The Paranoid Film Queen Doesn’t Want to Remarry - Chapter 31

Chapter 31

 

“I’m seducing her.”

 

Luo Qinchu was so shocked by this statement that she was momentarily speechless. It wasn’t until she caught a glimpse of the bullet comments (live chat feed) that realization dawned:
“You’re rehearsing a scene?”

 

“Of course,” Xu Xia replied.

 

What else could they be doing?

 

Xu Xia was a newcomer under Yan Muyu’s company, and Xu Weishuang was Yan Muyu’s wife. The entire rehearsal room was covered in surveillance cameras. What could really be happening between them?

 

Luo Qinchu glanced again at their suggestive posture and finally snapped out of her shock.
“You’re not playing lovers, are you?”

 

Xu Xia couldn’t very well continue sitting on Xu Weishuang’s lap, so she got up, adjusted her clothes, and, aware that Xu Weishuang likely wouldn’t answer, took the lead herself:
“We are. A tragic love story.”

 

Luo Qinchu: “…”

 

The production team really went there.

 

Pairing Yan Muyu’s wife with her former rumored lover—as lovers.

 

Aren’t they afraid the queen of film herself might explode on set?

 

“Spicy. I like it,” Luo Qinchu responded dryly.

 

“Which drama are you performing from this time?” she asked, ignoring the barrage of bullet comments urging her to probe the “emotional chemistry” between the two. That kind of question would only make things awkward.

 

Better to just get the official info from the show’s task list.

 

Each pair of contestants was assigned a scene from a past film or drama. As long as they knew which one and what segment, the audience could guess the characters and plot.

 

The production team intentionally had Luo Qinchu ask this in advance to stir audience curiosity.

 

After all, each script had been carefully selected.

 

“Wait, are you filming right now?” Xu Xia finally noticed the phone in Luo Qinchu’s hand—and the cameraman following behind, lens focused squarely on her and Xu Weishuang.

 

Today was just for practice and rehearsal. The mentors weren’t supposed to be on duty. Luo Qinchu clearly wasn’t just here out of boredom.

 

Xu Xia caught on quickly, peered into the phone, and muttered:
“Knew it. The production team’s stirring drama again.”

 

Now that she’d been exposed, Luo Qinchu relaxed even more. She smiled, motioned for the cameraman to get a clearer shot, and said:
“Then help me complete my task. Answer the question.”

 

“A scene between a young general and a dancer from The Ballad of the Huàn River,” Xu Xia answered with a scoff. It was a reality show, and contestants were expected to cooperate with these setups.

 

“Oh? So you’re the dancer?” Luo Qinchu asked.

 

Based on their positions when she entered, it was pretty obvious who was playing whom.

 

Luo Qinchu admired Xu Weishuang—and was intrigued. Thinking about the kind of storyline they might be acting out, she was full of anticipation.

 

Xu Weishuang was not only stunningly beautiful but carried an innate coldness that made it easy to imagine her—when costumed properly—as a dazzling, charismatic young general.

 

Many viewers thought the same. But some were just there for the drama—or outright disliked Xu Weishuang.

 

After all, her last performance had stirred heavy controversy. The aftermath still lingered around her.

 

Seeing the comment section growing increasingly heated, Luo Qinchu decided to flee the scene:
“I’ll save the surprise for the official broadcast. Good luck with rehearsals!”

 

As soon as she left, Xu Xia turned to Xu Weishuang, headache returning.

 

They had been struggling with their rehearsals.

 

“Shall we continue?” Xu Xia asked, meeting Xu Weishuang’s eyes.

 

Xu Weishuang nodded, her expression as indifferent as ever.

 

She was always like this—Xu Xia knew it. Once “action” was called, Xu Weishuang could slip into character effortlessly. But Xu Xia wasn’t like her. She needed emotional resonance, feedback from her scene partner to get into it.

 

Xu Xia wasn’t sure if this was how Xu Weishuang always acted before a scene: completely blank, devoid of emotion.

 

Several times Xu Xia had tried initiating contact—Xu Weishuang never refused, but she never responded either.

 

It was… rigid.

 

“We need to build some intimacy,” Xu Xia insisted. After all, their characters were supposed to be deeply in love.

 

It’s common for actors unfamiliar with each other to play lovers, but humans are naturally guarded. That’s why they usually try to get closer first—to warm up emotionally and help the performance.

 

Xu Xia couldn’t just flip a switch and act. She was frustrated and upset at Xu Weishuang’s detachment.

 

Xu Weishuang didn’t refuse to rehearse, but she never really committed either.

 

Xu Xia had seen what she was capable of. Xu Weishuang’s last performance had left not only the audience and judges in awe—even the backstage competitors had quietly acknowledged her talent.

 

Xu Xia believed she had some talent too—after all, she had advanced past the first round—but she knew the gap between “a bit of talent” and “a true genius” was wide and visible.

 

And Xu Weishuang was the real deal.

 

Despite not performing for six years, her skills hadn’t faded. In fact, her acting was more composed now than in her early years.

 

Xu Xia admired and pitied her.

 

But she also knew about Xu Weishuang’s relationship with Yan Muyu—and as Si Yu’s cousin, Xu Xia, like many around Yan Muyu, believed that Xu Weishuang was merely a stand-in for Si Yu.

 

So she watched Xu Weishuang with curiosity. Her aloof nature, breathtaking beauty, and astonishing skill drew people in.

 

She really was pitiful—and such a waste.

 

Why stay with someone who didn’t love her?

 

A few days ago, in the car, Xu Xia had made a comment out of pity. Only when she saw Xu Weishuang’s reaction—anger—did she realize she’d crossed a line.

 

Because she admired Xu Weishuang, Xu Xia found her current unprofessional attitude especially disappointing.

 

Still, Xu Xia was trapped in her own thoughts. She didn’t really know Xu Weishuang—only the version she imagined in her head. So when the real Xu Weishuang didn’t match that fantasy, Xu Xia felt uncomfortable.

 

“Are you mad at me? About what I said before?” Xu Xia asked, slipping into the dancer’s persona, her gaze flirtatious and teasing.

 

Xu Weishuang looked down at her, stared for a moment, then replied softly:
“No.”

 

But she wasn’t entirely sure herself.

 

That day, she had felt an undeniable fire build inside her. She wanted to deny it, but couldn’t.

 

She was angry.

 

Because Xu Xia had deliberately provoked her—made her lose control. And she hated losing control.

 

But… what exactly was she angry about?

 

Xu Weishuang still hadn’t figured it out.

 

She had thought about it for days. But when she saw Xu Xia again, the irritation remained—not overwhelming like before, but quietly persistent.

 

“Then why are you like this? You don’t act like someone facing a lover at all.” Xu Xia took another step closer, still keeping her dancer’s aura.

 

She wasn’t good enough to switch into character instantly, but she was using all the tricks she knew to stay in the mood.

 

Her body leaned in, her tone flirtatious—making Xu Weishuang instinctively take a step back, clearly uncomfortable.

 

“See? You’re doing it again.” Xu Xia sighed, withdrawing her teasing.

 

Xu Weishuang stood still, hands subconsciously clenched, expression colder than before.

 

That instinctive rejection—even after conscious effort to suppress it—was something Xu Weishuang couldn’t fully control.

 

Yan Muyu had trained her too well. Xu Weishuang was now highly sensitive to scents—especially Yan Muyu’s. As a result, she instinctively rejected the scent of others.

 

Especially since she didn’t like Xu Xia.

 

Xu Weishuang took a deep breath, suppressing her frustration, and said firmly:
“I’ll do it properly.”

 

A promise, once given, would be kept.

 

…

 

Live Show – Episode Two

 

The second live episode brought a huge spike in viewership—even higher than the first episode—thanks to the early spoilers.

 

But high anticipation has its risks. Some stages didn’t live up to expectations, prompting floods of complaints in the bullet comments.

 

Soon, it was Xu Weishuang and Xu Xia’s turn.

 

Despite her obvious talent, Xu Weishuang’s reputation was still in ruins after the previous episode.

 

The hate was relentless. Even during other groups’ performances, there were always comments mocking or insulting her.

 

And that was after Shi Yan had tried to clean up the online space.

 

But once the internet sets its sights on destroying someone, it’s hard to stop.

 

Xu Weishuang had too many traits that didn’t fit this era—making her naturally unlikable to the masses. In the age of viral content, that made her an easy target for widespread contempt.

 

Luckily, she lived in her own world.

 

Shi Yan had called her several times to gauge if the vitriol was affecting her. After all, this level of hate could crush someone completely.

 

Xu Weishuang wasn’t even her signed artist—but as Yan Muyu’s wife, Shi Yan still took the situation seriously.

 

To her surprise, Xu Weishuang really could shut it all out. She didn’t look, didn’t care, and even when Xiao Shiyi mentioned it, showed no curiosity.

 

To Shi Yan, this tidal wave of hate was also an opportunity.

 

Xu Weishuang had zero popularity. She was newly returned to the scene. Even bad press was still press. It was free publicity, gifted by fate.

 

There’s a saying: “Infamy is still fame.” Public opinion is unpredictable—sometimes one event is all it takes for everything to shift 180 degrees.

 

“Next, let’s welcome Xu Weishuang and Xu Xia’s performance,” the host announced before slowly stepping off stage.

 

Under the gaze of the audience and camera, the lights gradually fell upon the two who had already taken their places.

 

Xu Weishuang played the young general in The Song of Huanjiang. In the original, the role was portrayed by an actor with striking features and a heroic presence, whose performance catapulted them to fame. Their on- and off-stage pairing with the dancer character made them a legendary CP (couple pairing), still remembered as a heart-wrenching romance to this day.

 

Xu Weishuang’s looks were even more beautiful than the original young general, but once she entered the role, she fully embodied its spirit. Her regular viewers were already familiar with her stunning appearance—she was known in the entertainment world for her beauty.

 

And yet, when she acted, she transformed completely—her gaze, her tone, her expressions shifted with the role, making people forget her naturally aloof features.

 

Watching her, one could believe she truly was that spirited, noble young general.

 

The general and the dancer grew up together; the dancer had been her personal maid since childhood. Gifted in the art of dance, the dancer was later sent away to train.

 

In the story’s setting, dancers weren’t noble per se, but they were admired by many scholars and artists. For a lowly maid, it was already an excellent path.

 

But the dancer refused to be separated from the general. Even after achieving some fame, she insisted on staying as her maid. They loved each other deeply, and despite their differing statuses, they secretly pledged themselves to one another.

 

Later, the dancer followed the general into battle. The war dragged on for years, devastating both nations.

 

The general’s strategies were repeatedly anticipated by the enemy. After multiple close calls, she began to suspect the dancer.

 

She didn’t want to believe it—how could she? They had grown up together. She’d already decided: after the war, she’d return and ask the emperor for their marriage. With an imperial decree, even family opposition wouldn’t matter.

 

The dancer had no martial training and shouldn’t have been on the frontlines. But she was stubborn—she secretly followed the general all the way to the border.

 

The general punished her severely but ultimately couldn’t drive her away. She kept the dancer close, letting her care for her daily needs.

 

Classified documents were never hidden from the dancer; she handled most of them.

 

But once the seed of doubt is planted, every action becomes suspect.

 

The general wished desperately that it was a misunderstanding, that she’d have a chance to apologize.

 

But all hopes were shattered by irrefutable evidence.

 

The spy had uncovered the dancer’s true identity and the method she used to send information.

 

One day, the general lifted the tent flap and entered to find the dancer packing.

 

The general’s sword was a gift from the emperor, with a tassel hand-stitched by the dancer herself.

 

It was a cherished item. At that moment, unaware of the general’s presence, the dancer gently stroked the tassel—lost in thought, her face soft with affection.

 

The sight pierced the general’s heart, flooding her chest with cold sorrow.

 

She approached. The dancer finally noticed her and turned with a joyful cry, “Shulan!”

 

That was the general’s name.

 

The general said nothing, merely stepped closer and drew her treasured sword.

 

Its sharp blade gleamed coldly, reflecting her somber expression.

 

The dancer looked into it and saw a different woman—no longer gentle and noble, but distant and oppressive.

 

She didn’t yet know the general had discovered everything—or perhaps she did and simply didn’t care.

 

From the moment she passed on the first piece of intelligence, she had never planned to survive. Sent to this country as a spy from childhood, her fate had always been predetermined.

 

“Last month, I wrote to my mother,” the general murmured, her fingertips tracing the icy blade.

 

She wasn’t really speaking to the dancer. She kept her gaze lowered.

 

“I said I wanted to marry you upon returning to the capital. I’d ask the emperor to grant us marriage.”

 

The dancer froze, her breath catching.

 

She looked up at the general with disbelief—yet as though she had always hoped.

 

Their love had been real: childhood affection, joy in shared confessions, the trembling after intimacy.

 

If there had been no war, if they had been born differently—if the dancer were truly just a dancer—they might have had a life together.

 

But now, looking at the general’s expression—cold brow, sorrowful eyes—and the sword gripped in hands once used to embrace and tease her, the dancer’s heart chilled.

 

She had done what was right and what was wrong.

 

She knew exactly how it would end.

 

“I bought some local tea in town today,” the dancer smiled, “the vendor said it has an osmanthus aroma. Stop playing with your sword, I’ll brew some for you.”

 

She bent to take the sword from the general’s pale, strained hands. Her touch was gentle.

 

The general didn’t resist. She let the dancer take it.

 

Even now, she still trusted her—trusted that the dancer would never harm her.

 

The sword was returned to its sheath. The dancer gleefully made tea. A fragrant steam rose; the osmanthus scent was rich and calming.

 

She poured a cup and set it before the general, who sat at the table.

 

“If we’re caught, there’s always a way out.” She pulled a small green pellet from her sleeve and dropped it into the tea.

 

The pellet dissolved slowly.

 

Both of them knew what it was.

 

The general tried to stand, to stop her, but the dancer moved first—climbing into her lap, pressing her forehead to her neck, laughing softly.

 

“Shulan, feed it to me.”

 

She raised the teacup to the general’s lips. The sweet floral scent could soothe any emotion—except the agony tearing through the general’s chest.

 

“Why did you do this?” the general asked, red-eyed. “We made a promise under the lanterns—to spend our lives together.”

 

She had come here ready to kill. Yet now she couldn’t help but clutch the woman in her arms, hoping—begging—she would deny everything.

 

“I lied,” the dancer smiled. “I just don’t want to die an ugly death. If you do it, you’ll always remember me.”

 

“I know you’re obedient—be good for me this one last time.”

 

She wanted the general to give her the poison herself. And she knew the general would comply.

 

Better this than being exposed, cursed by soldiers, and executed publicly. The general would rather she die quietly here.

 

The dancer had never lied—under those lanterns, they had pledged their hearts. That was her happiest moment.

 

But when a nation falls, families perish.

 

Her home was on the other side of the war. Her roots, too.

 

Would her soul return there after death? She hadn’t been back in so long.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking into the general’s tear-filled eyes. “Only to you.”

 

Then she raised the poisoned tea and drank it all in one go.

 

In the end, she didn’t let the general kill her.

 

The general knocked the cup away too late—tea spilled across the floor. But the dancer had already swallowed enough.

 

The general clutched her tightly, murmuring “don’t” again and again. But no word could stop what had already been done.

 

She couldn’t call the army doctor. She couldn’t stop her. She couldn’t save her.

 

She bowed her head and wept. Her sobs weren’t loud, but they were devastating.

 

The dancer died in her arms.

 

And the tenderness in the general’s eyes vanished with her last breath.

 

…

 

The stage lights centered on Xu Weishuang, capturing her every expression.

 

Her grief was raw, cutting deep into the hearts of everyone present.

 

When the performance finally ended, the audience applauded thunderously. As the host resumed the mic, Xu Xia prompted Xu Weishuang to stand.

 

Xu Weishuang looked at her with a fleeting unease. Her brows furrowed slightly as tears still streaked her face.

 

“Let’s give the actress a moment to recover,” the host said kindly, handing her a tissue.

 

Xu Weishuang took it and wiped her tears, but her body instinctively leaned toward Xu Xia.

 

Xu Xia, still flushed from the intensity of the scene, didn’t notice.

 

She was thrilled with the performance—and even more impressed with Xu Weishuang’s full emotional immersion. Until yesterday’s rehearsal, they hadn’t connected well, but today on stage, Xu Weishuang had pulled her fully into the story. It had been exhilarating—unlike anything she’d ever felt. She could still feel the dancer’s tragic pain and Xu Weishuang’s sorrow pouring into her.

 

She looked over. Xu Weishuang’s bloodshot eyes were still filled with grief, as if still trapped in the role.

 

Xu Xia didn’t think much of it. Though they were competitors in the show, they had worked together on stage and brought the best out of each other. She instinctively felt closer to Xu Weishuang.

 

She gently tugged Xu Weishuang’s sleeve, sensing her proximity and leaned in a little. She even took the used tissue from her hand—instinctively.

 

It wasn’t until after that she felt a bit awkward.

 

She remembered Xu Weishuang didn’t like physical contact. Acting was one thing, but now that it was over, she’d likely pull away.

 

Xu Xia quickly created some distance and looked toward the judges.

 

What she didn’t notice was that Xu Weishuang made no effort to avoid her. Even after the performance, her gaze remained fixed on Xu Xia—never once shifting.

 

Her eyes still brimmed with emotion.

 

If Teacher Lin had been present, he would’ve noticed Xu Weishuang hadn’t yet stepped out of character—her identity and the role’s emotions were splitting her apart.

 

She was conscious of who she was, but she couldn’t shake the role’s pain.

 

The others didn’t know. Even Yan Muyu had rarely seen her in this state, so she didn’t realize either.

 

All she could see was Xu Weishuang leaning in close to Xu Xia—ignoring everyone else, looking at no one else.

 

Not even her.

 

Yan Muyu stared at the two of them and shifted her posture slightly. Her eyes gleamed with an even brighter smile.

 

The more upset she felt, the more tenderly she smiled for the cameras.

 

Her gaze was calm and affectionate—overflowing with what looked like love for Xu Weishuang.

 

She curled her lips, looking gentler than ever.

 

But in her heart, possessiveness had already begun to stir—sending wave after wave of cold through her bl00d.