Morning light spilled mischievously through the gap in the curtains. Liang Yan was wrapped up in her blanket like a silkworm in its cocoon. After rolling around a few times on the bed, she finally stirred awake, her eyes half-open and groggy.
A dull ache lingered throughout her body—a quiet, persistent reminder of what had happened the night before.
She lay still under the covers, not reaching for her phone, not going back to sleep. Just staring blankly at the ceiling, mind full of all the R-rated moments from the night before.
Didn’t Jiang Mu say Lu Lincheng hardly ever came home? Weren’t all the fans just waiting for them to get divorced? Didn’t the whole internet already know their marriage was just for show?
Liang Yan threw back the covers and checked her body. Sure enough, there were red finger marks on her chest, and more near the tops of her thighs. A dull, swollen ache between her legs left no doubt about what had happened the night before.
Was this what a “fake marriage” was supposed to involve?
And he hadn’t even been the least bit gentle.
With no prior experience, Liang Yan had no way of judging whether last night’s… physicality… indicated a good or bad relationship between them. All she knew was that her cheeks burned as she recalled the memory. She burrowed back under the covers in embarrassment for a moment, then quickly got dressed and stepped out of the bedroom—only to find Lu Lincheng sitting at the dining table, elegantly having breakfast.
“I thought you were filming on set?” she asked, keeping her distance.
Lu Lincheng looked up. Her hair was a tangled mess from sleep, like a bird’s nest, and she’d clearly rushed out without fixing it.
“The director’s off his game,” he said. “Gave the whole crew a break.”
The director Lu Lincheng was working with was known in the industry as both brilliant and temperamental. After shooting just a few scenes, he suddenly declared he’d lost his creative spark and shut down filming for a couple of days to “regain his inspiration.” So, Lu Lincheng had ended up with a short break—and flew home.
“Oh,” Liang Yan nodded, trying her best to stay calm and poised. She walked over and pulled out a chair across from him, sat down, and cleared her throat seriously. “I have something to tell you.”
Lu Lincheng, still focused on his breakfast, replied lazily, “What is it? Go ahead.”
“It’s going to sound crazy, but… I’ve lost my memory. Not everything—just the last three years.”
Lu Lincheng: “…”
“It happened a few days ago. I got hit in the head by a lighting rig on set, and after that, I couldn’t remember anything from the past three years.”
Lu Lincheng slowly set down his utensils. He looked at the woman across from him—so earnest and certain—and whatever good mood he had left evaporated. His expression darkened with impatience. “Liang Yan, can you stop with this nonsense already?”
She could tell right away that he didn’t believe her. “I’m telling the truth!” she said, voice rising. “I really don’t remember anything!”
“So what?” Lu Lincheng leaned back, arms crossed, watching her flushed face. “You lost your memory and now want me to help you recover it or something?”
He frowned. “It’s been two years, Liang Yan. Aren’t you tired? I just don’t feel anything for you.”
Liang Yan didn’t react much to the first part of his response—but that last sentence? That one hit like a slap.
No feelings?
No feelings—then what the hell was last night?
Her pride as a woman flared. She shot up from her chair, voice sharp: “No feelings? Then why the hell did you sleep with me last night?!”
Lu Lincheng clearly hadn’t expected that reaction. He looked at her, stunned. “Who taught you to say that?”
“No one taught me,” she snapped, breathing heavily.
They were suddenly locked in a standoff, the air between them crackling with tension. Liang Yan planted her hands on the table, eyes fierce like a little wolf. “Let me make this clear: I don’t remember anything from before. Believe it or not—I really don’t care.”
Just as she turned to storm off, a thought suddenly struck her. Liang Yan spun back around, shot Lu Lincheng a cold smirk, and said, “No feelings, huh? Sorry to disappoint you—last night, I didn’t feel a damn thing either.”
Lu Lincheng’s face turned pitch-black, like the bottom of a burnt pan. It took him a long moment before he finally squeezed a single word through clenched teeth:
“F*ck.”
Fueled with adrenaline from the argument, Liang Yan stormed back into the bedroom—but deep down, she was very aware that she was just a physically weak woman. What if Lu Lincheng, humiliated and nursing a bruised ego, lost his temper and hit her? Just to be safe, she locked the door from the inside before letting herself breathe a little easier.
The first thing she did was dive under her pillow, grab her phone, and message Jiang Mu on WeChat:
“Lu Lincheng came home last night. He absolutely refused to believe I’ve lost my memory. So yeah… I think I just had a huge fight with him.”
“Pretty sure he wants to strangle me right now.”
“But not gonna lie—talking back to Lu Lincheng? That felt amazing.”
Jiang Mu hadn’t replied yet. Liang Yan held her phone, heart pounding. Her mood was already in the gutter ever since she found out that, despite being bumped up from a D-list to C-list celebrity thanks to her marriage, she still wasn’t getting any roles. And she hadn’t even complained about that! But this man—he slept with her one night and the very next morning said he had no feelings for her?
What did he take her for? A hookup? A blow-up doll?
The more she thought about it, the clearer her decision became: she couldn’t keep living in this apartment. Financially speaking, the property definitely wasn’t under her name, and now that they’d had a blowout, she had no reason to shamelessly stay here any longer. And if Lu Lincheng showed up out of nowhere again like last night—was she really going to let herself be a human-sized blow-up doll twice?
Luckily, she’d gotten back late last night and hadn’t even unpacked the suitcase she brought back from Gudong City. It still had all her clothes and daily essentials.
After waiting a while in her room, Liang Yan guessed Lu Lincheng had probably left. She quietly unlocked the door, tiptoed out, and found her suitcase.
She booked a room at a well-reviewed hotel through an app and got into a taxi. On the way there, Jiang Mu finally sent a long-overdue reply.
“…”
“………”
“………………”
A string of ellipses.
Liang Yan sent a voice message: “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jiang Mu replied, “If you go apologize to him right now, it might not be too late. I’m serious.”
Liang Yan sent back a rolling-eyes emoji. “Jiang Mu, I’m telling you, you can be missing a lot of things in life—but dignity is not one of them.”
Jiang Mu responded instantly: “I’m just worried that if your memory comes back one day, you’ll regret it.”
Liang Yan: “The only thing I’d regret is not giving him a harder time while I don’t remember.”
She exited the chat with Jiang Mu. Though she didn’t want to admit it, based on both Lu Lincheng and Jiang Mu’s reactions… it really did seem like the “old” Liang Yan wasn’t quite the same person she was now.
At the very least, the old her would’ve never dared argue with Lu Lincheng.
But so what? Liang Yan wrinkled her nose defiantly. She wasn’t even a casual fan of his anymore—she’d officially gone from fangirl to full-on anti.
More importantly, though, she needed to figure out when she’d finally land her next acting gig.
Jiang Mu was a good guy, but when it came to being a manager, he was… well, not great. Still, he was doing double duty as both assistant and agent—it was hard to blame him.
Since she couldn’t really count on Jiang Mu, she had no choice but to rely on herself. Sitting in the taxi, Liang Yan did a thorough audit of her current situation. The biggest reason she wasn’t getting work? Terrible public image. No one wanted to see Lu Lincheng’s wife on their TV screen.
Meanwhile, all the popular actresses with great reputations—what made them so likable, anyway?
She holed up in the rental for two full days, scrolling endlessly through Weibo, Baidu forums, and every celebrity gossip site imaginable. Eventually, she came to a conclusion: if a female celeb wanted to make it big these days, she needed a persona.
It wasn’t a new concept—three years ago, some actresses were already leaning into it. But the whole “public persona” trend really took off during the three years Liang Yan had forgotten.
There were countless ready-made personas female celebs could adopt: the tomboy, the foodie, the gamer girl, the natural beauty, the bare-faced goddess, the blunt queen, the top student, the lovable ditz… every combination had already been taken. Anything she tried now would feel stale—been there, done that.
As Liang Yan scrolled through more posts, a trend jumped out: thanks to the recent surge of couple-based reality shows, the most in-demand persona among married female celebs was “someone’s wife.” Like: the “clueless wife,” the “super capable wife,” the “buddy-wife,” and so on.
But Liang Yan knew full well that, while she was married, that particular route was absolutely out of the question. Other couples were sweet, loving, and received blessings from fans. If she dared to show up in public under the title “Lu Lincheng’s wife,” fans would eat her alive.
She rubbed her temples, already feeling a headache coming on. Still, before going to bed, she made a half-hearted attempt at being active online and posted a casual selfie on Weibo. As expected, the likes and comments barely trickled in.
Out of habit, she opened the trending Weibo super topic: #DidLuLinchengGetDivorcedToday. Still ranked number one in the emotional gossip section. The hot topic of the day? “When will this third-rate actress let Lu Lincheng be single again?”
[Does Liang Yan have any self-awareness? She’s been clinging to Lu Lincheng for two years now.]
[Not gonna lie, I get why people say she’s pretty. Why not just act? Why spend all her time chasing after Lu Lincheng?]
[Lu Lincheng is just too soft-hearted. He doesn’t have the heart to cut her off completely. Sigh, tragic.]
One particularly lively comment thread caught her eye:
[If Liang Yan would just let Lu Lincheng go, I’d promo her for three straight years—no matter how bad her shows are, I’d still tune in.]
[Honestly, if she’d stop clinging to Lu Lincheng, I’d even consider stanning her!]
[Seconded.]
[+10086]
[+My ID number]
After scrolling through the plaza for a while, Liang Yan finally exited the app. The identity crisis she’d been struggling with these past few days suddenly felt a little less muddled. She opened WeChat and sent a message to Jiang Mu:
“I think… if I go with a ‘heartbroken ex-wife’ persona, it might actually blow up.”
***