The Paranoid Film Queen Doesn’t Want to Remarry - Chapter 46

Chapter 46

 

“I’ll wait for your answer.”

 

Xu Weishuang tightened her grip on Yan Muyu’s hand as she said these words. Seeing the disbelief, doubt, and confusion in Yan Muyu’s expression, she let go on her own initiative and told Yan Muyu that she would always be waiting for her response.

 

Then, she turned and opened the door, said goodbye to Yan Muyu, and walked out.

 

Xu Weishuang suddenly remembered that on that night, it was Yan Muyu who had opened the door and left. Now, it was her turn.

 

The two of them really did share some kind of unspoken understanding.

 

Xu Weishuang had come suddenly, and left just as abruptly. Yan Muyu was still reeling from Xu Weishuang’s words, completely overwhelmed, while the one who caused all this had already left.

 

By the time Yan Muyu calmed down—although it couldn’t be called true calm—her mind was in chaos, like it had suffered such a strong blow that it temporarily shut down.

 

Once she regained a bit of clarity, she called Shi Yan.

 

“When did you know she was coming?” the moment the call connected, Yan Muyu opened with a questioning tone.

 

She didn’t even have the energy to hide her emotions anymore—she was furious with Shi Yan.

 

“Not much earlier than you—last night, actually. She called out of nowhere asking for your address and said she wanted to find you.” Shi Yan sounded completely unfazed by Yan Muyu’s call, casually adjusting her position during a facial treatment while teasing her.

 

“So? You guys done talking? What did you two say?”

 

Naturally, Yan Muyu didn’t answer that. She hadn’t called just to question her.

 

Still, Shi Yan’s teasing left Yan Muyu speechless. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, trying to relieve some of the exhaustion. “She probably didn’t bring a bodyguard. Send someone over last minute. It’s late—ask her if she’s booked a hotel. If not, arrange it for her.”

 

Yan Muyu gave these instructions, her head starting to throb—not because of Xu Weishuang, but because she was too exhausted lately. And now, all this information was hitting her at once, completely overwhelming her.

 

Even so, she was still trying to think if she’d missed anything, completely forgetting that Shi Yan was much more experienced at handling things like this.

 

It seemed like, when it came to Xu Weishuang, only if she handled things personally could she truly feel at ease.

 

Shi Yan didn’t argue, and after Yan Muyu finished, she chuckled and asked, “Want me to ask her how many days she’s staying? She’s on break now, you know.”

 

Yan Muyu paused for a second, then lowered her eyes and rejected the idea. “No need.”

 

She needed to think. Think carefully and clearly.

 

…

 

Xu Weishuang didn’t stay long. She said goodbye to Shi Yan the next day. Before leaving, she saw Yan Muyu again. This time, neither said anything unnecessary. They just said goodbye and headed off to their respective destinations.

 

Xu Weishuang went home for the remainder of her break and told Liu Yuebai about wanting to invite Yan Muyu to star in the drama. She apologized for not telling Liu Yuebai earlier, but she had made up her mind—if the other lead actress wasn’t Yan Muyu, she wouldn’t act in the drama at all.

 

Liu Yuebai simply smiled at her and said, “That’s good.”

 

After that, Xu Weishuang visited Lin Laoshi and Chen Xin at the Xianning Theater and stayed nearby, beginning to study the script.

 

Although she knew that even if Yan Muyu agreed to join the drama, filming would still be a long time off—and she couldn’t even be sure Yan Muyu would agree—she could only wait and do what she could in the meantime.

 

Once the break ended, Xu Weishuang returned to work. Yan Muyu still hadn’t replied, but at least she hadn’t said no either.

 

It was three months later when Yan Muyu finished filming that drama. She then started appearing on various shows to promote her past projects. Xu Weishuang could practically piece together Yan Muyu’s relentless schedule from what was posted online.

 

That’s the life of an actor: months in production, followed by nonstop promotion.

 

Shi Yan said that Yan Muyu’s schedule was arranged far in advance—it was nearly impossible to suddenly free up a large block of time.

 

Even fans noticed that Yan Muyu’s schedule seemed even tighter than before—like she was rushing through everything. Her intense pace led fans to flood the company and Shi Yan with angry messages, asking if they were trying to work their idol to death.

 

Initially, this was just fans venting inside the fan circle—nothing unusual. Yan Muyu had always been a hard worker.

 

But things blew up when someone took a video of her sleeping on a plane.

 

A small influencer on the same flight had tracked her itinerary and often posted celebrity encounters. When they saw Yan Muyu asleep, they started filming—thinking nothing of it at first. But no matter how many times they called her name, even raising their voice, Yan Muyu didn’t wake.

 

Her exhaustion was clearly visible on her sleeping face. Even when her assistant came to move the person away, Yan Muyu still didn’t stir.

 

The influencer uploaded the video with a dramatic caption, pretending to be a fan outraged by how the company was abusing Yan Muyu—even suggesting that not even a film queen like her could escape capitalist exploitation.

 

The title and framing caught fire immediately among fans.

 

The video, along with her very traceable and exhausting recent schedule, sparked outrage. Some fans pointed out that they’d seen her leave a program late at night in one city, only to appear at another event the next morning in a different city.

 

Yan Muyu had always been busy—but this level of busyness, combined with her appearance in the video, pushed fans over the edge.

 

The uproar raged for days until Yan Muyu personally came forward to calm things down.

 

“Thank you all for your concern, and for worrying about my health. I’m very aware of what I’m doing. My current schedule is something I fully understand,” she said to the camera, smiling gently.

 

The warm indoor lighting shimmered on her face like glassy ripples, softening the weariness in the corners of her eyes.

 

“Besides, the company and Sister Shi Yan can’t force me to do anything. Everyone knows—the company was invested in by my sister. I’m the one in charge here. So please stop blaming Sister Shi Yan. She keeps telling me to rest—it’s me who wants to work harder lately.”

 

It was a self-recorded video in what looked like a hotel room, likely filmed during a break between jobs.

 

Some dedicated fans figured out which hotel she was in and, after comparing timelines, realized she’d probably filmed the video just minutes before having to go on stage.

 

They were heartbroken by her exhaustion but couldn’t argue with her explanation. All they could do was reluctantly accept it.

 

Turns out, even fans who loved her for her career couldn’t help but ache when she worked too hard.

 

“Sis, you’re already this talented. Do you have to work this hard to succeed?”

 

No—that’s the thing. She was already incredibly successful.

 

Yan Muyu’s non-stop work continued all the way through the New Year. Fans tracking her itinerary were almost numb from the pace.

 

It seemed she wasn’t going home for the New Year either. One station had already released its New Year’s Eve concert guest list, with Yan Muyu confirmed to appear.

 

In past years, Yan Muyu would intentionally scale back her workload around New Year’s. She didn’t skip every year, but usually, she’d go home for the holiday.

 

And she’d take Xu Weishuang with her to the Yan family.

 

That was the family tradition—and also her rare chance to spend time openly with Xu Weishuang.

 

This year was their first New Year since the divorce. Yan Muyu didn’t want to go back to the Yan house alone. Since the divorce, Old Madam Yan had been cutting her resources, trying to force her to yield, trying to control her.

 

The old woman thought Yan Muyu was still that powerless child who had once knelt before her in apology—thought that her divorce meant she still feared her.

 

Yan Muyu had simply used her as a pressure point on Xu Weishuang—she didn’t care about the old woman’s threats.

 

Entertainment wasn’t even a major industry in their family business. Yan Qingxue had invested in the company when Yan Muyu entered showbiz, but over the years, it was Yan Muyu who managed it. Yan Qingxue never interfered. Yan Muyu had always held the authority.

 

Old Madam Yan thought she still had everything in the palm of her hand. She didn’t know that Yan Muyu and her sister had spent years slowly stripping her of her power within the family.

 

They both remembered the suffering of their childhood—especially the times Yan Qingxue was punished for defending her sister.

 

Their mother died young, and though Yan Qingxue was trained as the heir, the old woman never let go of power, fearing she’d be betrayed.

 

Everything Yan Qingxue couldn’t do publicly, Yan Muyu did in secret. Her career in entertainment made for a perfect cover.

 

The old woman always thought she was a foolish actress, a laughingstock.

 

Yan Muyu did love acting, just as Yan Qingxue had loved music. They both had artistic gifts—but Yan Qingxue, being the eldest, had been denied her dreams.

 

So she poured everything into protecting her sister’s.

 

She wanted Yan Muyu to be carefree—but they had both grown too capable. Over the years, they’d long since broken free of the old woman’s grip.

 

Old Madam Yan, in her arrogance, spread word that Yan Muyu would soon be “taught a lesson.” When the news reached Yan Muyu, she merely smiled, not even bothering to visit the old house to tell her the truth.

 

She had more important things to do. Not a second could be wasted.

 

She didn’t go home that year. Yan Qingxue did, though—and brought along a new girlfriend, an outsider to their high-society world. That girl had a strong sense of right and wrong and wasn’t afraid of being impolite. She directly rebuked the old woman’s passive-aggressive insults, nearly sending her into a fit.

 

When Yan Qingxue mentioned it to Yan Muyu, she was just about to go on stage. Looking out at the crowd, she couldn’t help but smile.

 

She thought of Xu Weishuang. At that moment, Xu Weishuang must also have been getting ready to go on stage—for a different New Year’s Eve show.

 

“Jiejie, next year I’ll bring…” She trailed off before finishing the sentence. She wanted to make a promise to Yan Qingxue—but then realized she wasn’t sure of that future she so desperately wanted.

 

She smiled again and brushed it off: “I’m going on now. I’ll call you after midnight.”

 

Yan Qingxue, as if understanding something, just laughed and didn’t ask further.

 

As the countdown rang out across the country, the new year finally arrived.

 

Xu Weishuang stood in the spotlight with other celebrities. It was the first time in years she hadn’t spent New Year’s Eve with Yan Muyu.

 

Every year on this night, Yan Muyu had always been particularly enthusiastic—restless, even. Xu Weishuang used to think that was her way of venting. But now she realized those passionate kisses—like Yan Muyu wanted to consume her, fuse her into her very bl00d and flesh—were something deeper.

 

She had wondered when Yan Muyu fell in love with her. But after six years together, she had never really stopped to think about it.

 

Looking back now, she couldn’t find any clear trace.

 

The only thing she could be sure of was that at least before she had suddenly asked for a divorce, Yan Muyu had already developed special feelings for her.

 

Finally finished with work, Xu Weishuang took her phone from her assistant. After a moment of thought, she sent a text to Yan Muyu: Happy New Year.

 

It was both a blessing and a reminder—reminding Yan Muyu that she was still here, still waiting for her response.

 

She had made a promise: unless Yan Muyu told her to leave, she would keep waiting.

 

She didn’t know if Yan Muyu would reply, but she held her phone tightly all the way onto her flight home.

 

It wasn’t until the plane took off that she had to switch it off.

 

It seemed Yan Muyu wasn’t going to reply.

 

But Xu Weishuang wasn’t disappointed. She knew that as long as Yan Muyu hadn’t rejected her, everything that hadn’t happened yet still held hope.

 

Her relationship with Liu Yuebai was also getting better. It was as if they had truly returned to their childhood days—Liu Yuebai was becoming more and more like an older sister, and it was Xu Weishuang who was somewhat unaccustomed to the dynamic.

 

After landing, Xu Weishuang immediately checked her phone again. Still no reply from Yan Muyu.

 

She blinked and was about to put the phone away when a message popped up.

 

It wasn’t from Yan Muyu—it was from Shi Yan.

 

Thinking it was just a New Year’s greeting, Xu Weishuang opened the message and found it was an image.

 

It was the contract for the drama she had invited Yan Muyu to star in—Yan Muyu had signed her name on it.

 

Because it was the New Year, Xu Weishuang hadn’t brought Little Eleven with her. After the event, she had sent her home to spend the holidays. Now Xu Weishuang was alone, pushing her luggage, not yet out of the airport.

 

She no longer noticed the hurried crowds around her—everyone eager to get home. She, however, stood still, staring at Yan Muyu’s signature again and again.

 

“Yan Muyu.” Xu Weishuang couldn’t help but softly whisper the name. The name clung to her lips, and she called it so tenderly.

 

Xu Weishuang had never felt like this before—just saying the other person’s name filled her with sweetness.

 

She really liked it.

 

“Sister Shi Yan, Happy New Year.” Xu Weishuang replied, without mentioning the previous message.

 

But everyone knew what it meant.

 

Outside the airport, Liu Yuebai and Shen Li had come to pick her up. Liu Yuebai said, “I had some drinks this afternoon, so I had Xiao Shen drive. She happens to be around, so she’s spending the New Year with us.”

 

Xu Weishuang only now learned that Shen Li was also an orphan, raised in an orphanage, never adopted, and had been living alone since leaving.

 

After returning to the country, Liu Yuebai either worked or visited the cat café she and Shen Li had opened together. In recent years, she had spent every New Year with Shen Li.

 

Xu Weishuang’s expression softened, and for the first time since their reunion, she smiled in front of Liu Yuebai.

 

Very faintly, but Liu Yuebai noticed it.

 

“Happy New Year.”

 

……

 

Xu Weishuang stayed home for more than 20 days during the holiday. Liu Yuebai had returned to work, but she remained at home.

 

She had told Shi Yan that she needed time to prepare for the new drama.

 

Liu Yuebai was also preparing. After Yan Muyu signed the contract, she even invested in the drama. Her company’s investment department brought Liu Yuebai in to discuss the contract, saying the company highly valued the project and had assigned a top producer to follow the production closely.

 

Liu Yuebai understood what that meant and accepted it gladly. She also felt more reassured about Yan Muyu.

 

She couldn’t interfere in Xu Weishuang’s love life—Xu Weishuang never shared anything with her—but after seeing Xu Weishuang cry like that once, she had been quite worried.

 

With nowhere to ask and nothing she could say, she was finally a little relieved to see this sign of Yan Muyu’s intentions.

 

With the two leads confirmed and funding fully in place, casting for supporting roles progressed smoothly.

 

The combination of Xu Weishuang—recently skyrocketed to fame from Director Tao’s drama—and the award-winning Yan Muyu, plus emerging director Liu Yuebai, and the investment from Yan Muyu’s company made this project highly anticipated.

 

Since fans had been closely tracking Yan Muyu’s packed work schedule, they were all betting on how long she would keep pushing herself.

 

When the casting rumors first broke, fans didn’t believe them. The two had divorced, barely interacted for half a year—how could they suddenly star in a drama together?

 

Fans initially denied it, accusing Xu Weishuang’s team of clout-chasing and using her ex-wife for publicity.

 

Thanks to Director Tao’s drama, Xu Weishuang and Luo Qin were quite popular, and Yan Muyu happened to play her lover in that drama—with a bed scene, no less.

 

Now their CP (couple pairing) fanbase was even bigger than when they were still married. Under those circumstances, Yan Muyu’s solo fans were furious, seeing Xu Weishuang as constantly leeching off of her ex-wife’s fame.

 

Their popularity wasn’t even on the same level—Xu Weishuang might be hot now, but her foundation was weak, and the buzz would fade once the show ended.

 

Even her current success was built on Yan Muyu’s connections. Fans had long wanted to rip her apart.

 

This time, they finally had their chance.

 

Xu Weishuang had her own fans now, and they weren’t backing down. But just as the fight was heating up online, Yan Muyu posted on social media, confirming she would co-star with Xu Weishuang.

 

Not only that—after working like a machine for half a year, suddenly her schedule dropped off drastically. Other than a few remaining high-end brand campaigns, she had no new engagements!

 

Her fans were stunned—was all that crazy work just to free up time for this drama with her ex-wife?

 

Girl, are you…

 

Of course, that was only speculation—mostly from CP fans.

 

Her solo fans simply saw it as generosity: their idol giving her ex-wife another chance and a resource boost. Too kind.

 

No matter how messy it was online, the drama Stolen Warmth started filming, just as Xu Weishuang had hoped.

 

At the opening ceremony, Xu Weishuang finally saw Yan Muyu, but she didn’t get to say much—Yan Muyu greeted her briefly and was then pulled away.

 

The first scene to shoot was a solo one for Yan Muyu. Xu Weishuang had read the script and knew this scene’s lines. It was easy for someone like Yan Muyu.

 

…

 

The story opens with the female lead, Ling Wei, a woman from a rural village who made it into the country’s top university and then landed a job in a major company in the capital.

 

She’s the envy of her entire hometown.

 

It’s almost 9 p.m., and Ling Wei is still working late at the office. She looks out at the gloomy sky through the restroom window.

 

“Looks like it’s going to rain.” It’s not Ling Wei speaking, but someone at the sink—her coworker Xiao Wei, who sits beside her at the office.

 

“Yeah, and none of us brought umbrellas. All because Ling Wei messed up the data—we wouldn’t be stuck here working overtime otherwise,” another voice chimes in—Xiao Xiao, who’s close to Xiao Wei.

 

“No kidding,” Xiao Wei replies with a cold laugh.

 

Ling Wei lowers her eyes. She hadn’t made the mistake—the team leader had simply pushed the blame onto her, and everyone knew it. It wasn’t the first time.

 

She exhales, doesn’t come out of the stall, and listens as the rain begins to fall outside—drip drip drip.

 

Once the others leave, Ling Wei returns to her desk and continues her work as if nothing happened.

 

Eventually, perhaps because of the rain, the team leader lets everyone leave.

 

Ling Wei finishes up and heads out, only to remember she didn’t bring an umbrella either.

 

She walks into the rain, numb, the cold drops hitting her but stirring no emotion.

 

Her mother calls, and Ling Wei says cheerfully that everything is going well—but her face shows no smile.

 

…

 

Yan Muyu’s first scene was nearly flawless. The assistant director could find no faults. But Liu Yuebai, after calling “Cut,” remained silent, watching the footage on the monitor. She finally shook her head.

 

“Let’s reshoot this scene,” she instructed.

 

Although Yan Muyu’s performance was excellent, it’s normal for directors to shoot multiple takes for comparison.

 

But after twenty-some takes, Liu Yuebai still wasn’t satisfied.

 

She never specified what was wrong—despite Yan Muyu consistently delivering a strong portrayal, Liu Yuebai kept demanding another take.

 

When Liu Yuebai again called for a retake, Yan Muyu didn’t move.

 

The cameras were ready, but Yan Muyu stayed still, raising her head and looking directly at Liu Yuebai, her expression serious.

 

Because of the repeated water scenes, despite the stylist’s efforts, Yan Muyu’s body temperature had clearly dropped.

 

Her lips were pale, and the makeup artist had to touch up her color repeatedly.

 

“Director Liu, I need a reason for this retake,” Yan Muyu said firmly, standing tall and composed, but unmistakably assertive.

 

People had heard that Yan Muyu was serious on set—they hadn’t expected to witness it on day one.

 

Liu Yuebai glanced briefly at Xu Weishuang, who had been sitting silently nearby the entire time.

 

Then she looked up and met Yan Muyu’s gaze, nodding slowly:
“I was waiting for you to get angry. You held out longer than I expected.”