“Of course, I reject you.”
That was the line Li Mengjue said in her heart.
But looking at Ruan Qingxiao, who was waiting for an answer with such agonizing tension, the words that actually came out of her mouth were different:
“That depends on your performance.”
It wasn’t a flat-out rejection, which meant she still had a chance. Ruan Qingxiao breathed a small sigh of relief, forcibly suppressing the slight disappointment in her heart—this result was already much better than she had expected. At least Li Mengjue didn’t hate her so much that she never wanted to see her again.
So, Ruan Qingxiao nodded obediently and said seriously, “I will perform well!”
“Ah… that’s not really necessary.” Li Mengjue avoided her gaze. “You just need to take care of yourself and work hard once we join the film crew.”
Ruan Qingxiao understood the subtext and promised, “I will do my best not to cause trouble for others.”
Li Mengjue twirled a strand of hair around her finger, feeling a bit troubled. “That’s not exactly what I meant… Never mind. Just recover well for now and look over the script when you’re free.”
The look in Ruan Qingxiao’s eyes suggested that no matter what demand Li Mengjue made right now, she would obey immediately.
“Anyway, that’s that,” Li Mengjue sighed inwardly.
“Just that?” Ruan Qingxiao pressed.
“Yes.” Li Mengjue nodded.
As long as it didn’t affect their upcoming work. Once the drama was finished filming, even if Miss Ruan hadn’t recovered her memory, she would likely realize what her true feelings were. This current state… it was probably a bit of “baby bird syndrome.” She saw Li Mengjue the moment she woke up, and she happened to already harbor a certain level of admiration for her.
Li Mengjue remembered Ruan’s amnesia again. She could somewhat relate to the feeling of memory confusion, and Ruan’s case was probably more severe than her own had been. At the end of the day, she was just a young woman in her early twenties.
Even though she was the “villainous supporting actress” in the plot, even in the story, she didn’t start off as a lunatic who lashed out at everyone. She only turned down the path of obsessive madness because she couldn’t stand her fiancé being stolen.
Li Mengjue had no intention of stealing any fiancé. Even if Ruan wanted her role, she would likely just hand it over to avoid conflict. Furthermore, Ruan hadn’t done that. Instead, she had gone to great lengths just to secure a chance to work with her.
Current Ruan Qingxiao is a fan.
It wasn’t a bad thing to maintain a relatively good relationship with a co-star during production. Li Mengjue thought it over and finally let go of the last bit of her reservation.
She stayed at the hospital until late afternoon. During that time, she didn’t just play on her phone; she pulled out the script and personnel files Assistant Zheng had brought.
Zheng had already circled the names of people in the industry who were on relatively good terms with Ruan. They didn’t plan on making the amnesia public, and luckily, Ruan had very few close acquaintances in the circle. In the upcoming crew, most people were just casual acquaintances she’d met a few times. As long as she remembered their names and titles, she could easily fake it.
The few actual “friends” would require more effort to memorize—their personalities, traits, and past collaborations. But there was no rush. Ruan usually didn’t participate in extra activities during filming and didn’t have a habit of socializing, so she wouldn’t necessarily run into those people soon.
Li Mengjue gave Ruan a brief overview of the film crew.
Director Li came from a screenwriting background and was still a newcomer to directing. She didn’t have a signature masterpiece yet, but her skill as a writer was solid. Rumor had it she became a director because she couldn’t stand actors blindly changing her lines. Consequently, there were rumors that she was rigid and a bit sharp-tongued.
However, for those who had actually worked with her, the opposite was true. Director Li loved discussing the plot and character settings with actors and would modify lines based on the situation—provided the actor’s suggestions were reasonable. She just couldn’t stand actors changing lines to steal scenes or because they didn’t understand the character.
Unfortunately, Director Li lacked financial backing and a proven track record. In this distorted era where “traffic” (popularity) was king, she had encountered her fair share of arrogant, talentless actors who used marketing to trample others while playing the victim. After being burned a few times, she began choosing “cost-effective” actors—newcomers and nobodies who were cheap and had good attitudes.
Someone like Li Mengjue, who was both talented and professional, was Director Li’s dream collaborator. Unfortunately, she was usually too expensive. To maintain absolute creative control, the director often had to reject sponsors who wanted to shove “garbage” into the production.
The result? They were broke.
The original plan was to film on a remote island for this very reason. Even so, many props and sets were simplified to the extreme. Director Li had even considered trimming the script further. Insufficient budget; it was a last resort.
Miss Ruan’s additional sponsorship was like mana from heaven. If it were any other sponsor, Director Li might have hesitated, but Ruan Qingxiao’s reputation in the acting world was almost as good as Li Mengjue’s. She was another dream collaborator. Lately, the director had been working overtime every day to revise the script, hire more staff, and upgrade the props and sets.
As the “saving grace” and the second female lead, Director Li would surely want to put Miss Ruan on a pedestal. Given Ruan’s historically serious attitude toward acting, they must have discussed the script changes extensively in private.
Too bad Ruan had forgotten everything. Luckily, some of the chat logs remained, and Assistant Zheng had brought the latest script.
“The other actors probably won’t have much contact with you, but you should learn more about Director Li,” Li Mengjue said, placing the director’s file in front of Ruan. “I don’t know what you two talked about, but looking at the previous script versions should give you an idea. We can get our stories straight before we join the crew. If anyone asks about the plot and you’re unsure, you can blame it on me.”
Ruan Qingxiao nodded seriously. “I’ve already read the latest version of the script.”
Li Mengjue was surprised. “So fast?” It had only been sent over yesterday.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Ruan continued, “so I finished it in bed.”
Li Mengjue looked at her eyes; they were still a bit swollen from crying earlier, so she hadn’t noticed the fatigue. “Did you eventually fall asleep?”
“Yes,” Ruan said. “Around 3:00 AM.”
“You need to rest when you’re sick.” Li Mengjue checked the time and put the files away. “There’s no rush. Ten days is plenty of time to memorize the basics. You have a follow-up exam tomorrow; if you don’t sleep well, they might not let you leave.”
Time flies when you’re busy. It was already evening. The caregiver knocked on the door to ask what she wanted for dinner. VIP rooms had their own small kitchens where you could order specific dishes, or you could opt for the nutritionist-designed patient meals. Ruan had been sticking to the light patient meals.
It was time for Li Mengjue to go. Aside from a quick lunch break and a trip home to feed the cats, she had spent the entire day at the hospital.
“Sister Li,” Ruan called out, her voice full of reluctance.
“…” Li Mengjue paused mid-rise, then sat back down. “I’ll wait until you finish dinner before I go.”
“Stay and eat here,” Ruan suggested. “Sister Li lives alone, right? Ordering takeout isn’t healthy, and cooking for yourself is a hassle.” She actually wanted to ask if Li Mengjue would stay the night, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She was afraid of rejection, afraid of appearing too pushy.
Li Mengjue seemed to sense it. “I have to go back to feed the cats in a bit.”
Ruan gave a disappointed “oh,” but was happy when Li Mengjue agreed to stay for dinner.
Ruan Qingxiao ate very slowly. Part of it was her lack of appetite, but mostly she wanted Li Mengjue to stay longer. Li Mengjue saw right through the little scheme but said nothing, simply slowing her own pace to match.
Ruan stole a glance at her, feeling happy but also strangely bittersweet. Is this tenderness for me, or is Sister Li just naturally this kind to everyone?
No matter how slowly they ate, the simple meal eventually ended. By the time the caregiver cleared the dishes, the last light of the sunset was fading. Li Mengjue finally had to leave.
Ruan Qingxiao returned to the bed and said a reluctant “Goodbye.” She stared intently as Li Mengjue walked toward the door. What she really wanted to say was: Can you take me home too?
“Sister Li,” Ruan couldn’t help but call out again. “Remember to come early tomorrow… tomorrow morning.”
Li Mengjue nodded. “Okay.”
She stepped out and closed the door, blocking Ruan’s face from view. Li Mengjue should have felt relieved, but as she walked through the corridor, an unbidden image popped into her mind—
It was like a puppy sitting in a cardboard box with “Please Adopt Me” written on the side, wagging its tail expectantly as she walked past.
When did Miss Ruan get so good at playing the “pathetic” card? What a terrifying woman, Li Mengjue thought silently.