After Le Yiqiu was discharged from the hospital, she recuperated at home. Luo Luo was an entertainer with a packed schedule, so the fact that she could take a few days off to keep her company was already impressive.
The last time, Luo Luo had taken her out wearing a mask and hat to familiarize herself with the facilities around the neighborhood, but they were recognized and soon surrounded by a crowd.
Fortunately, Le Yiqiu reacted quickly. She immediately pretended not to know Luo Luo and called over the property management’s security guards to help.
She owned several apartments in the complex right next door, so the management was happy to lend a hand for such a small favor.
Le Yiqiu figured it would be more reliable to explore on her own, so she stopped troubling the busy Luo Luo. After resting for so many days, her body felt stiff all over. She had asked the doctor, who said moderate exercise was fine.
At twenty-eight, it had been far too long since Le Yiqiu had worked out. Returning to the intensity of her eighteen-year-old self wasn’t something she could achieve overnight.
In any case, she had nothing better to do at home. Besides sorting through old things in the storage room and reading in the study, she set aside two hours each day for stretching exercises.
Her twenty-eight-year-old body was far too frail. She was even worried she might not be able to princess-carry her wife.
…
On August 21st, Le Yiqiu was at home. The TV was playing an interview from Lin Xianing’s drama crew’s opening ceremony that day. She unrolled her yoga mat on the floor, planning to stretch while watching.
On the television…
Media: “Teacher Lin, what are your thoughts on being cast in the film Human Nature is Evil?”
Lin Xianing flashed a beautiful smile in front of the camera, stunning from every angle.
However, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m honored to be part of Director Zheng Zhi’s film Human Nature is Evil. It’s adapted from Teacher Yiyi’s novel Born Bad Seed.”
“Everyone has heard of Teacher Yiyi. I really like her novels.”
Media: “I hear the crew wants to invite Teacher Yiyi on set as an on-location scriptwriter?”
Director Zheng Zhi: “Yes, the script adaptation was led by Yiyi, even if it was all online. If we can get her on board, I believe the movie will be even better.”
Some obscure small media outlet: “There are rumors that Teacher Lin is getting divorced. Is it because you can’t stand your partner’s freeloading?”
The moment this question dropped, the cameras in the reporters’ hands clicked even faster.
On the crew’s side, some faces darkened, while others watched gleefully, eager for drama.
Director Zheng Zhi was the angriest. His previous films had only lukewarm reception, and he was counting on this one to make a comeback.
He had shelled out millions to buy the rights from Yiyi and lured in Grand Slam Film Queen Lin Xianing.
Adaptations of Yiyi’s novels were guaranteed hits, and Lin Xianing was notoriously picky with scripts—whatever she chose was gold.
As long as he didn’t screw up as director, the film would at least be a steady success, if not a box-office smash.
Normally, the media invited to the opening ceremony had paid for the privilege, and their questions were pre-coordinated with the crew.
This question was far too provocative. If Lin Xianing misunderstood it as a crew setup and stormed off in a huff, he’d have no one to cry to.
Zheng Zhi shot a look at his assistant, who checked the invited media list—clearly, this outlet wasn’t on it.
But now that the question was out, kicking them out wouldn’t help.
He decided to pay them off and use a few other tactics to bury the story, as long as the money was right.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, Lin Xianing actually answered. Her voice was calm, almost indifferent. “First of all, this is a professional set. Please stick to questions about the film.”
“As for that question, I don’t think it needs answering, do I? Ever since my marriage went public, the internet has been buzzing with divorce rumors every single day.”
“Besides, my wife is an exceptional person. She just doesn’t have the halo of stardom, so people overlook her. In reality, she’s incredibly talented.”
“If you’re talking about money, I remember the 2019 charity donation list showed how much she gave from just one film’s earnings.”
“The phrase ‘freeloading’ doesn’t belong anywhere near her.”
As soon as she finished speaking, the director’s assistant stepped in with perfect timing. “Alright, everyone, follow me to shoot some B-roll. The actors need to get ready for filming.”
Once the media cleared out, Zheng Zhi immediately put on an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, Xiaxia. The one just now…”
Lin Xianing smiled faintly. “No problem, Director.”
Her response was brief and perfectly polite.
She nodded to the director and went to touch up her makeup for the first scene of the day.
Her assistant quickly contacted the manager to report the incident; the manager would handle the fallout.
It wasn’t a huge deal, but not trivial either. At the lead actress’s opening ceremony, getting cornered like that demanded a response.
In this industry, if you were too accommodating, people walked all over you. You had to set boundaries to prevent repeats.
Dirty work like offending people was always left to managers. As a celebrity, you had to maintain at least a cordial facade with everyone in the circle.
Of course, by the time the interview footage ended with Lin Xianing walking away…
Le Yiqiu had assumed that someone as aloof as Lin Xianing wouldn’t bother responding, especially since they really were discussing divorce. She wouldn’t defend herself like that.
A warm feeling bloomed in Le Yiqiu’s heart. She couldn’t wait to message Lin Xianing.
Over this period, she had been sending Lin Xianing updates—nothing much, just sharing snippets of her day.
They didn’t chat often; Lin Xianing was swamped with work and took ages to reply.
That morning, Le Yiqiu had snapped a photo of her luxurious instant noodles—with meat—and sent it over.
Lin Xianing silently fired back a pic of her own breakfast: varied, nutritious, balanced. Le Yiqiu stared at her noodles and instantly lost her appetite.
Chatting with Lin Xianing, Le Yiqiu could sense her coolness, her lack of enthusiasm, but every message left a hook for reply.
They exchanged texts sporadically, no good mornings or nights, but the conversation never fully stopped.
They might only say a few lines a day, but it kept going.
It was now three in the afternoon; Lin Xianing had probably just wrapped a scene and finally replied.
—Her writing is witty, and she’s genuinely talented. I do hope we can collaborate.
This was in response to Le Yiqiu’s earlier question: —Are you looking forward to Yiyi joining the crew?
Le Yiqiu thought for a moment and typed back: —She won’t be coming, but I will.
Lin Xianing replied instantly: —?
That day, Le Yiqiu had gone through her phone and found her manager’s contact info. All her external dealings went through this manager.
She reviewed their chat history—all business.
Zhao Yu, the manager, ran a small artist management studio with a few minor actors who landed bit parts like guards or maids in web dramas.
Spotting opportunity, Zhao Yu targeted some authors, buying rights to produce her own shows and boost her clients into stardom.
She cast a wide net, and Le Yiqiu was one of the fish she hooked.
Thankfully, their communication was all on WeChat. After skimming the records, Le Yiqiu had the full picture: Zhao Yu handled agent work for authors as a side gig, usually left to editors.
But refusing meant no rights, so Zhao Yu gave it a shot.
Years passed, and their partnership grew seamless. Zhao Yu did more assistant duties than pure management.
Her studio wasn’t blowing up. After buying the rights, funding the production was a nightmare—no investors bit at first.
As Le Yiqiu’s novels gained traction and fees rose, Zhao Yu ditched the idea of sharing profits. She planned to produce it herself, starring her own talent.
Years later, things must be nearly ready. For an ordinary startup with no connections, a decade of grinding on one project was par for the course.
Le Yiqiu tentatively messaged: —?
Over ten minutes later: —Something up?
They only talked business.
—For the Born Bad Seed movie, get me a gig as on-location scriptwriter.
Zhao Yu: —As Yiyi?
Sharp as ever, a true manager.
—As Le Yiqiu.
Zhao Yu: —I’ll try.
Truth be told, Le Yiqiu had no clue how to handle scriptwriting, even after reading the material through. She couldn’t lead as head writer.
Yiyi on set would mean head writer duties—her skills weren’t there yet.
With time on her hands, Le Yiqiu rummaged through the study, unearthing books and manuscripts.
Once she reviewed them, the knowledge stuck in her brain like it was printed there, surfacing bit by bit.
It was all still there—the years of learning hadn’t vanished. The more she read, the more details resurfaced.
How to direct, how to scriptwrite, novel-writing techniques.
That’s why she dared propose joining as on-location scriptwriter.
Knowledge truly was power; once learned, it was yours forever.
Etched deep in memory, a nudge brought it all back.
Did this prove she really had amnesia?
By reading more and studying, she’d soon regain her professional edge.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t have volunteered—she knew her limits.
Right now, she needed work tied to her field to sharpen herself and speed memory recovery.
Born Bad Seed was her creation; it’d help most.
Plus, working alongside Lin Xianing… Just imagining it brought an unstoppable smile to Le Yiqiu’s face.
