The Paranoid Film Queen Doesn’t Want to Remarry - Chapter 36

Chapter 36

 

Yan Muyu agreed to the divorce.

 

After she signed the divorce agreement and set the time, the two of them quickly completed all the procedures.

 

Only after everything was done did they inform Shi Yan, who exploded in anger. She first scolded them harshly over the phone, then flew in overnight to continue the scolding in person.

 

“I don’t care what you two discussed, you cannot go public with the divorce anytime soon!” Shi Yan’s face was dark with fury. Yet the two sitting in front of her—one smiling silently, the other cold and expressionless—made her feel like her anger was about to explode.

 

“The show is still airing, and your CP (couple pairing) is incredibly popular. If news of the divorce breaks now, not only will the audience feel deceived, but it’ll be a huge problem for the production team.” Shi Yan’s argument for secrecy was sound, and Yan Muyu understood the implications—but Shi Yan was really saying it for Xu Weishuang.

 

“At the very least, wait until the show ends. Gradually reduce joint appearances and interactions. Then, after softening public opinion, go public.” Shi Yan massaged her aching head. Even with this strategy, the fallout would still be significant.

 

She had heard from Yan Muyu a while ago that the two were considering divorce, but Yan Muyu had been ambiguous. Their interactions afterward had been very close, so Shi Yan assumed things had smoothed over.

 

She never expected a bombshell like this—they’d already completed the divorce.

 

“I’m okay with that,” Xu Weishuang replied coldly, her expression unchanged.

 

Shi Yan paused, her eyes drifting to Yan Muyu. A sigh of regret rose in her chest.

 

“I’ll have the PR team draw up a detailed strategy. Until the show ends, you two still need to maintain some level of public interaction.” Shi Yan concluded.

 

Yan Muyu wasn’t the impulsive type. In all the years Shi Yan had worked with her, she’d rarely seen her make a misstep.

 

She was the perfect goddess in the public eye. In the entertainment industry, everyone crafted an image slightly different from reality, but Yan Muyu’s private and public selves seemed perfectly aligned.

 

Who in this industry could be so flawlessly themselves and still rise to the top?

 

But impulsively marrying Xu Weishuang, then suddenly divorcing her—this definitely didn’t fit her public persona.

 

Yan Muyu was not someone who acted recklessly. Xu Weishuang clearly held a special place in her heart—that surprised Shi Yan.

 

For instance, Shi Yan had long noticed how much attention Yan Muyu gave to Xu Weishuang. Every time she returned home, her mood improved significantly. But over the years, she didn’t return home often.

 

She would carefully select gifts for Xu Weishuang during holidays—but gave them casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

 

Even the rumors in their circle about Xu Weishuang being a “substitute”—Shi Yan was one of the few who knew the truth. Yan Muyu had received a lot of help from Si Yu when she debuted. The two had remained close friends.

 

When Si Yu passed away, Yan Muyu never dated anyone else. People began to speculate. The rumors became increasingly outlandish.

 

Later, when Yan Muyu married Xu Weishuang—who bore a faint resemblance to Si Yu—rumors started that Xu Weishuang was just a stand-in.

 

Yan Muyu initially had Shi Yan prepare a statement to clarify the misunderstanding. But before the statement was released, she told Shi Yan to cancel it.

 

“Don’t bother with this topic in the future,” she had said.

 

Shi Yan took a deep breath. As someone who had never been in a relationship herself, she truly didn’t understand these wife-wife dynamics. She could only hope the two of them wouldn’t stir up more drama.

 

…

 

“Well then, take care.” After the discussion, the group exited the teahouse. As always, Yan Muyu smiled gently at Xu Weishuang.

 

But perhaps it wasn’t quite the same as before.

 

From the very first time they met, Xu Weishuang had sensed something—an invasive, possessive intensity in Yan Muyu’s gaze.

 

But now, it was gone. She appeared gentle and elegant. Her demeanor and gaze were calm and pure—completely in line with her on-screen image.

 

But this was a mask.

 

Xu Weishuang knew—this wasn’t the real Yan Muyu.

 

But then… what was her real self?

 

That day, Yan Muyu had stripped herself bare before her, physically and emotionally. She had exposed herself, begging Xu Weishuang to see her true self.

 

Xu Weishuang had heard her choked sobs—and her certainty began to waver.

 

She gave a slight nod to Yan Muyu and turned to leave.

 

It was over. Truly, completely over.

 

Her mind kept looping through everything related to Yan Muyu. But that was only because, for the past six years, she had grown used to her presence.

 

She would return to normal.
Once they separated, once their paths no longer crossed—she would forget.

 

Xu Weishuang suppressed the strange ache in her chest and walked forward without looking back.

 

This time, she had truly let go.

 

…

 

In the remaining episodes of the show, Xu Weishuang continued to rise thanks to her popularity and talent, eventually reaching the grand finale.

 

The short film segment between her and Yan Muyu had made a huge impact. Many viewers became devoted fans of the CP (couple pairing), proclaiming, “This is what a real couple looks like!” and “The chemistry is too real!”

 

Xu Weishuang’s acting skills gained broader recognition. People had always known she was talented—but to hold her own opposite the film queen Yan Muyu? That wasn’t something just anyone could do.

 

After all, Yan Muyu’s acting was among the best in the industry. By her early thirties, she was just one award short of a Grand Slam. Most people believed she missed the last award simply due to bad luck.

 

In that case, the competing actress had a much stronger character arc than Yan Muyu’s role. Many believed the script had dragged her down.

 

Even so, Yan Muyu’s performance had been astonishing.

 

In the short film with Xu Weishuang, some viewers still thought Yan Muyu was deliberately holding back her acting to match her.

 

Regardless of online debate, the show brought enormous benefit to Xu Weishuang. Even though she didn’t win the overall championship in the finale (which went to a popular A-list actress from a hit drama), it wasn’t a surprise.

 

That actress had been a frontrunner from the beginning.

 

Still, many viewers with keen eyes felt Xu Weishuang had lost purely because of her lack of seniority. In terms of looks, talent, and acting—she could easily overshadow the champion.

 

Some CP fans even jokingly asked, “What’s wrong with the film queen? Why didn’t she back up her wife?”

 

Of course, fans of the other actress quickly clapped back. In the process, they also offended Yan Muyu’s solo fans—who didn’t ship the CP and didn’t like Xu Weishuang either.

 

Having been out of the industry for six years and lacking a strong personal fanbase, Xu Weishuang suddenly found herself attacked by multiple fandoms.

 

Shi Yan felt both helpless and secretly pleased. After all, even “bad buzz” is still buzz. And this wasn’t even really “bad.”

 

There was traffic and discussion—which was undoubtedly good for Xu Weishuang, who had just returned to the scene. Shi Yan had PR handle the situation, all while still wondering about Xu Weishuang’s lack of response to the agency contract.

 

Now that the two of them had divorced, Shi Yan really needed an answer. If Xu Weishuang signed, they’d be in the same company—and bound to interact.

 

Xu Weishuang, however, was calm. Shi Yan had suggested she audition for Director Tao’s new film. After the show ended, Xu Weishuang personally sought out the director and secured a chance to audition.

 

Director Tao was preparing a suspenseful crime thriller with dual female leads. The other lead—Luo Qin—had already been cast. The second female lead remained unconfirmed until he saw Xu Weishuang’s performance on the show.

 

There would be no romance between the two leads. Instead, it was a pure, adversarial yet mutually respectful relationship.

 

Xu Weishuang’s role was a cold, emotionally detached police officer with OCD and trauma. Luo Qin played a righteous, sexy heartthrob admired by everyone at the precinct.

 

They meet during a bizarre murder case and become reluctant partners. From mutual dislike and constant clashing, they slowly come to admire each other after repeated rescues and shared experiences—eventually forming a deep friendship.

 

Xu Weishuang’s cool temperament fit Director Tao’s vision perfectly. He had already been waiting for her audition after the show ended.

 

This was a private audition—only Xu Weishuang was invited. If it didn’t work out, Director Tao would simply keep looking and delay production.

 

But perhaps because his first impression of her was so strong, he had also invited Luo Qin to join for the audition scene. Luo Qin was thrilled—she even arrived before Xu Weishuang.

 

“It’s rare to see you this excited,” Director Tao said with surprise as he watched Luo Qin hovering near the camera.

 

“You know I love naturally gifted actors. I’ve never had that myself,” Luo Qin replied cheerfully.

 

She was famous for her acting chops and considered one of the best technique-based actresses of her generation.

 

In her youth, her bluntness had offended many, making her career difficult. But her talent and skilled manager had kept her working steadily.

 

She had played countless roles. Unlike Yan Muyu, she was a purely technical actress. Many assumed this meant she lacked emotion.

 

But Luo Qin shattered that stereotype. Her technique served her emotional expression—her performances were so precise and natural that you couldn’t even detect the craft behind them.

 

Still, she had sacrificed a lot to hone those techniques, and had always been envious of talents like Yan Muyu.

 

And now—there was Xu Weishuang.

 

She and Director Tao, much like the old Master Lin who had once recognized Xu Weishuang, could see immediately when an actor had it. She had astonishing emotional immersion and a screen presence that couldn’t be taught.

 

“She’s definitely a gem,” Director Tao smiled in praise.

 

Xu Weishuang was already better than many current actors—but in his eyes, she was still an unpolished jade. Her image and presence could still be refined. Talents like hers were becoming rare these days.

 

“It’s been a while since you worked with a truly good young actor, hasn’t it?” Director Tao said to Luo Qin.

 

Luo Qin nodded, smiling with a hint of helplessness.

 

Good scripts were rare these days. Even the ones handed to Director Tao were hard to choose from, let alone others. Luo Qin’s outward image was actually quite limiting, so her acting range wasn’t as broad as someone like Yan Muyu’s, which made it even harder for her to find quality projects.

 

Although she’d had roles in recent years, the overall quality had been declining. Working with young actors, the scripts varied wildly in standard.

 

This dual-female-lead suspense drama was Director Tao’s attempt to explore the market.

 

Xu Weishuang arrived early. When she got there, Director Tao and Luo Qin were still discussing the script. Upon seeing her, Director Tao warmly waved her over.

 

“Hello, Director Tao. Hello, Teacher Luo,” Xu Weishuang greeted with a bow. Although she was aloof by nature, she understood basic manners—both Director Tao and Luo Qin were her seniors.

 

“We’ve already met through the show. No need to be so formal,” Director Tao smiled gently.

 

Director Tao was strict when filming and couldn’t tolerate uncommitted actors, but she had great patience for talented ones.

 

“I was just thinking which scene you should audition with. How about you choose one yourself?” Director Tao casually pulled over a chair for Xu Weishuang.

 

Xu Weishuang hesitated for a moment, then sat down beside her.

 

The assistant, Xiao Eleven, was more nervous than Xu Weishuang. A top director and a major actress—yet they were being so down-to-earth with someone who had only just returned to acting.

 

Before she could finish marveling, Luo Qin noticed she was the only one standing and pulled over another chair. “You can sit too,” she said.

 

“No, no, no, I’m fine!” Xiao Eleven quickly waved her hands and backed off even further. She felt like the air over there was a bit too “intense” for her. As just a small assistant, she really wasn’t up for it—it was better to stay away.

 

Luo Qin raised an eyebrow but didn’t insist. She turned her attention back to Xu Weishuang.

 

Xu Weishuang wore light makeup that day. The makeup team had advised her not to wear anything too heavy for the audition, as they might want to test the character’s look.

 

Though her résumé had included bare-faced photos, Director Tao wanted to see her in person.

 

The minimal makeup didn’t diminish Xu Weishuang’s charm. On the contrary, it enhanced her cool, detached aura.

 

Director Tao didn’t care much about the reality show portions of the program—she only focused on how the actors performed their scenes.

 

So, in her eyes, Xu Weishuang was complex. The characters she portrayed overlapped and blended together—that was how she saw her.

 

At that moment, Xu Weishuang’s expression seemed even more indifferent than usual. Without makeup to shape her features, without the emotional pull of a role, she appeared even more detached than Director Tao had expected.

 

Looking at her face, Director Tao thought to herself that Xu Weishuang was like a blank canvas. Whatever color you painted on her, she would immediately reflect that color vividly.

 

“Have you picked a scene yet?” Director Tao asked again.

 

The script excerpts had been sent to Xu Weishuang a few days prior. Her audition material was to be chosen from those.

 

Letting her choose the scene herself was, in fact, a subtle test.

 

If she picked something too easy, it wouldn’t showcase her skills and might suggest a lack of effort.
But if she chose something too difficult and failed, it would imply she didn’t know her own limits.

 

“I’ve chosen.” Xu Weishuang stood up and pointed out the scene she wanted.

 

She selected a moment where the female detective suffers from a bout of germaphobia—physiological anxiety, loss of control, and for the first time irrationally lashes out at her partner.

 

Director Tao only glanced at the scene without questioning her choice and motioned for Luo Qin to act as her partner.

 

Although Luo Qin had a lot of lines in this scene, the actual shoot would focus almost entirely on the female detective’s expression and posture. Luo Qin would likely only be on a third of the screen.

 

But this wasn’t the official shoot—Director Tao wanted to see the whole performance.

 

Xu Weishuang stood and moved forward with Luo Qin.

 

She closed her eyes briefly, needing a moment to prepare.

 

The key to this scene was capturing the physicality and expressions of the character’s episode in a believable way—convincing the audience she really had the condition, but without overacting or seeming insane.

 

Xu Weishuang had done her homework. Though she hadn’t known she’d be choosing the scene herself, she had prepared every excerpt thoroughly.

 

Her strength was in fully immersing herself in a role—but she never let that be an excuse to neglect other acting skills.

 

Under Director Tao and Luo Qin’s gaze, her demeanor clearly shifted. Although both she and the female detective were cool and stoic types, the character had spent years working cases, often in the field—her energy and physical presence were completely different.

 

Xu Weishuang’s eyes became sharper, her brows radiated righteousness, and her voice grew stronger and brighter.

 

She had repeatedly trained her posture, gaze, and voice during practice. Now she stood tall and steady—her entire presence exuded a cold, sharp aura, like a finely honed blade.

 

To achieve that, she’d practiced standing at attention in front of a mirror for over five hours daily. The posture and energy she now displayed delighted Director Tao.

 

Talent alone isn’t enough for an actor.

 

Xu Weishuang’s expression was tight, her eyes filled with visible anxiety. In the script, her character had been splashed with black dog’s bl00d during an investigation. The foul smell and mess immediately triggered an episode.

 

Yet despite the outbreak, she maintained a straight, upright posture. She was deeply repulsed by the filth on her, aware her emotions were slipping out of control.

 

Meanwhile, Luo Qin’s character, the cheerful cop, continued ranting about the suspects, unaware of her partner’s stiffened posture or the strange look in her eyes.

 

This scene was emotionally intense, but the character’s personality required restraint. All the emotion had to be buried deep within, a true test of an actor’s understanding and emotional control.

 

Director Tao watched closely, fully focused on Xu Weishuang’s performance.

 

But surprisingly, she wasn’t worried. From the moment Xu Weishuang began, a voice in her heart had already whispered—She won’t disappoint me.

 

And indeed, she didn’t. Director Tao was thrilled by her performance. She liked it so much that she even overlooked a few minor flaws.

 

The last time she saw such young talent was with Yan Muyu. Funny enough, the two wives shared some eerily similar traits.

 

When the scene ended, Director Tao didn’t speak. She stared at Xu Weishuang—still catching her breath from the intense emotions—and her eyes were full of admiration.

 

Luo Qin smiled. She’d acted opposite her in the scene and felt the full force of Xu Weishuang’s emotional explosion.

 

Even when Xu Weishuang crouched down to cough, clearly drained, she still maintained an upright posture and a righteous air. Luo Qin was impressed.

 

It showed how thoroughly she had studied the character. She didn’t rely on talent alone—she pushed herself to improve.

 

After Xu Weishuang recovered, they tried a few more scenes and had a makeup artist test the character’s look. Director Tao hadn’t said she could only audition with one scene. She’d brought Luo Qin in and set up the whole set just to really test Xu Weishuang.

 

Xu Weishuang didn’t let them down. By the end, Director Tao was visibly relaxed, almost wishing she could have her sign the contract right there.

 

Of course, contracts were handled by a separate team, but Director Tao gave a verbal confirmation.

 

“Does Yan Yinghou often rehearse scenes with you in private?” Luo Qin suddenly asked as the meeting wrapped up.

 

Although Yan Muyu had claimed on the show that Xu Weishuang didn’t rehearse with her privately, Luo Qin didn’t believe it. Yan Muyu was famously obsessed with acting. The thrill of acting with a skilled partner was irresistible—how could she hold back?

 

Hearing Yan Muyu’s name made Xu Weishuang dazed for a moment. Lately, she’d been suffering from insomnia and often found herself thinking of Yan Muyu.

 

She chalked it up to habit—after all, she’d grown used to Yan Muyu’s presence and even relied on her. Now that their separation was final, she was experiencing withdrawal.

 

She’d gone through this before—shortly after their marriage, when Yan Muyu was constantly intimate and by her side. After a stretch apart for work, Xu Weishuang had mild dependency symptoms.

 

She hated that feeling. And she feared developing it again with anyone. So she and Yan Muyu had agreed to reduce how often they saw each other.

 

Yan Muyu hadn’t argued. She just smiled and said she was busy anyway, and wouldn’t have much time to come back—so Xu Weishuang needn’t worry.

 

“I don’t rehearse with her privately,” Xu Weishuang answered, repeating the same line Yan Muyu had once used.

 

Luo Qin was a little surprised, but quickly returned to normal. Director Tao leaned over with a smile. “Then you’ll get a chance to act with her this time.”

 

Xu Weishuang looked at her in confusion.

 

Understanding her expression, Director Tao explained, “Your character in the script has a wife who died early, right? Once we finalize you, I’m planning to have Yan Muyu guest star as your late wife. This time, she can’t say no.”

 

Xu Weishuang opened her mouth to argue—but then she remembered what Shi Yan had said: for now, their divorce couldn’t be made public. So she pressed her lips tightly together, her expression tense.

 

Some unfamiliar emotion stirred in her chest.

 

Until the day of the open audition, when Yan Muyu showed up, Xu Weishuang hadn’t relaxed at all.

 

She didn’t understand why Yan Muyu came. Shi Yan had said they should avoid contact, avoid being seen together—so why was she here?

 

That day was the open casting call for the other roles. Yan Muyu’s role had already been decided through Shi Yan—she was only there to make a brief appearance.

 

Xu Weishuang and Luo Qin were accompanying the audition. When Yan Muyu walked in, others gave her meaningful glances.

 

Yan Muyu smiled and greeted everyone. When she looked at Xu Weishuang, her smile deepened, her tone grew softer.

 

Director Tao had them perform a scene together. Xu Weishuang stood up, her face utterly cold.

 

To others, she looked normal—she always wore that ice-cold expression—but Yan Muyu easily noticed something was off.

 

She looked down at her, curved her lips into a faint smile, and whispered so only the two of them could hear:
“It’s just acting. Isn’t that what you’re best at?”

 

Xu Weishuang’s breath caught—not from the words, but because of the scent.

 

Yan Muyu had changed her perfume. Now she smelled like something completely unfamiliar.