The Whole World Is Waiting for Me and My Ex-Girlfriend to Remarry (Entertainment Industry) - Chapter 3

Their eyes met, locking together in a direct gaze.

In the entertainment industry, many things lack a formal conclusion, and many conclusions arrive with jarring suddenness.

The urge for revenge easily occupied Zhao Xuanxuan’s mind—especially since this specific incident hadn’t even been her doing. How had this “pot of blame” managed to land squarely on her head? Once the desire for retaliation took root, any other commendable traits—like rational analysis or a drive for reconciliation—evaporated.

However, a persistent voice echoed in her head: this incident could not become a hurdle in her career, and it certainly couldn’t be the end of it.

Since entering the industry, Zhao Xuanxuan hadn’t been a “resource-backed” player, but her looks were a “safe bet” for attracting investment. Consequently, her journey had been smooth—no major catastrophes, no great grievances, but naturally, no explosive stardom either. It seemed Dong Huaci was born to be her nemesis. To make matters worse, Zhao Xuanxuan had no “ultimate move” to get her blacklisted or scrubbed from her sight. The truly well-connected young ladies of the industry were all scrambling to appear low-key, terrified of their family backgrounds being exposed; those who constantly bought headlines about their wealthy origins usually peaked at the middle tier. Thus, she and Dong Huaci were pushed by circumstance into being “plastic sisters,” resulting in constant friction behind the scenes.

But Dong Huaci wasn’t one to play the submissive or the weakling.

She was a woman who started with nothing, possessing only a “scandal-magnet” constitution that drew in criticism like a storm. The entertainment industry was like her personal breeding ground for venomous insects, and somehow, the tree only grew larger and stronger the more it was fed.

As a result, Zhao Xuanxuan no longer cared who was truly behind the incident. She only knew that the moment that staff member posted on Weibo, Dong Huaci was clean again. Her priority was to shed this blame first, then find an opportunity to repay this hidden grudge later.

Evidently, she wasn’t the only one who found this woman intolerable.

After consulting with her studio, Zhao Xuanxuan had them draft a Weibo post.

“Though I didn’t win an award today, which is a regret, I am so happy to have had your company. (Line break) Ran into ‘Little Tree’ in the dressing room [Kiss/Kiss] Congratulations to my peer for her win~”

Attached were two photos of them together. Naturally, they hadn’t contacted Dong Huaci’s team about this. The photos had been edited; however, through seemingly “diligent” retouching, Zhao Xuanxuan’s team had painstakingly emphasized Dong Huaci’s flaws. The editing felt intentional, creating the impression that Dong Huaci’s face had inherent “hard defects” that couldn’t be fixed despite their best efforts.

Meanwhile, in Dong Huaci’s room, her team reacted to the post with a mix of laughter and anger.

“I told you not to say a single word to her!” Shi Xiaonan barked.

“I had just stepped off stage. Everyone was coming to congratulate me and ask about my health. It would’ve been awkward to refuse,” Dong Huaci replied. She was wearing pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the bed, eating a bowl of poached cabbage in plain water.

They were in a suite. The overhead lights sliced Dong Huaci’s face into shifting planes of light and shadow; her smile flickered between a hint of pitiableness and an innocent nonchalance. Her assistant, Qiao Yi, was helping her filter through scripts, occasionally chiming in: “Zhao Xuanxuan is really trying to stick to you.”

Dong Huaci gave a soft laugh. “I actually like women, but she really doesn’t. That’s why she’s the one sticking to me. Those who know, know.”

The sentence was packed with subtext, but since everyone in the industry is sharp, the insinuation sent the three of them into fits of laughter.

Changing the subject, Dong Huaci refused to equate Zhao Xuanxuan’s success or failure with her own. Circumstances had pushed them to be rivals, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be her own enemy. Having finished her cabbage, Dong Huaci slid over to Qiao Yi’s side, her oversized white bathrobe bunched up as she leaned in. “Found anything good yet, my dearest, darling baby?”

Dong Huaci was always affectionate with those close to her. It was only because her manager, Shi Xiaonan, scolded her so often that she occasionally acted like a student facing a teacher; when Shi Xiaonan was in a good mood, she was just as playful. Qiao Yi was even easier to be around—a recent college graduate whose eyes often held a clarity that seemed to say, ‘Why are these people so troublesome, and why is everything so convoluted?’ She still needed training, but Dong Huaci found her more likeable by the day.

Perhaps it was because with Qiao Yi around, Shi Xiaonan wouldn’t focus all her nagging on her.

Though Shi Xiaonan acted in her best interest, Dong Huaci—impacted by the hate comments from her idol days and her own performance—desperately wanted to be recognized for her professional achievements. She knew she hadn’t been a perfect idol, but she truly wanted to be a competent actor.

In the year she had been acting, the path had been much smoother than her idol career.

Dong Huaci was young, beautiful, and most importantly, she didn’t put on airs—whether because she wasn’t a big enough star to do so or because she simply didn’t want to. Regardless, she had a good temperament, possessed an intuitive spark, and was willing to follow direction. Even though she wasn’t classically trained and couldn’t handle extreme physical hardship, her high “buzz” factor meant many directors were willing to offer her roles—especially “Supporting Female N” roles that didn’t drive the main plot but allowed her to provide visual appeal and social media hype for the production.

At this moment, Qiao Yi, leveraging her youth and sharp market sense, pulled a script from the pile: The Phoenix Decree.

“Don’t you want Director Li’s script?” Shi Xiaonan offered a counter-opinion. “It’s a massive production.”

Qiao Yi shook her head. “This one suit Teacher Dong better. It has buzz, heat, and gives her more freedom. She won’t have to walk on eggshells around others, and her acting will improve more.”

Well, that was a subtle way of saying she wasn’t ready for the big leagues yet. Dong Huaci made a face as the three of them huddled together to look at The Phoenix Decree.

The Phoenix Decree was a female-centric palace intrigue “face-slapping” story. The role they wanted her for was the antagonist: the Seventh Princess, who stops at nothing to prevent the female lead from becoming Empress. Born to the original Empress and pampered since childhood, the princess was arrogant and lawless, frequently insulting the then-powerless female lead.

In the end, the Seventh Princess is outmaneuvered by the now-ascendant lead and sent away for a political marriage to a foreign land. On the journey, she attempts to flee but is captured and brought back by a female general—one of the female lead’s former close friends. Ultimately, choosing death over being wed off, she commits suicide by poison to die on her home soil.

It wasn’t a one-dimensional villain. The requirements for the actress were: though wicked, she must be stunning; though foolish, she must be someone who lived entirely for herself until the very last second.

After studying it for half the day in the hotel, Shi Xiaonan placed the script in the center and made the call. “Little Tree, I remember this project. The director knows me—wait, let me rephrase that—I know her. This role is practically yours. What are you hesitating for?”

For some reason, Dong Huaci felt a surge of excitement, yet an underlying intuition made her waver. It felt as if accepting this role would lead to something monumental. To be more precise, the script felt like bait; the more she desired it, the more she hesitated. The entertainment industry is full of superstitions. Dong Huaci said, “Let’s use the old method. I’ll roll a die. Even number, I take it. Too much has happened lately; my heart is all over the place.”

Shi Xiaonan never coddled her. she lightly tapped Dong Huaci’s head with the script. “My dear lady, if you’re going to trust fate this much, don’t be a star—go be a monk. Fortune favors the bold. If you keep this up, I’ll find you a six-sided die with sixes on every face.”

And so, Dong Huaci gave in.

On the other side, no one in Dong Huaci’s team could have guessed that a copy of The Phoenix Decree also lay in front of Zhong Qing.

The role she was invited to play was the female general who prevents the princess from escaping. It was a classic “cameo” role for a recognizable face—appearing for about ten minutes with the female lead early on, and then in the episode involving the princess’s marriage. Most of the time, she would only exist as a name mentioned by others.

Admittedly, Zhong Qing’s face was of the “regal and elegant” variety, with a touch of cold determination—perfect for a female general.

However, Zhong Qing was indifferent toward the script. Or rather, she had no ambition for acting. “Sister Hong, I’ve told you, I really don’t have much interest in acting. Compared to auditioning, I’d rather focus on my current group.”

Her limited-time project group, formed through a survival show, was set to disband in six months. They were currently busy with their third album, which included her solo track. She hardly had the bandwidth to delve into acting.

Unfortunately, Sister Hong worked for the artist’s career, not Zhong Qing’s ideals. She sat across from Zhong Qing, her tone soft and persuasive, yet her message was firm: “Zhong Qing, this is a favor we owe. You have to take it.”

Zhong Qing could only respond with silence.

A few days later, at the audition site, Zhong Qing stepped out of her car wearing a black mask. Her team moved inside low-key when she suddenly heard a familiar laugh.

That laugh was so unmistakable that while her pace didn’t falter, her heartbeat betrayed a violent surge of emotion known only to her.

“You lost!” the voice continued, chirping with glee followed by the sound of someone being slapped on the shoulder. “My screen shows that in our game of ‘Staring Contest,’ I’ve accumulated 114 points. Are you guys even trying? Qiao Yi, the two of you combined can’t even beat me.”

“My lady, I give up, you’re the best. Can we please stop playing? At least try to be patient and quiet while we wait at the studio,” Shi Xiaonan said with a pained expression. “Watch your facial expressions! Even though there are no cameras today and no big stars—since the lead roles are already cast—you should use this time to read the script. When more people arrive, you’ll feel more prepared.”

“Don’t worry, I spent all night on that script. I practically have it memorized,” Dong Huaci said. Her back was to Zhong Qing, but Zhong Qing could easily imagine her spirited, defiant expression. “I’m just trying to channel the Seventh Princess’s arrogance… Qiao Yi, don’t you think I have that ‘my way or the highway’ vibe down now?”

Qiao Yi played along: “Teacher Dong, whatever you say is right…”

Her words cut off the moment she saw Zhong Qing’s face.

As if sensing something, Dong Huaci turned off her phone and looked back. Her eyes met Zhong Qing’s in a direct gaze.