Why Does The "Fishing Queen" Always Flirt With Me? - Chapter 25

Tang Wangyue’s intuition was correct; it was indeed a “training” session. However, she had no evidence; on the surface, Yun Chuxian remained perfectly professional.

Chuxian reviewed her three primary scenes. “For the scene where you ride out of the city, you have to stop and look back. Your eyes need to show the lingering attachment to the Eldest Princess, mixed with the absolute resolve to help her.”

“Your life, your soul, your everything belongs to me. You are the Eldest Princess’s most loyal dog.”

“We don’t have a horse here, so just try to tap into that feeling.”

Wangyue tried to visualize it. The woman before her was the object of her total allegiance—her Master. She was leaving, likely never to see her again. She tried to conjure that specific emotion.

But she couldn’t. Her expression remained slightly dazed and blank.

Chuxian chuckled softly. “Fantasy is hollow without a foundation. You need to think of a specific person, or the thing you’re most afraid of losing—how it feels at the very moment it’s about to slip away.”

Chuxian’s gentle voice flowed into her heart like a steady stream. The initial helplessness of trying to learn something new began to dissolve.

“Loss…”

Wangyue thought about the things she had lost. She was the type who fought for what she wanted; if she still couldn’t have it after trying her best, she simply accepted it wasn’t meant for her. Because of this, she didn’t usually dwell on loss.

If she had to name the things that hurt the most… it was the puppy that was sent away to pressure her mother into having a son. Or the moments when her “scumbag” father used violence and she thought she was going to lose her mother. Or perhaps, the quiet girl she met one winter; she hadn’t even gotten to see her one last time before she moved abroad. Even the slip of paper with that girl’s phone number had long since vanished.

When her father kicked her and her mother out, he had snatched her coat away in the dead of winter. Standing in the sub-zero temperatures wearing only a sweater, huddled in her mother’s arms, she knew she would never get that scrap of hope back.

Wangyue’s eyes slowly began to change. They shifted from contemplation to memory, then to longing and pain. Finally, only a deep, hollow sadness remained. Her gaze jumped across time and space, seeing people and things that had long since departed from her world.

“Yue.” Chuxian caught her hand. Seeing Wangyue filled with such overwhelming sorrow made Chuxian’s heart ache.

If Wangyue was a fish stranded on the sand, Chuxian was the wave desperately trying to pull her back into the deep, yet somehow unable to reach her. A feeling of suffocation washed over Chuxian, and she instinctively gripped Wangyue’s hand tighter. She couldn’t bear to see her in pain.

When Wangyue came back to herself, she saw the raw concern in Chuxian’s eyes. Her heart fluttered with a touch of emotion, and a faint smile appeared on her face. “I’m okay. I finally understand why some actors find it so hard to get out of character. Emotional immersion makes it impossible to tell what’s reality and what’s a performance.”

Some actors are brilliant at crying scenes early in their careers but become “fake” later on. It’s often because they run out of genuine sorrow to draw from; once you think about a sad memory too many times, it loses its sting. As people age and become more detached, their emotional well of tragedy dries up.

But “immersion” acting means peeling back the most painful parts of one’s heart over and over again—keeping the wounds bloody to keep the emotions rich.

Chuxian, being classically trained, understood this. One could use technique, or a blend of technique and genuine feeling. For a non-professional like Wangyue, emotion was the only tool she had. The process was grueling, and Chuxian suddenly felt a wave of regret. Had she made a mistake by making Wangyue play Xia Liang?

She had only wanted more time together, but seeing Wangyue this sad made her heart break.

“I can tell the Director that you don’t have the talent for acting and ask her to find someone else,” Chuxian said softly. “Don’t worry about the contract penalties; she won’t mind.”

She didn’t want Wangyue to have to dig into her soul just for a role. It was too much.

Wangyue didn’t care. The past was the past; it was just sadness. If she felt it a few more times, maybe it would finally fade into nothingness. And once a memory faded, it could no longer hurt her. When her father had confronted her recently, she had trembled physically—a trauma that boxing and distance couldn’t fix. Perhaps the only way to heal was to keep reopening the wound until it became a scar that no longer bled.

“No need. I think I’m starting to like this feeling.”

This feeling of digging into the wound until it went numb—the pain was actually a bit refreshing.

Chuxian lowered her eyes, beginning to understand Wangyue’s perspective. “Alright. Then we continue.”

“Yeah.”

They rehearsed the scene again and again until the city exit scene was finally perfected.

The second scene was the one where he calls her Master, but Chuxian decided to skip to the third: “Treat me as the King. Make me fall for you willingly… then kill me.”

Wangyue paused. We’re doing this one now? She felt a small sense of relief that she didn’t have to kneel and yell “Master” repeatedly yet. It was too embarrassing. However, looking at the script, the interaction between Xia Liang and the King wasn’t exactly “innocent” either.

In The Eldest Princess, the romance was concentrated on the minor supporting characters. Xia Liang kneels by the King’s side; the King pours wine into his mouth, letting it spill everywhere. Xia Liang endures the humiliation to lower the King’s guard, then uses a shard of glass to slit his throat. It required a nuanced performance to show the character’s internal struggle.

Chuxian sat on the sofa, using a glass of mineral water on the coffee table as a prop. She hooked her finger under Wangyue’s chin and commanded coldly, “Kneel!”

Wangyue obeyed instantly, her face a mask of fear and submission. “My King.”

“Do you kneel like this before that woman as well?” Chuxian’s hand slid from her chin down to her throat, suddenly tightening. If Xia Liang said a single word out of turn, she would snap his neck.

At the mention of the Eldest Princess, Xia Liang remained silent—an act that infuriated the King.

Chuxian gripped Wangyue’s neck, forcing her head back. She pried her mouth open and poured the water in. “Just say the word, and I can give you a life of luxury.”

A moment later, Chuxian pressed her forehead against Wangyue’s. Her fragrant breath fanned against Wangyue’s nose, giving her a true sense of the phrase “breath like an orchid.”

King or no King, the woman in front of her was Yun Chuxian. At this distance, it was impossible for Wangyue not to have “inappropriate” thoughts.

Yet, whether by accident or design, every time Chuxian spoke, her lips seemed to ghost against Wangyue’s, a light touch that sent a fever through her blood.

Wangyue felt an all-consuming impulse to just lean in and kiss her. But she was terrified that if she did, she’d be met with a slap and a furious Yun Chuxian.

Suddenly, Chuxian’s lips parted, and a seductive, ambiguous voice whispered, “Silly girl… aren’t you going to kiss me yet?”

Was her seduction really that subtle?

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