Chapter 39 (2/2)
Only Mu Wan and Gao Mei remained where they were.
Gao Mei stared after Mi Yu’s departing figure and gave a cold snort. “What is that supposed to mean? She invested in this herself, stole the role from Mu Qing, and made herself the female lead? If she had that kind of money, would she still be stuck playing second female leads all these years?”
Then she paused and looked back at Mu Wan. “Wait. Why did she come tell us that?”
Mu Wan’s wish from breakfast—that Mu Qing would not be the lead in the same production—had now come true.
But even so, the truth unfolding before her did not match her expectations at all.
She remembered the way Liu Qianxiu had looked at her that morning.
Now, given what had happened, perhaps she had guessed wrong. And yet there were too many coincidences.
A single coincidence is just a loose point. But when enough of them accumulate and start connecting, they form a picture.
Gao Mei was still trying to reason out how Mi Yu could possibly have gotten the role. In the end, she decided that Mi Yu must have been kept by some rich man, who then invested in the series and handed her the lead.
But even that theory did not fully convince her.
Why would Mi Yu risk offending Shen Entertainment’s golden boy by stealing a role from Shen Cheng’s girlfriend? A Thousand Threads of Snow was a good IP, yes—but not so good that it justified making an enemy of Shen Entertainment. If she ever lost her backer, the rest of her career would become extremely difficult.
While Gao Mei was still talking, a group of people emerged from the dressing room.
There were men and women in the group, some thin, some heavy, all clustering around one tall, slender woman in the middle.
Her makeup was already done, and her hair was styled, but she had not changed into costume yet. She stepped out wearing an expression so ugly it could barely be contained. Her bearing was still poised, but the anger rolling in her eyes could not be suppressed, leaving a dark shadow over her whole face.
The rest of the production did not yet know what had happened. But the way everyone surrounded her gave her the air of someone who had already been driven out.
Halfway through leaving, Mu Qing suddenly looked over.
Her gaze landed on Mu Wan, and a flash of hatred crossed her eyes.
She stared at her for a full two seconds. Then, as though realizing how badly she had lost control, she withdrew her gaze, turned, and walked away.
Gao Mei was already losing her mind.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Did you see that? Mu Qing just glared at you. Why would she glare at you?”
Mu Wan lowered her eyes, her thoughts already racing far faster than Gao Mei’s words.
Why had Mu Qing glared at her?
Because Mu Qing knew.
Maybe not everything. But enough.
If Mi Yu really had replaced her because of Liu Qianxiu’s intervention, then from Mu Qing’s point of view, Mu Wan had not only refused to lower her head and beg—she had also somehow found backing stronger than Shen Cheng’s.
And that alone would be enough to drive Mu Qing mad.
A strange warmth rose slowly through Mu Wan’s chest.
It felt like standing at the edge of a long, dark corridor and finally seeing a light switch on at the far end.
She looked up.
The opening-ceremony platform had already been finished. Red cloth, incense table, flowers, fruit offerings. Beyond it, the sky stretched wide and bright, white with heat.
A few moments later, Mi Yu returned in costume.
She was now playing the female lead. That meant everything about the production had shifted around her. People moved with more care around her, spoke to her more gently, and even Director Li’s attitude toward her had changed.
This was what a lead role did.
Even if the role had come to her by way of someone else’s money, the reality it brought was still real.
Mi Yu’s gaze flicked once toward Mu Wan, then moved away again as though nothing had happened.
At that instant, Mu Wan understood something clearly:
Mi Yu had come to tell her on purpose.
Not because she wanted credit.
Because she wanted Mu Wan to know that someone had, in fact, moved for her.
Because under all the sharpness and pride and awkwardness, Mi Yu had a soft heart.
Gao Mei tugged hard at Mu Wan’s sleeve.
“Say something! What are you thinking?”
Mu Wan came back to herself and smiled.
“I’m thinking,” she said lightly, “that some people really are luckier than they think.”
Gao Mei stared at her in disbelief. “Your brain works differently from everyone else’s.”
Mu Wan only laughed.
Once the opening ceremony began, all stray conversation died down. Everyone filed into place according to rank. Since Mi Yu was now the female lead, her position moved to the center. Mu Wan, still only a supporting actress, remained far to one side.
But this time, she did not mind at all.
When the incense was offered, and the cameras flashed, when the official photos were taken, and the blessing speeches began, Mu Wan stood in her place and looked toward the center of the crowd.
Mi Yu’s face was calm and controlled.
From another angle, Director Li was smiling broadly.
The production manager was fussing over schedules.
The entire set had already adjusted to the new reality.
Only Mu Qing was gone.
That was the entertainment industry.
Resources, capital, substitution, reversal. Everything changed in a blink.
And for the first time, Mu Wan realized with complete clarity that she had not simply been lucky.
Something had changed because of Liu Qianxiu.
Not because he had said anything openly.
Not because he had explained anything.
But because every time she had been cornered recently, every time things had seemed to dead-end, some invisible force had quietly shifted the board.
And the only person connected to every one of those shifts was him.
By the time the ceremony ended and the actors dispersed to makeup and set calls, Mu Wan had still not fully digested the thought.
She changed into costume in a daze.
Her role today was a palace scene opposite Mi Yu. Once she was dressed and fully made up, Gao Mei came sneaking over from the neighboring set just to look at her.
“This role really suits you,” Gao Mei said, circling her once. “You look expensive.”
Mu Wan laughed. “I’ve always been expensive.”
“You’re shameless today too.”
“I’ve been in a good mood lately.”
Gao Mei narrowed her eyes. “This has something to do with your Taoist Liu, doesn’t it?”
The way she said “your Taoist Liu” was so natural that Mu Wan’s smile deepened on its own.
Before she could answer, someone from the production came hurrying over to call her to the set.
The palace set was indoors and cool enough, a welcome change from the boiling weather outside. By the time Mu Wan stepped into place and adjusted her sleeves, Mi Yu was already there.
They exchanged one look.
Nothing else.
Then the assistant director called positions, the clapper snapped, and the scene began.
Mu Wan entered the role at once.
The Empress she played was not loud or showy and did not need to fight for every bit of screen time. She only needed to stand there and let the audience feel her weight.
She had always been good at that—at turning herself invisible as a person and fully present as a role.
By the time the scene ended, Director Li looked unusually satisfied.
“Good,” he said. “Again from a second angle.”
There was praise in his tone, but more than that, certainty.
Mu Wan’s heart settled further.
This role was hers now. Solidly hers.
Not borrowed.
Not dangling.
Not waiting to be cut away.
And that feeling—of finally standing on ground that would not give way—made her chest ache with sudden emotion.
During a short reset between camera positions, she took out her phone.
There were no new messages.
She looked at Liu Qianxiu’s name for a moment, then typed:
Mu Wan: The opening ceremony went well.
She paused, then added another line:
Mu Wan: Thank you.
After sending it, she stared at the screen for a second and almost laughed at herself.
Thank you for what, exactly?
For being mysterious?
For saying nothing?
For quietly moving mountains behind the scenes and still letting her figure it out only halfway?
No proper girlfriend in the world was as vague as this.
A moment later, his reply came.
Taoist Liu: For what?
Mu Wan’s eyes curved at once.
There he was again—cool, reserved, pretending not to understand anything.
She typed back:
Mu Wan: For many things.
Then, after a beat:
Mu Wan: If I say it too clearly, won’t that ruin your small private pleasure?
This time, the typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Taoist Liu: You know?
Mu Wan looked at those two words and, in the middle of the bustling set, nearly laughed out loud.
So she really had guessed right.
Her fingertips warmed against the phone.
Mu Wan: I only know a little. The rest, I’ll wait for you to tell me yourself.
After sending that, she locked the screen and tucked the phone away just as the assistant director called for a reset.
But from that moment on, through every line she delivered and every mark she hit, something bright remained lit inside her.
By the time filming wrapped for the day, the sun had already tilted west.
She changed out of costume, washed off her makeup, and stepped out into the golden evening.
The studio lot was still noisy and crowded. People ran in every direction, chasing scenes, chasing schedules, chasing the next role.
Mu Wan stood still for a moment in the middle of it all.
Then she took out her phone again and called Liu Qianxiu.
He picked up quickly.
“Finished?” he asked.
“Mm.” Mu Wan smiled and began walking toward the exit. The sunlight stretched her shadow long across the ground. “Liu Qianxiu...”
“Mm.”
Her heart was very full.
So full that it felt almost childish to say it aloud, and yet she wanted to say it anyway.
“I miss you,” she said.
There was a brief silence on the line.
Then his voice came low and clear, like wind moving through mountain pines.
“I’m waiting for you downstairs.”
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