After My Flash Marriage with the Movie Queen - Chapter 98

Just when Zhao Xunyin was about ready to give up on life altogether, she received yet another “warm and thoughtful” call from her manager. The moment she answered, her manager launched straight into a tirade:

“Are you kidding me? I told you to go on Weibo and check what mess you made—so you went on and deleted it? Do you not understand that the internet never forgets? That netizens take screenshots? Are you seriously this capable?

Which celebrity’s main Weibo account isn’t managed by their company? You really think giving you too much freedom was a good idea? Now you can just delete whatever you want whenever you want?”

The situation Zhao Xunyin caused was already big enough. And yet, at this very moment—when every brain cell should have been online—hers seemed to have been kicked by a donkey. She actually deleted the post. With one thoughtless tap, she wiped out hours of work her manager and the PR team had put in.

How could it not be wiped out?

If you delete the post yourself, what can the PR team even say? What narrative are they supposed to spin?

That Zhao Xunyin had the guts to do something but not the guts to own it?

That she got exposed by netizens and panicked?

At this point, Zhao’s manager genuinely wanted to crack open her skull with a brick and see what was inside.

Xu Juan was simply disappointed. Deeply, thoroughly, completely disappointed. Sure, she and Zhao Xunyin had gone through plenty of PR crises over the years—not that Zhao handled them perfectly, but at least she cooperated.

And because Zhao Xunyin and the boss’s wife had an unbreakable “besties-for-life” relationship, the company had always granted her far more freedom than most artists ever got.

If it was any other artist, any other company—never mind a double award-winning actress—even if you were basically a god-tier superstar, your Weibo would still be operated by the company. You might have the right to speak, but not the right to post.

As a celebrity, every word and action is controlled. At the end of the day, a celebrity is a product. And a product with name recognition? That’s something built jointly by the agency, the PR team, business partners, and the celebrity herself.

The “product” called Zhao Xunyin had been carefully shaped for over a decade—step by step, image by image, layer by layer. It took countless years of effort to elevate her class and status. And now, half of that painstakingly crafted image had been blown to pieces by a single Weibo post.

And then she went and deleted it—destroying the last remaining half as well.

Don’t ask her manager how she feels right now.

Ask, and the answer is simple: murderous.

Utterly, murderously furious.

If the situation wasn’t so complicated—if she didn’t have to stay and coordinate the aftermath with the PR team— Xu Juan would have already taken the first flight to Suzhou with a machete in hand, ready to curse Zhao Xunyin into the afterlife.

She truly never imagined Zhao Xunyin could become this stupid. Two whole hours before deleting the post—what use was that? What use at all?

Had she gradually turned into Shi Nanbei?

Her manager gritted her teeth. “Can you please find a mirror and take a look at yourself? Is your brain actually still attached to your neck? Look at the mess you’ve made! I spent all that time contacting marketing accounts, paying them, arranging for them to change their wording in half an hour—then you went and deleted the post. Now what do you expect me to do? Huh? WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?

Zhao Xunyin, if you want to retire, fine! But can you at least retire gracefully? Must you drag a scandal with you on the way out?!”

Zhao Xunyin: “…”

Zhao Xunyin still managed to mumble, “It’s not really a scandal though?”

Honestly, she hadn’t cheated, had no affair, wasn’t smoking or doing drugs. At worst, this would just become public entertainment—a brief laugh before everyone moved on. Hardly a real scandal, right?

Her manager let out an icy laugh through the phone.

“Sure. It’s not a scandal. Then what does deleting the post mean? You can do it but can’t own it? Can post but can’t keep it online?”

Zhao Xunyin: “…”

She really couldn’t face it.

She really couldn’t keep it online.

Her manager continued roasting her. “Amazing, Zhao Xunyin. Truly amazing. I never knew your narcissism could reach this level. Look at the name of your burner account: ‘LittleYinyinIsThePrettiestBeauty’—how do you even say that out loud? Aren’t you supposed to be the cool, aloof type? The queen who fears nothing and no one?”

Zhao Xunyin: “…”

Actually, she could explain the username. She created that account before she debuted. After her debut, the company opened her official Weibo, and of course an artist uses their main account for ads and fan interactions. So, she naturally forgot the old account existed.

Until a few years ago, when her phone broke and she used an older one—and rediscovered the burner account.

Back then, she used to look down on colleagues who kept multiple burner accounts, thinking they were pretentious. But later, after scrolling gossip and shipping CPs from her burner without any idol burden, she realized:

Having a burner account is true freedom.

Use it once, it feels great.

Use it long enough, it feels too great.

Use it too much and you forget to change the username.

Her manager continued, voice full of despair:

“You’re really something. Other people’s burner accounts post daily life. Yours reposts gossip, fine. But you even check in at the supertopic for you and Shi Nanbei, like and comment, and APPLY TO BE A MINI-MODERATOR. After reviewing everything on your burner, I’ve come to one conclusion:

You, Zhao Xunyin, are the ancestor of all posers and the founding mother of closet exhibitionists.

No one is more outrageously shameless than you.”

The manager snapped at her: “What, are you that proud of marrying such a wife? Can’t go a single day without flaunting your love online—otherwise you’ll just drop dead? If the fans don’t collectively band together to ‘punish you for dog-abusing’ you’re not happy, is that it? You’re lucky your wife is adorable enough that your fans accepted her so quickly. Otherwise, they’d each be writing you a blood-letter, and I’d like to see how you deal with that!”

She said all the right things—and she wasn’t wrong—but honestly, even someone as ascetic and unbothered as Xu Juan, after scrolling through Zhao Xunyin’s alt account and especially all the daily couple posts after her marriage to Shi Nanbei, she really was jealous.

She finally understood the fans screaming under Zhao Xunyin’s Weibo comments, begging her to “stop dog-abusing them.”

Ah. This damnably sweet love.

Zhao Xunyin hesitated: “……”

What kind of logic was this? Why couldn’t she browse her and her wife’s couple hashtag? They praised them every single day!

They said the two of them were soulmates, a model couple, the sweetest pair on earth—why shouldn’t she read that? Why shouldn’t she give those posts a like?

In life, the most important thing is to receive recognition and praise.

But she didn’t dare say that to her manager.

Right now, she was absolutely in the wrong; even if her manager cursed her half to death, she wouldn’t dare talk back.

After scolding Zhao Xunyin until her head was spinning, Xu Juan finally got back to the main point: “Given the current situation, what exactly do you plan to do?”

Zhao Xunyin might be a queen who fears neither heaven nor earth, but ever since she married and got to know Shi Nanbei, she had been getting dumber. As her manager put it, she was becoming more and more like Shi Nanbei: Nanbei-fied.

But she was still only situationally foolish—not like Shi Nanbei, who was foolish by nature. So, she did know the smartest thing to do right now was listen to her manager. Whatever Xu Juan told her to do, she would do.

“I’ll follow whatever you decide, Xu-jie. This mess is my fault. Sorry to trouble you.”

It sounded nice. Zhao Xunyin was a proud person; it was rare to see her yield. But her manager wasn’t so easily fooled. After listening, she simply said:

“Oh, really? Then I want you to repost that Weibo again—can you do that?”

Zhao Xunyin’s expression froze. “……”

I refuse!

Of course, her manager could read all her petty thoughts. She’d been an award-winning actress for too long—always needing to act aloof, to show off. Tch.

“Our current plan is: you just admit it directly. Don’t claim it was a mis-tap, and absolutely don’t say your assistant logged into your account by accident. Your alt account is practically hammering the truth with Thor’s hammer; netizens aren’t stupid. You admit it cleanly, and I’ll arrange for some marketing accounts and buy a bit of traffic. We’ll guide your public image toward a tsundere angle. Use this chance to slowly transition your persona.”

Xu Juan had her reasons. This was essentially the best possible solution.

Zhao Xunyin was gradually stepping back from the spotlight—not leaving entirely, but easing out. She still had two unreleased films in hand.

During this semi-retirement and shift to behind-the-scenes work, with Zhao Xunyin’s acting skills and reputation, she definitely wouldn’t lack investors wanting her involved in future projects.

The icy, untouchable persona was good, but not exactly relatable. Over the years, plenty of rival fans had used that image to accuse her of being arrogant.

In contrast, the “wife-loving, wife-obsessed maniac” persona might trigger mild shock in some fans at first, but it would absolutely boost her public favorability. After all, Shi Nanbei truly was adorable, and Zhao Xunyin had changed so much. Their variety show earlier had netted their marriage a huge fanbase.

Human nature loves drama—especially the “cold beauty falls hard for one person” kind. Who wouldn’t want to see a stunning woman who once played the field, untouched by any leaf in the garden suddenly fall hopelessly in love with her?

A perfect love story, live and ongoing.

Dog-abuse content: acquired.