The insults, rumors, character attacks—she seemed unbothered. Was it no phone time, or willful blindness?
Lin Xianing doubted the former. No one escaped phones these days, especially with news everywhere.
Pretending not to see? She must’ve been hurting inside.
Zhao Ruo’s early points Lin Xianing could shrug off, but the rest hit home.
What if the film tanked and the net turned on her? Could Le Yiqiu take that blow?
“Le Yiqiu.” Lin Xianing’s tone turned grave. “Public opinion kills—just like in Solitary City.”
Le Yiqiu fell silent, grasping her point.
She wasn’t just Le Yiqiu anymore—she was Lin Xianing’s wife. Constant headlines showed what came with marrying a hot celeb: endless scrutiny.
Succeed, and she’d live up to the Solitary City director hype. Fail, and it’d be more than a film’s backlash.
Even if it succeeded but fell short of Solitary City, the hate would roll in.
Did reasons matter? It was just venting darkness—and you were the target.
But Le Yiqiu’s resolve ran deep. Once decided, she wouldn’t quit. “I get what you’re saying. I’ve come to love this work. I won’t give up.”
The deeper she dove in, the more passionate she grew about directing. Her notes from Zheng Zhi’s lessons filled a thick notebook.
Besides, she wasn’t rushing a film—just prepping one.
Perhaps Le Yiqiu’s determination swayed her. After a pause, Lin Xianing said, “I’m looking forward to your work.”
A film wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment thing. Without amnesia, Lin Xianing never would’ve said this.
She thought it over, then spoke earnestly. “Whether TV or movie, prep takes ages. Right now, you don’t even have a script—and that’s the heart of any film.”
“After the script: funding, locations, casting, shooting, post-production, and more. Directing means handling it all.”
Lin Xianing tried for tact, but it came out stern. “If you hadn’t lost your memory…”
She trailed off, but Le Yiqiu caught the implication.
She had a vague idea for a script but hadn’t started writing.
Funds? Her accounts could cover a modest production.
It’d depend on the script—budget it out, then decide solo or partners.
Once drafted, she’d pitch to companies to validate it.
You couldn’t judge your own work objectively; pros had to sign off.
Le Yiqiu had even considered seeking out her Teacher. As a student, she was used to consulting when stumped.
Her teacher was also a renowned director in the industry—Tu Sheng.
An international heavyweight, his films always got nationwide releases, and they earned rave reviews. Getting a chance to learn from someone like that would be a fantastic opportunity for her.
She just wasn’t sure how close their relationship would be after graduation. She checked WeChat but couldn’t find him there—only his phone number. The chat history didn’t reveal much; they had some contact, but not a lot. It was hard to tell what their bond was really like.
Still, nothing else mattered until the script was ready.
Lin Xianing meant what she said. She didn’t see any issue with it. The script was the foundation of any film, and without one, everything else was just hot air.
“I get what you mean,” she said. “I was planning to study first anyway. I don’t know why I ended up in the public eye, and then the rumors just snowballed.”
She really did intend to create her own work someday. It might take a year, two years, or even longer. There was no way she’d rush into it on a whim—she wasn’t an idiot.
After joining the crew of Human Nature is Evil, when Zheng Zhi asked her about it, she’d just smiled and humbly explained that she hadn’t shot anything in ages and was there to learn.
Later, word got out about her being on set, and the internet exploded with speculation. People said all sorts of things, and soon enough, plenty of folks actually believed she was starring in a new movie.
Her WeChat blew up with messages from people she hadn’t talked to in ages, all asking about the film.
Even some alumni reached out, inquiring if there were any suitable roles.
No matter how much the internet trashed her as a has-been, as long as Solitary City was in her resume, plenty of actors would still jump at the chance to work with her.
That was what Zheng Zhi had told her. What if? What if Le Yiqiu hadn’t acted in years because she’d been quietly prepping a new project, honing a single sword for a decade? After all this time, could her next film surpass Solitary City?
Setting aside whether that was true or not, it never hurt to build some goodwill.
People in the entertainment industry always wore a polite smile. You couldn’t read their true thoughts, but on the surface, they were friendly to everyone—from extras to ordinary folks.
With the internet being so pervasive these days, a single slip-up got blown out of proportion. Everyone had gotten more cautious.
The divas who threw tantrums did it smartly, always playing the good guy themselves while their agents handled the dirty work. When questioned, they’d shrug and say it was the company’s call—they had no choice.
Le Yiqiu didn’t know the true state of the industry.
A brief stint of two or three months on a set wasn’t enough to give her a deep understanding.
She figured taking it one step at a time was all she needed to do.
Her original plan had been to live as a total nobody, but her wife was a hotshot Film Queen. Staying low-key was impossible, especially with their skyrocketing popularity lately. Too many eyes were on them.
Every move she made was under scrutiny. There were no secrets left.
But she wouldn’t back down because of that. The movie would happen. Before shooting, she’d prepare thoroughly—no fighting unprepared battles.
Lin Xianing was sharing all this out of genuine concern.
A stranger wouldn’t bother with such advice.
Le Yiqiu leaned back in her chair, meeting Lin Xianing’s gaze. Then, out of nowhere, she asked, “Lin Xianing? Are you into me?”
“No,” Le Yiqiu corrected herself, rephrasing it. “Or should I say, are you into the me from before I lost my memory?”
Over these past few months of interaction, she’d gotten the sense that Lin Xianing wasn’t the type to meddle in other people’s choices.
Her words cracked Lin Xianing’s serious expression. Her eyes flickered. “I’ll call Chen Tao and tell her not to bring any clothes.”
Chen Tao had gone back home when she was first admitted. Since she wasn’t staying overnight after all, it was high time to let her know.
Le Yiqiu waited while Lin Xianing made the call. She propped her elbow on the armrest, lazily cradling her cheek as she stared straight into Lin Xianing’s eyes. “I’m just curious—when exactly did we meet?”
She had no memory of knowing Lin Xianing, but according to the timeline Luo Luo had given her…
It was probably the timeline everyone online knew: they’d met on one of Tu Sheng’s films.
Back then, she’d been shadowing Tu Sheng as his assistant and had crossed paths with Lin Xianing, the female lead.
In 2017 or 2018, she’d been in her early twenties, still a student. They’d gotten their marriage certificate in 2018, which meant they’d barely known each other before jumping into a fake marriage.
By the internet’s reckoning, they’d rushed into it. Even for a sham wedding, shouldn’t they have vetted each other’s character first?
“Met?” Lin Xianing echoed the question, her face impassive. “That was ages ago. I don’t remember.”
It’d only been a few years. She didn’t remember? Yeah, right—like that’d fly with a kid.
Le Yiqiu shot to her feet in one fluid motion, planting both hands on the bed so their faces were less than a fist apart. “You’re lying.”
Startled by the sudden closeness, Lin Xianing panicked, her polished acting skills flying out the window.
Before she could respond, Le Yiqiu chuckled softly. “It’s fine. Whenever we met doesn’t matter. We can always start over.”
With a mischievous glint, she leaned in a little closer. “Hi, big sis Lin Xianing. I’m Le Yiqiu—eighteen in soul, twenty-eight in body. Half-baked?”
“Pfft—cough!”
That “half-baked” line cracked Lin Xianing up. She coughed quickly to cover her laugh.
Le Yiqiu fixed her with an intent gaze, waiting for the laughter to subside.
Since Lin Xianing was worried about her, she needed to respond in kind, seriously laying out her own thoughts. “I heard everything you said just now.”
“Whether you’re telling me this because of the old Le Yiqiu, or just because you care about me as a person, I’m grateful you shared it.”
After her grandmother passed, no one had bothered to guide her anymore, let alone share advice like this.
You only nagged like that when you truly cared—and even her parents had never talked to her this much.
For someone as aloof and detached as Lin Xianing to open up like this, it was clear she didn’t see her as an outsider.
Le Yiqiu tilted her head, her eyes drifting down to Lin Xianing’s lips.
Just as Lin Xianing thought she was about to close the distance, Le Yiqiu straightened up, acting as if that flirtatious move had never happened.
Le Yiqiu smelled wonderful—a fresh, clean scent, no clashing perfumes.
Like the aroma of sunlight after a bath. Pleasant and pure.
Lin Xianing hated getting too close to people, but Le Yiqiu’s approach hadn’t bothered her. If anything, her pulling away left a strange emptiness in Lin Xianing’s chest.
“I’m not concerned about you.”
Lin Xianing’s voice came out a touch hoarse. “We’re partners. If one thrives, we both do. If one falls, we both suffer.”
Le Yiqiu couldn’t care less about that phrasing. In her eyes, what they had was something brand new.
They hadn’t known each other long, so she could treat it like an open romance.
Keep it simple: strip away the fake marriage, and it boiled down to her liking Lin Xianing, whose feelings were unclear. She was just the pursuer.
Lin Xianing’s words were stiff, but if they were merely pursuer and pursuee, it was fine—even merciful, really.
Smiling, Le Yiqiu changed the subject. “Want to watch movies together while I recover at home?”
Not in theaters, of course. Having lost a decade to amnesia, she’d missed countless great films. She only had a rough idea for her script; she could take her time with it.
She’d just fallen for directing—no need to rush into production.
She knew full well that nothing happened overnight.
What she needed was constant learning and input, gradually refining the script.
In this industry, watching movies was part of the homework.
And doing it alongside the person she liked? Perfect for bonding.
Imagining them curled up on the sofa together, her heart swelled with anticipation.
Lin Xianing’s mind blanked for a second. They’d just been discussing something so serious, and suddenly the mood turned to pink bubbles.
Like a grand epic with a badass female lead flipping to a mushy romance-obsessed rom-com.
Caught off-guard by the shift, her expression froze—making her look unexpectedly adorable.
Le Yiqiu couldn’t resist reaching out to pinch her cheek, giving it a tug.
“Scram,” Lin Xianing mumbled around the pinch, too soft-hearted to swat the hand away.
