As expected, Zeng Qianqian called that evening to apologize.
Li Mengjue had just finished dinner with her friend, Yu Siqing, who lived in the same complex. They were taking a stroll along the riverbank to help digestion when the conversation inevitably drifted toward the news of the recast.
Yu Siqing rubbed her chin thoughtfully, arriving at the same conclusion as Friend C: “Miss Ruan is definitely coming for you. I bet that fight with the top star and her leaving the other production was all calculated.”
Suddenly, she slapped her palm. “She must have a secret crush on you!”
Li Mengjue’s hand tightened instinctively, snapping a willow branch clean off.
“Can we change the subject?” Li Mengjue asked, her voice faint and weary.
“…” Yu Siqing glanced at the mangled branch, quietly dropped the dangerous topic, and turned her gaze toward a nearby thicket. “I think I heard a cat.”
They paused. Indeed, the faint, weak cries of a kitten drifted out.
“Sounds like a small one,” Li Mengjue said, following her gaze.
As they took a couple of steps toward the bushes, Li Mengjue’s phone suddenly rang. The rustling noise startled the stray cat; it gave a final cry and vanished into the darkness.
Yu Siqing stopped and looked back. Li Mengjue pulled out her phone and saw the caller ID: Zeng Qianqian. She wasn’t surprised.
Yu Siqing gestured that she would check for the cat’s nest and crouched down to crawl into the bushes. She had mentioned before that she wanted to “kidnap” a kitten from the neighborhood. Li Mengjue thought the pose looked rather undignified as she pressed the answer button.
“Qianqian?” Li Mengjue’s tone was as gentle as ever.
“…Senior,” Zeng Qianqian whispered, her voice thick with guilt and unease. “About… about that role…”
“I heard,” Li Mengjue said. “Don’t take it to heart. Director Shen is an excellent director. You’ll learn many useful things working with her.”
“Senior, I’m so sorry.” Zeng Qianqian sounded like she was on the verge of tears.
Her guilt didn’t stem from choosing the better opportunity, but from her silence. She should have told Li Mengjue sooner, but she had hesitated because she wasn’t sure if she’d pass the movie audition. Once she got the notification, she worried Li Mengjue would be angry. So, she procrastinated until she could hide it no longer.
Li Mengjue wasn’t angry; in fact, she offered a few words of comfort. It would be a waste to pass up such a great opportunity. What she didn’t say was that if a certain someone was determined to get a role, they could have pushed Zeng Qianqian out easily without bothering to arrange a new resource for her.
Zeng Qianqian likely knew this too. She wasn’t foolish enough to refuse the movie, but rather took the initiative to grab the chance. Getting a massive compensation package on top of it was a win—Li Mengjue almost wanted to praise Miss Ruan for being such a “philanthropist.”
Since the root of the matter was Ruan Qingxiao, Li Mengjue didn’t vent her frustration on Zeng Qianqian. After a long session of comforting her, Zeng Qianqian ended up sobbing loudly on the other end of the line.
No matter how many times Li Mengjue said “It’s okay” or “Don’t worry about it,” it was no use. Finally, she had to sigh and wait quietly for the girl to finish crying before ending the call.
Yu Siqing emerged from the bushes with leaves in her hair and empty hands. The nest was deserted.
“Bring some sausages tomorrow,” Yu Siqing said once the phone was away. “Tsk, now I actually feel a bit sorry for your little junior.”
“Why sorry?” Li Mengjue asked. “She got a better opportunity, and I don’t blame her.”
They walked toward a convenience store. Neither of them usually ate sausages, so they didn’t have any at home.
“It might not be the ‘best’ choice; it’s just the conflict between ideals and reality,” Yu Siqing remarked. “If she were a wealthy heiress, maybe she would have rejected the movie audition outright.”
“The reality is that she isn’t,” Li Mengjue countered. “One has to be practical. Only heiresses with no financial worries can afford to talk about ‘dreams’.”
Yu Siqing looked at her, the look of pity on her face becoming more pronounced—though it wasn’t for Li Mengjue.
“You’re truly not angry at all?” Yu Siqing asked.
“Why should I be?”
“You worked so hard to get her the role, gave her private lessons to meet the director’s standards… even if someone wanted to trade roles with her, she should have told you immediately. If my friend kept me in the dark until the last possible second, I’d be furious,” Yu Siqing said seriously.
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that to you,” Li Mengjue comforted. “Didn’t I tell you about this immediately?”
“And recommending her was just a favor,” Li Mengjue continued. “She fit the image and the acting requirements. She was high-quality and affordable, which saved the director from pulling her hair out.”
“You really don’t care,” Yu Siqing murmured, finally convinced her friend wasn’t just putting on a brave face. “Now I think your junior is even more pitiful.”
“What?” Li Mengjue didn’t catch the last part.
“She probably would have preferred to see you angry,” Yu Siqing said.
Li Mengjue thought for a moment. “But I’m truly not angry.”
Yu Siqing hit the nail on the head: “You just don’t care about her that much.”
No care, no expectations—subconsciously, Li Mengjue even expected people to act selfishly. That’s why she couldn’t be angered.
Li Mengjue had a wonderful temperament; she held a level of tolerance for the world that exceeded normal imagination—or one could call it “extreme negativity.” To her, if things or people were bad, it was fine, because that was simply their nature. She might complain for a moment, but it would pass.
She didn’t hold grudges and rarely disliked anyone. To a stranger, she was the perfect person to get along with. But to someone who loved her or wanted to be special to her, this personality was pure torture.
Yu Siqing had known her for years before barely becoming a “slightly special” friend. She didn’t even know what part of her had moved Li Mengjue enough to be included in that circle.
Yu Siqing was often glad she was “stubbornly straight.” Watching the men and women who chased after Li Mengjue over the years, she felt nothing but deep sympathy. Confessing to a telephone pole might elicit a more spirited reaction than Li Mengjue’s response.
It wasn’t that she was coldly rejecting people. She was too nice, too easy-going. No matter what you said, she would sincerely praise you or say it was okay. That gentleness eroded any courage to test the waters further. Many admirers ended up feeling inexplicably inferior and timid in her presence.
“But, this is actually quite good,” Yu Siqing added after a moment. “Trying to test someone’s bottom line is annoying anyway. Being a beautiful block of wood at least makes you immune to that kind of emotional damage.”
Li Mengjue: “…” Was that a compliment or an insult?
Li Mengjue’s plan to “fake a terminal illness” ultimately failed. Or rather, she didn’t have time to execute it.
If it were just about profit, Li Mengjue could have taken a much better role. She had actually lowered her pay for this contract; otherwise, this small production couldn’t have afforded her.
The real reason she took the role was the script: a criminal investigation drama told entirely from a female perspective. The main storyline was adapted from a real-life case posted by a victim on a forum. After seeing a post about wanting to adapt that case into a show, she coincidentally received the script from Director Li.
She didn’t do it for awards, fame, or money. One could say it was to return a favor to Director Li, but that wasn’t the main reason.
Li Mengjue was usually easy-going and followed her manager’s lead, but once she set her mind on something, even Sister Ling couldn’t force her. And since Li Mengjue was reliable, her stubbornness usually led to good decisions.
So, despite the “Ruan Qingxiao Incident,” Li Mengjue regained her composure after a brief breakdown. It wouldn’t be right to quit now. She could only hope that Miss Ruan was a professional.
The remaining problem was how to interact with her. Usually, Li Mengjue would contact her co-stars months in advance to discuss the script. With Ruan Qingxiao, she displayed late-stage procrastination.
With only half a month left before filming, she still hadn’t contacted her. Maybe seeing her on set is fine, she thought. At least Miss Ruan is known for being professional while filming.
Amidst this back-and-forth hesitation, the first heavy rain of early summer arrived.
On this day, Li Mengjue picked up two cats—and one Ruan Qingxiao.