly picked up the mic, praised Jiang Ye, criticized Zhuang Shitao’s lack of professionalism, then turned to Xu Weishuang, her expression stern.

 

“If this were my film crew, I’d strongly disapprove of any actor who changed the script without approval—even a slight character tweak,” she said gravely. “Our scripts are refined by the writers and directors with great care. No actor should alter them based on their personal interpretation.”

 

She looked directly at Xu Weishuang, clearly displeased.

 

Xu Weishuang tilted her head slightly. She didn’t flinch under the director’s gaze, but her mind was racing.

 

She instinctively looked toward Yan Muyu—her usual source of comfort. But onstage, Yan Muyu only smiled gently, offering no lifeline.

 

Xu Weishuang thought she’d panic—but under the spotlight, with the weight of the room pressing down, and Director Tao’s harsh words ringing in her ears—she felt strangely calm.

 

She reflected on Director Tao’s critique and agreed with it.

 

So she bowed her head and apologized to Zhuang Shitao and Jiang Ye. “My actions affected your performances. I’m sorry.”

 

“Pfft!” Luo Qin couldn’t help but laugh, her interest in Xu Weishuang only growing.

 

Her laughter broke the tense atmosphere that had nearly suffocated the room. Director Tao glanced at her disapprovingly.

 

“Please continue, Director Tao. Don’t mind me,” Luo Qin quickly waved it off.

 

Tao had worked with Luo Qin many times and knew she lacked tact. If not for the rich heiress backing her, she’d never have made it in the industry.

 

Still, she respected sincere and talented actors.

 

“My vote goes to Xu Weishuang,” she said.

 

The decision stunned everyone. If Director Tao weren’t so prestigious, the show’s director might’ve suspected someone had bribed her.

 

They immediately monitored trending topics and pushed content to boost the show’s visibility.

 

Then came the guest speaker. Although Liu Yuebai’s opinion no longer mattered much, no one expected what she’d say next.

 

“I really liked Xu Weishuang’s performance. Didn’t you?” said the elegant, romantic young director, her inky shoulder-length curls framing a face as beautiful as any celebrity’s. She exuded artistic charm.

 

Her gaze locked on Xu Weishuang, openly showing her admiration.

 

“My vote goes to the one I like—Xu Weishuang.” Then she looked at Yan Muyu with a gentle, teasing smile. The beauty mark at the corner of her eye shifted subtly with her expression.

 

Yan Muyu returned her gaze, paused for a moment, then smiled too. “Thank you, Director Liu, for your support.”

 

She was thanking Liu Yuebai as Xu Weishuang’s wife, asserting their relationship—almost like staking her claim.

 

Yan Muyu knew she shouldn’t have done it. It would make things harder for Shi Yan and worsen the situation.

 

She knew all that.

 

But she had lost control.