Waking Up to a Contract Marriage with the Film Queen - Chapter 5

On Le Yiqiu’s third day in the hospital, Luo Luo sent a message saying she had to work and couldn’t make it.

Luo Luo had just finished a project and was supposed to be on break, but a junior actress at her company had stirred up trouble, and she’d been called in as a last-minute replacement. Since Le Yiqiu was recovering well and Luo Luo had hired a professional caregiver to check in, being alone wasn’t a problem.

Le Yiqiu spent the day like the previous two: watching documentaries. She needed to close the ten-year gap in her knowledge as quickly as possible, catching up on everything from urban development to current pop culture.

She also managed to recover the passwords for various apps on her phone using verification codes. Browsing through her digital history, she saw her diet hadn’t changed much—mostly light, healthy meals. But the more she dug, the more she realized how much of a hermit her twenty-eight-year-old self had become. Her “Step Count” app rarely broke a thousand steps a day.

No wonder I feel so weak, she thought. Healthy people don’t live like this.

Her phone revealed her habits, but she knew the real answers were likely hidden back at her house. When she tired of documentaries, she started watching Lin Xianing’s filmography.

Lin Xianing had debuted in a gritty youth drama where every character suffered immensely, but the film had been a massive hit. Despite its small budget, it cleared a staggering box office. From there, Lin Xianing moved to television, instantly becoming the “White Moonlight” (1) of the nation. Her second film was even more successful, breaking into the domestic top-ten of all time.

By twenty-nine, she had achieved a “Grand Slam” of every major acting award. As Le Yiqiu watched her wife’s brilliant achievements, her heart swelled with pride. My wife is absolutely incredible.

To understand her better, Le Yiqiu devoured every interview and behind-the-scenes clip she could find. That was when she noticed her own name appearing in the “related searches” for Lin Xianing.

#LinXianingMarriage

#LinXianingWifeScreenwriter

#LinXianingWifeSoftRice

The topics were brutal. Le Yiqiu remembered the mockery she’d heard on the variety show when she first woke up. Film Queen Lin? Useless screenwriter? They really had been talking about her.

According to Luo Luo, Lin Xianing’s PR team had officially labeled Le Yiqiu a “screenwriter” to give her a respectable title. Le Yiqiu scrolled through the comments. Aside from fans saying she wasn’t good enough for their idol or that Lin Xianing was “blinded by love,” there were a few rare voices defending her.

[What do you people know? Le Yiqiu has a Master’s in Directing from Hantang Academy of Drama.]

[Exactly! Her debut micro-movie, “The Gap Between Us,” won international awards.]

[She was an assistant director for Director Han and shot the classic scenes in “Her.” That’s supposedly how she met Lin Xianing.]

[“Solitary City”—that movie about the woman crushed by public opinion? Le Yiqiu wrote and directed that.]

[So the rumors that she’s at home “working on scripts” are true?]

[Please, it’s been years. If she were actually writing, something would have come out by now. She was offered so many great projects and turned them all down to be a “writer.” It’s just an excuse to live off her wife.]

Le Yiqiu didn’t feel hurt by the insults; she hadn’t lived through those years, so it felt like they were talking about a stranger. However, the comments confirmed that she had been quite talented during her school years.

She searched her own name: Le Yiqiu. Born April 11, 1995. Director, Screenwriter, Producer. Master’s from Hantang Academy of Drama.

Her trajectory from 2015 to 2019 was stellar. If she hadn’t stopped, she likely would have been the most famous director of her generation. She watched Solitary City and could see the profound loneliness—perhaps even illness—reflected in her work. After that film, she had vanished from the public eye, only re-emerging in 2021 when her marriage was leaked.

Luo Luo said the “working from home” narrative was a cover story. In reality, Le Yiqiu was writing, but not scripts. She was writing novels.

Le Yiqiu found a familiar web-novel site on her phone. When she went to top up her account to read, she discovered she had a “Creator’s Dashboard.” Curiously, she clicked in and found a massive library of works.

Her first story was published in August 2014, the summer of her freshman year. Her portfolio was categorized by genre:

Mystery/Thriller: She Killed Herself, Natural Born Evil, The Saint in the Clouds…

Wuxia: The Absurd Jianghu, Uprooting the Conspiracy…

Miscellaneous/Dark Comedy: Self-Indulgence in the Second World, Death in the Mad Game, Village Doctor’s Guide: Don’t Walk at Night…

The titles in the “Dark Comedy” section made her mouth twitch. Her twenty-eight-year-old mental state had clearly been… questionable. She checked her pen name: Yi Yi.

The profile bio simply read: “Dying of laughter…” (2)

She searched the name and was floored. “Yi Yi” was a powerhouse author whose copyrights were worth a fortune. Even without her grandmother’s inheritance, she was a very wealthy woman in her own right.

I guess I’m just talented no matter what I do, she thought with a cheeky grin.

However, she noticed a shift. From 2019 onward, the core of her stories had become increasingly tragic. Some were “funny,” but it was the humor of a clown on a stage—desperately trying to make others laugh while their own life fell apart.

She wondered what happened in 2019. Had she locked herself in a “solitary city,” or had the world locked her in?

A dull throb in her head interrupted her thoughts. She put the phone down and closed her eyes to rest. The TV was still playing one of Lin Xianing’s movies, and she drifted off to the sound of her wife’s voice.

When she finally stirred, she felt a heavy, unidentifiable gaze fixed on her. She slowly opened her eyes and saw Lin Xianing sitting on the sofa, her head tilted slightly as if she had fallen asleep.

Was I imagining things?

Lin Xianing was still wearing makeup, looking like she’d come straight from a set. In interviews, she’d mentioned she hated wearing makeup in her personal life.

“Every case matches the entries in this notebook…” The TV dialogue snapped Le Yiqiu out of her daze. She fumbled for the remote and paused the movie.

The second the room went quiet, Lin Xianing spoke. “You’re awake?”

Her voice was as clear and perfectly modulated as her on-screen dialogue. Le Yiqiu blinked, looking at her with a smile. “Why are you here?”

Luo Luo had mentioned Lin Xianing was swamped with rehearsals for a play that was opening in a few days.

“I finished work early.”

In truth, she hadn’t. Luo Luo had told her that Le Yiqiu would be unattended today, so she’d begged for time off—a risky move so close to opening night.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Le Yiqiu said, her smile widening.

Lin Xianing looked away awkwardly. After a long silence, she said, “The doctor said you have amnesia.”

“I do.” Le Yiqiu saw no reason to hide it, especially from her. She didn’t know their history, but she knew Lin Xianing wanted a divorce. Perhaps amnesia could be her “extenuating circumstance.”

“Lin Xianing.”

Hearing her full name, the actress looked up.

Le Yiqiu looked her in the eye, her expression earnest. “Can we… not get a divorce?”

“What?” Lin Xianing was caught completely off guard.

She had spent the drive over wondering what to do. Le Yiqiu was missing ten years of her life—she had forgotten their entire history. In a situation like this, how were they supposed to move forward?

*******

(1) “White Moonlight” (Bai Yueguang) refers to an idealized, unattainable first love or a person who remains a beautiful memory.

(2) “Dying of laughter” (Le sile) is a pun on her surname, “Le” (which also means ‘happiness’ or ‘laughter’). It can mean “Extremely happy” or literally “Dying of laughter/Le is dead.”

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