It was a day of continuous spring rain.
Li Mengjue sneezed and jolted awake. A few drops of rain had drifted in through the window she’d forgotten to close, carrying a faint chill.
She felt dazed for a moment. Looking up at the clock on the studio wall, she realized she had inadvertently dozed off. She didn’t usually nap for long, but today was a rare day off, so she had indulged her laziness, lingering on the lounge chair for quite a while before finally getting up to shut the window.
She turned back to grab a blanket and her phone charger, then settled back into the chair. Unwrapping a peppermint candy, she began to scroll through her phone.
In vacation mode, Li Mengjue didn’t stay glued to her device, so quite a few messages had accumulated over the morning.
Friend A asked mysteriously if she’d heard the latest gossip about someone she “hated.”
Li Mengjue thought for a moment but couldn’t recall who she “hated.” In a sense, everyone was equal in her eyes; there were only friends and strangers. She rarely felt genuine hatred toward anyone.
She replied: “No. Who is it about?”
Friend A was likely busy and didn’t reply immediately. Li Mengjue continued scrolling.
Friend B sent info about an art exhibition three months away, asking if she wanted to go. It was near the location of her next film set. Li Mengjue said she’d check with her manager; if there were no other plans, she’d go. This was a polite excuse—just in case she ran into some unpleasant characters, she’d have room to back out.
As for the exhibition itself, she was interested. Whether it was the influence of the “plot” or not, she had shown extraordinary talent in painting since she was a child in this life.
She was a “womb transmigrator,” and her memories of her past life had only awakened in her teens. Aside from the messy plot points, it felt more like a normal reincarnation. Perhaps fate couldn’t stand her suffering so much in her youth and being dragged into a melodramatic “dog blood” plot, so it granted her an adult’s perspective when it came time to make life choices.
She didn’t gain superpowers, but being able to navigate her future with a mature mind was an advantage over her peers. In this life, she was a true “bottom-tier” poor person—no parents or relatives to rely on, and no wealthy biological parents appeared at the end of the story.
Her only stroke of luck was a kind guardian who brought her to the big city and covered her tuition and living expenses. But Li Mengjue didn’t take this for granted. For a poor person, pursuing art rarely yields quick returns, even for a genius. And she wasn’t quite that much of a genius.
She knew her limits. She wouldn’t focus on temporary hardships, nor would she despair if a “dream” went unfulfilled. She had already accepted her path and the potential troubles ahead.
In the original plot, the heroine gave up painting after graduation due to a “hand injury” and became a trophy wife, drifting through banquets as the pampered survivor of hardship. Li Mengjue couldn’t say if that’s what the original heroine wanted, but she knew it wasn’t the ending she wanted.
Once she switched to the entertainment industry, painting became her secret hobby. Only a few close friends knew, and at her request, they kept it quiet. They joked that she was too low-key, but she just hated trouble. Most of the “vicious supporting characters” in the original story were connected to the art world.
However, since the biggest “villainess” had also switched careers, maybe there was no need to be so guarded.
As she thought this, she clicked the next message and nearly choked.
Manager Sister Ling messaged: “Did you have any conflict with Miss Ruan at Director Jiang’s banquet?”
Li Mengjue bit down hard, crushing the peppermint. The cool flavor rushed through her nose, waking her up instantly. As she licked the shards, she caught a phantom taste of strawberry artificial flavoring.
She recalled her brief exchange with Miss Ruan and replied uncertainly: “I don’t think so.”
Though they had been in a corner that night, they weren’t invisible. Many people had noticed them together. Even if it was brief, Miss Ruan’s status was too unique.
I was careless, she thought. I should have tracked Miss Ruan’s movements and run the moment she headed my way.
She added: “Sister Ling, did something happen?”
Ling replied quickly: “Oh, nothing. Just asking.”
Li Mengjue: “…”
Sister Ling didn’t reply again. Based on her experience, “nothing” meant “something,” but not necessarily “bad.” Sister Ling just didn’t like to speak until things were certain.
Li Mengjue stared at her ellipses for a moment before closing the chat. She reached for another candy on the table.
When she put it in her mouth, she realized it was strawberry flavored again.
I must be cursed by Ruan Qingxiao today, she thought as she opened a new message.
Friend A was slacking at work to chat: “Don’t you remember that top female star who stole your role before?” “I just heard she offended Miss Ruan. She’s been kicked out of her latest variety show and film set. Plus, her old scandals—like being a mistress and bragging to the wife, causing a miscarriage—are all over the hot searches right now.” “Tsk tsk, although the wife came forward herself, the timing is a bit too coincidental, don’t you think?”
Li Mengjue checked the hot searches. Sure enough, the star’s name was all over the top ten.
“Top Star” was actually a sarcastic nickname. She couldn’t sing, dance, or act, but she was a master of hype and comment control. Her “surgically enhanced” face was constantly linked with keywords like “stunning” and “ethereal beauty.”
But that wasn’t why the industry hated her. It was her lack of professionalism, her diva behavior, and her habit of stepping on her co-stars to make herself look better. She had a terrible reputation, but she had a powerful sugar daddy. With his backing, showing up late, hogging the camera, and stealing roles were common occurrences.
Li Mengjue had been a victim once. Years ago, before she had her current standing, she was nominated for Best Actress just as she was kicked out of a production. The role she’d already signed for went to that “Top Star.”
The year the drama aired, Li Mengjue won awards for Best Lead and Best Supporting Actress elsewhere, while that drama was voted “Most Disappointing Series of the Year.” The reason was simple: the female lead’s acting was trash. Like a rat dropping in a pot of gold.
At the time, even though friends sympathized, they told Li Mengjue to let it go. The production even tried to frame her, saying she’d acted like a diva and bailed on them, forcing them to find a “last-minute replacement.”
Fortunately, Li Mengjue’s new company saw her potential and worked hard to suppress the rumors. Out of fear of the sugar daddy, they couldn’t attack the star directly, so they reached a private agreement with the production and used another excuse to clear her name.
To this day, some anti-fans still bring it up. It was the most suffocating moment of Li Mengjue’s career. At first, she lacked the backing to fight back; later, she rose so fast and high that engaging with such a hollow “idol” would have been beneath her.
When Li Mengjue won her second Best Actress award and became a superstar overnight, the people from that old drama apologized one by one, and the “Top Star” shut her mouth. They knew the difference between “dark popularity” and career suicide. They could only bully “nobodies.”
Li Mengjue didn’t hate her much. Paying too much attention to such people was a waste of energy. Since they weren’t in the same league, she didn’t follow her news—but that didn’t stop her friends from dragging her into the gossip.
Miss Ruan, however, wouldn’t care about a sugar daddy. If she was unhappy, the sugar daddy would have to bow and apologize. People had a stereotype that Miss Ruan was unapproachable, but she rarely used her privilege; she usually auditioned for roles like everyone else. (Though, given her habit of increasing sponsorships on a whim, productions naturally gave her priority.)
But this was the first time she had actively targeted someone to the point of forcing them out of the industry.
Li Mengjue didn’t mind the gossip, but seeing Miss Ruan’s name, her curiosity was instantly doused with cold water.
Friend A messaged at lightning speed, explaining the whole story: Apparently, the star happened to be in the same production as Miss Ruan. She was only supposed to have a cameo, but she kept demanding the writers add scenes until her screen time rivaled the lead’s.
When Miss Ruan saw the butchered script, she went straight to the director and demanded the extra scenes be cut—or the character removed entirely. Since the star’s sugar daddy was a major investor, the director hesitated.
In that gap, the star and Miss Ruan got into an argument. No one dared leak what was said, but the result was the star being kicked out and her scandals being leaked that night. Every contract she had was cancelled. Her dream of being a “Top Star” ended right there.
And Miss Ruan? She also quit the production.
Friend A concluded: “If she had half a brain, she could have stayed popular with those resources. Even a pig would be famous with that much marketing.” “Actually, pigs are cute. They’re easier to like than her.”
Li Mengjue smiled and replied: “You’re right. Pigs are indeed very cute.”
Friend C messaged next. She wasn’t an industry person but a freelance artist. They had met on a drawing app and became real-life friends. Unlike industry friends who were discreet, this friend loved “crackpot” analysis threads.
Friend C sent a link to a gossip forum and asked: “Do you think there’s a possibility that Miss Ruan was actually doing this to vent for you?