The Paranoid Film Queen Doesn’t Want to Remarry - Chapter 47

Chapter 47

 

Not only Yan Murou, but everyone around was stunned when they heard those words. Yan Murou’s expression darkened, yet she didn’t react immediately.

 

Liu Yuebai, however, didn’t care. She wasn’t trying to target Yan Murou personally—she had just felt during filming that something was missing from Yan Murou’s performance.

 

When writing the script, she hadn’t noticed anything off. But now that she saw it brought to life, she realized something felt incomplete.

 

Whether it was truly suitable or not, Liu Yuebai wasn’t certain. Of course, she could have directly told Yan Murou what she wanted. She was confident Yan Murou could portray it right away.

 

But in that moment, her instincts as a director made her want to see what kind of expression would emerge from an actress wearing Ling Wei’s makeup, paired with Yan Murou’s own emotions—when she was truly angry.

 

Liu Yuebai was the kind of director who excelled at observing her actors. During university, she had taken a break due to illness and later went abroad for treatment. It was during her treatment that she studied directing again. This experience gave her some habits different from those of other directors.

 

Her intention was never to deliberately make things difficult for the actors. She was just about to apologize when Yan Murou, surprisingly, nodded after hearing that infuriating comment and said, “I understand. What kind of state do you want specifically?”

 

Liu Yuebai was momentarily stunned.

 

So perceptive.

 

She instantly guessed Liu Yuebai’s intention and understood that she wasn’t sure how exactly to adjust the performance. Once she grasped the logic behind Liu Yuebai’s behavior, she was no longer angry.

 

Moreover, her tone was full of confidence—as if to say: as long as Liu Yuebai told her what she wanted, she would absolutely be able to deliver.

 

Liu Yuebai hesitated for a moment and then smiled wryly.

 

So impressive.

 

Putting aside her relationship with Xu Weishuang, Liu Yuebai couldn’t imagine any director not liking such an actress.

 

“I want Ling Wei to have a trace of anger,” Liu Yuebai explained. “On the surface, she appears numb and tired of the status quo. But deep inside, there should be a lingering anger toward all the injustices around her. That anger is the foundation of her character—it’s what keeps her looking like a living person.”

 

Yan Murou had excellent comprehension. After listening, she nodded and prepared herself. She was ready to begin again.

 

…

 

Ling Wei returned home in the rain. She hadn’t bought a car yet and took the subway to and from work every day—a commute of over an hour each way. She wouldn’t get home until past 10 p.m.

 

Her clothes were soaked, and on the subway, many people gave her strange looks.

 

It wasn’t too crowded on the train at that hour. Ling Wei found a corner to stand in alone, automatically distancing herself from everyone around her.

 

Back home, she stared at her empty apartment, feeling no relief at all.

 

She hadn’t eaten properly at work, and her stomach was starting to hurt. After cleaning herself up, she went to the kitchen to cook something.

 

But halfway through, she unexpectedly received a phone call.

 

It was from Su Xiaole, a childhood friend. They had been close when they were young. Both were pretty and delicate-looking, often praised by adults and picked on by other kids.

 

Su Xiaole had been brave back then—she would tightly hold Ling Wei’s hand and argue or even fight with the other children.

 

She would hug Ling Wei and comfort her, telling her not to be afraid.

 

But their friendship hadn’t lasted long. As they grew up, Ling Wei’s mother noticed her talent for studying. In their impoverished village with scarce educational resources, academic ability was crucial.

 

Those without academic potential had fewer opportunities, even when outside donors were willing to help. Resources always went first to those with better grades.

 

Ling Wei’s admission to a prestigious high school marked the end of Su Xiaole’s chance at an education.

 

Going to high school meant leaving for another city. Their relationship gradually faded.

 

In truth, it had already faded before that. Ling Wei spent so much time studying that she no longer had time to play with Su Xiaole.

 

After leaving for high school, then college, then work, Ling Wei became completely separated from the backward village. She rarely returned, and besides her mother, she had no close ties there.

 

But her mother refused to leave, so Ling Wei only visited during holidays. The rest of the time, they met when her mother came to the city.

 

Once she bought a home in the city, she figured she might never return again.

 

Even when she did visit, her contact with Su Xiaole was minimal. They would occasionally bump into each other, but Su Xiaole always seemed to avoid her. The villagers all said Su Xiaole was mentally unstable and told Ling Wei to keep her distance.

 

Last year, Ling Wei saw her from afar but no longer felt any of that childhood familiarity.

 

She never expected Su Xiaole to suddenly call her. Su Xiaole said she had come to the capital alone by train, had just arrived at the station, didn’t know anyone, and needed Ling Wei to pick her up.

 

Ling Wei felt speechless. They hadn’t stayed in touch for years, and now she was supposed to go pick her up late at night? And how had Su Xiaole come here all alone?

 

Their village was so remote that there wasn’t even a direct train to the capital. The trip took over 30 hours, with transfers along the way.

 

Ling Wei instinctively wanted to refuse. She wasn’t that kind, and she wasn’t close to Su Xiaole anymore.

 

But before she could get the words out, Su Xiaole softened her tone on the phone and called out sweetly, “Weiwei-jiejie.”

 

That was what she used to call her as a child.

 

Ling Wei vaguely remembered how adorable Su Xiaole had been when they were little. Though they had seen each other a few times as adults, she couldn’t really recall her face clearly.

 

When she visited the village, people always gathered around her—she had been the best student from there, now working in a major company in the capital.

 

Hearing that soft, childlike voice on the phone, Ling Wei suddenly recalled that tiny figure who used to stand in front of her, tightly holding her hand.

 

She sighed. “Wait at the station. Find a place to sit and rest. I live pretty far away, so you’ll have to wait a while.”

 

She had agreed to pick her up. Hearing that, Su Xiaole laughed joyfully over the phone.

 

Ling Wei found herself affected by her cheerful laugh, feeling a little lighter.

 

But the meal she was cooking would now go unfinished.

 

She changed her clothes again, figuring she could finish it later. She didn’t know if Su Xiaole had somewhere to go—if not, she could stay the night. After all, she’d just come off a long train ride and probably hadn’t eaten well.

 

Ling Wei took a cab. When she arrived, she saw Su Xiaole crouched by the station entrance. It was still raining, and she had found a spot under the stairs to stay dry.

 

She was just squatting there, motionless. Ling Wei didn’t remember her current appearance clearly, but somehow she recognized her at a glance.

 

Su Xiaole was dressed poorly—completely out of place in the fashionable capital. She carried an old, worn-out gray-blue backpack, her clothes were dirty, and her hair was a windblown mess.

 

If it weren’t for her pale skin and small, delicate face, her outfit alone might make people think she was homeless.

 

Su Xiaole had been watching her surroundings and immediately spotted Ling Wei. Without caring that it was raining, she jumped up excitedly and ran toward her.

 

Startled, Ling Wei quickly moved forward. When they met, she scolded her while shielding her with an umbrella, “Why did you run out here? I told you to find a place to rest.”

 

“Weiwei-jiejie,” Su Xiaole said again sweetly, throwing herself into Ling Wei’s arms for a hug.

 

Holding the umbrella, Ling Wei felt a little awkward.

 

They hadn’t been this close in years. Their childhood friendship belonged to the past. Now they were barely acquaintances—such intimacy made Ling Wei uncomfortable.

 

Su Xiaole’s body was cold, maybe because she wasn’t dressed warmly and had been in the rain all night. She was like an ice cube, and Ling Wei shivered when she touched her.

 

Thankfully, Su Xiaole quickly let go. Ling Wei took a deep breath and examined her more carefully, her frown deepening.

 

“What happened to you? Why did you suddenly come to the capital alone?” Her tone became more serious, clearly disapproving.

 

Su Xiaole hesitated before explaining that she had run away from home, had nowhere else to go, and was asking Ling Wei to take her in for a few days.

 

“You traveled over 30 hours by train, to a place where you don’t know anyone, without a plan—and if I hadn’t come tonight, what would you have done?” Ling Wei was angry.

 

They were standing near the station entrance, where several people were also hiding from the rain.

 

While she was talking, a nearby auntie turned to look at them. Ling Wei didn’t think much of it at first, but the woman’s gaze was oddly intense. When their eyes met, Ling Wei felt a flicker of unease.

 

She quickly brushed it off, thinking maybe it was just Su Xiaole’s shabby appearance that drew attention.

 

Still, she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of distaste.

 

Ling Wei asked again why Su Xiaole had run away, but Su Xiaole refused to explain.

 

Ling Wei pursed her lips. Seeing Su Xiaole’s pale face and pitiful expression, she ultimately brought her home.

 

…

 

“Cut.”

 

As Liu Yuebai’s voice rang out, Xu Weishuang and Yan Muyu instinctively put some distance between them.

 

Their movements were subtle, but both of them stepped back slightly.

 

It wasn’t just because of their current identities making them wary of each other — after so long apart, a strange unfamiliarity had formed between them.

 

Their acting was smooth, natural, and emotionally rich — Liu Yuebai had no criticisms. The scene passed quickly.

 

But off-camera, they weren’t nearly as close or comfortable. Since reuniting, they hadn’t really spoken. Xu Weishuang glanced at Yan Muyu, who was in full costume as Ling Wei — a look that made her appear a little different from her usual gentle self.

 

They were changing sets now, since the train station scene didn’t take long. If Liu Yuebai hadn’t repeatedly asked Yan Muyu to re-do the scene earlier to find the right emotional tone, it would’ve wrapped even faster.

 

Xu Weishuang felt helpless. They had already done script readings, makeup tests, and photoshoots together. Their schedules had overlapped for weeks — and still, they hadn’t had a proper conversation.

 

She didn’t believe Yan Muyu was avoiding her. Even though Yan Muyu would step back after a scene, she never left the spot entirely.

 

Online, people said Yan Muyu had cleared her schedule for months just to take on this role, working so hard even fans were amazed.

 

Xu Weishuang didn’t know whether that was true — Yan Muyu wouldn’t tell her. But the fact remained: when Xu Weishuang asked her to take the role, Yan Muyu hadn’t refused. That was real enough.

 

Maybe the distance between them now was just the natural gap that comes from time apart.

 

Xu Weishuang wasn’t sure how to handle it. In the past, Yan Muyu had always been the more proactive one. After their divorce, Yan Muyu stopped reaching out — and their interactions dwindled.

 

But at least they were still filming together. Xu Weishuang didn’t know how to take the first step anymore. All she could do was immerse herself in the role as quickly as possible.

 

Unfortunately, filming for the day had wrapped, and with the new set needing time to be built, they wouldn’t be shooting again for another couple of days.

 

Coincidentally, Xu Weishuang’s birthday was approaching. In recent years, she rarely celebrated it — she only remembered when Yan Muyu’s assistant would drop off a gift.

 

She had never noticed this before. She couldn’t even remember her own birthday, never mentioned it to Yan Muyu — and yet, every year, a gift would arrive.

 

Sometimes it came from the assistant; sometimes Yan Muyu handed it to her herself. Jewelry, trinkets, little curiosities.

 

Some she liked, some she didn’t. Over time, she liked more and more — as if Yan Muyu had gradually figured out her taste.

 

Lately, Xu Weishuang had been thinking about Yan Muyu a lot. About the past. About the way Yan Muyu used to treat her.

 

But no matter how much she thought, she still couldn’t guess what Yan Muyu was truly feeling.

 

This year, she remembered her birthday earlier than usual, only because Shi Yan suggested holding a fan meeting that day.

 

Xu Weishuang didn’t usually object to Shi Yan’s suggestions. He knew this kind of thing better than she did. Fan meetings were a common way for celebrities to connect with their supporters.

 

Shi Yan handled the arrangements. They still had filming scheduled that day, but Liu Yuebai found out it was her birthday and quietly prepared a little celebration on set.

 

Everyone on the crew came over to wish her happy birthday. Xu Weishuang was stunned by the attention.

 

Liu Yuebai smiled brightly at her, and when Xu Weishuang looked back, that smile became even more radiant — dazzling under the sunlight.

 

Light filled Xu Weishuang’s eyes. She usually disliked crowds, disliked being the center of attention — but in that moment, surrounded by warm wishes, she didn’t mind.

 

Only Yan Muyu didn’t approach her. Xu Weishuang kept waiting. That made it all the more noticeable.

 

Even after filming resumed, Yan Muyu never came forward to wish her happy birthday. In the past, Xu Weishuang never cared about birthdays or gifts. But this time, Yan Muyu didn’t even say a word — and it left her feeling hollow.

 

She wasn’t the kind of person to cling or demand answers. If Yan Muyu chose not to come, she wouldn’t ask why. Still, her expression turned cold, and it stayed that way even during their scenes together.

 

Professionally, she remained composed. Their personal tension didn’t affect the performance.

 

She had already asked Liu Yuebai for time off to attend the fan meeting, so she didn’t have any scenes scheduled for that evening.

 

In fact, there had been no plans to film her on her birthday at all.

 

The event was held nearby. Fans had been notified two days in advance, and about a dozen were selected to attend.

 

At first, Xu Weishuang didn’t feel much. Most of her career had been focused on acting — she rarely interacted directly with fans, avoided social media, and didn’t like socializing in general.

 

But standing there among them, receiving their gifts and hearing their sincere words of admiration — something in her was deeply moved.

 

She had never experienced such open, passionate affection. Looking at each of those dozen people, their eyes all shone with heartfelt love for her.

 

For Xu Weishuang, this was almost unimaginable. She had always believed that fate would never favor her. Every time she gained a little happiness, something else would be taken away.

 

She didn’t consider herself a likable person.

 

Even though she didn’t check online comments often, she knew that after her comeback, people had torn her apart — especially after her divorce from Yan Muyu. The internet had been filled with hatred.

 

She had grown used to that kind of hostility, used to enduring it in silence.

 

But Xu Weishuang wasn’t truly cold-hearted. Her mentor, Professor Lin, had seen through her completely. He once said she was born sensitive — blessed and cursed by the gods.

 

Her turbulent upbringing only made her more cautious and more pained.

 

But because of all that, she had more depth of feeling than most. She could connect with her characters on a level few actors could match.

 

Professor Lin once jokingly asked her, if she could choose again, would she still want to act?

 

Xu Weishuang didn’t know.

 

She didn’t hate acting. It was the one thing she did better than most. She could pour all her energy into it, lose herself in it completely. Sometimes she even felt a competitive spark during filming — exciting and unfamiliar. But she still didn’t know if she truly loved it.

 

Until now.

 

Until this moment, when these people — strangers — had gathered just to express their love for her. That kind of fervent affection stunned her.

 

She was being loved so deeply, so openly.

 

The realization hit her like a wave: she, Xu Weishuang, was shining.

 

Her heart felt warm, as if the chill she’d carried all her life had suddenly melted away.

 

She stood there, quietly opening the gifts fans had brought. Some were handmade, others were from friends who couldn’t come and had sent something along.

 

Then she reached a gift that stood out — not wrapped like the others. A girl stepped forward and offered it to her directly.

 

A bouquet of fresh sunflowers.

 

Because Xu Weishuang rarely interacted with fans, the girl was seeing her idol up close for the first time. She was nervous and shy, barely able to speak as she handed over the flowers.

 

The assistant nearby reassured her, “It’s okay. Take your time.”

 

Xu Weishuang looked at the girl, her expression cool as always.

 

She was trying not to seem too cold, but she was overwhelmed — by their warmth, by the surge of emotions inside her.

 

She wasn’t someone who easily showed her feelings. Her first instinct was always restraint. But this time, she wanted to be kind. She wanted to give something back.

 

She wanted to respond to their love.

 

She wanted to make the people who loved her feel happy.

 

“I really, really like you. I’ve liked you since your debut. I wanted to give you sunflowers because they’re sunshine flowers — wherever sunflowers are, there’s sunshine. You gave us courage and hope. You’re like a sunflower to us — you’re our sun.” The girl looked directly at Xu Weishuang, eyes glistening with emotion. Her voice trembled slightly, but she finished every word clearly, bravely.

 

Xu Weishuang stared at her, unmoving. She didn’t reach out for the flowers. Didn’t say a word.

 

The atmosphere suddenly cooled. The girl was so nervous her heart felt like it might burst. She wondered if she’d said something wrong. The fans nearby started to panic, uncertain.

 

Then they saw Xu Weishuang standing frozen — and saw tears silently falling from her usually cold eyes.

 

She was staring at the sunflowers, crying without a sound.

 

Her assistant, Xiao Shiyi, was completely flustered. The girl with the flowers looked even more anxious and lost.

 

But Xu Weishuang cried harder and harder. Right in front of everyone, she covered her face and broke down.

 

She couldn’t control the tears at all. For the first time, she didn’t want to restrain them.

 

From the moment she was born, it was as if she’d been cursed — destined to suffer.

 

Later, adopted by the Liu family, she longed for warmth — and spent her life chasing the sun.

 

Whether it was Liu Yuebai or Yan Muyu, she was always searching for that distant warmth.

 

But now someone had said she was their sun.

 

She was their hope.

 

For the first time in her life, Xu Weishuang realized — she was capable of shining.

 

She cried harder — a flood of long-suppressed sorrow and pain.

 

As if, in this moment, she was finally letting out the cry she had never made when she was born.

 

This was her rebirth.