A Washed-up Movie Queen's Divorce Strategy [Rebirth] - Chapter 1

“The winner of the Best Actress award at this year’s Golden Statue Awards is…”

The drumbeat of the music suddenly accelerated, and spotlights flashed wildly. The heavily made-up host stood in the center of the stage, clutching a palm-sized card. After pausing for a full ten seconds, she finally read out that thrilling name.

“Han Xinyuan!”

The camera cut to another gorgeous, moving face. The woman rose with poise, nodding to those around her. Only after ensuring every guest and audience member was acknowledged did she leave her seat and walk onto the stage.

The presenter was Ming Lang. The camera gave a close-up of her hand as she held the trophy—her fingers were fair and slender, her nails trimmed to a perfect, rounded smoothness. She held the golden trophy and handed it to Han Xinyuan, who had been waiting on stage. As their eyes met, Ming Lang’s gaze was deep enough to drown a person.

The venue erupted. Excited fans screamed Han Xinyuan’s name, and the television broadcast amplified the rhythmic cheering a thousand times over, sending it straight into Ji Chenli’s ears.

Ji Chenli lay sideways on the sofa, clutching a wine bottle, looking at the TV with misty eyes. She was a bit drunk, and the images on the screen appeared increasingly hazy. However, Ming Lang’s hand had been magnified many times by the close-up. Ji Chenli had quietly observed those hands tens of thousands of times; every line was etched into her heart. She wanted to pretend she didn’t recognize them, but she couldn’t lie to herself.

Ji Chenli gave a drunken laugh, dazed as she pressed the bottle to her mouth. Perhaps because she was so far gone, the rim missed her mouth and nearly poked into her nostril. She adjusted the angle and finally managed to take a gulp.

The spicy, pungent liquid slashed through her throat like a knife, and her stomach burned with a fiery ache. Ji Chenli hugged the bottle and laughed, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes snaking into a mess of intersecting hollows.

She was no longer young. She was no longer the glorious Movie Queen of seven years ago. That’s just how the industry is: the new waves push the old ones forward, and Ji Chenli just happened to be the unlucky “old wave” who was slammed to death on the beach.

As Ji Chenli was laughing foolishly into her bottle, the front door of the living room was suddenly pulled open. A woman walked in. She cast a glance at Ji Chenli, who was slumped haphazardly on the sofa. Her brows furrowed slightly as she bypassed her, walking straight toward the stairs on the right. Just as her foot hit a step, she paused, turned around, and walked back to stand in front of Ji Chenli.

“You’ve had too much to drink.” Her voice was its usual flat tone, cold enough to drop ice shards—even the winter winds of the coldest lunar month were warmer than her.

Ji Chenli’s gaze followed the long legs wrapped in suit pants upward. The face that had appeared on the TV screen just minutes ago was now right before her eyes. The thin lips were slightly pursed, the features exquisitely identical, even down to the faint sharp edge between her brows.

“Want some?” Ji Chenli chuckled, lifting the bottle. “This stuff has a real kick.”

Ming Lang’s eyes flickered to the label on the bottle. 50% ABV Erguotou. It would be strange if it didn’t have a kick.

Ming Lang leaned over and snatched the bottle—which only had a little bit left—out of Ji Chenli’s hand. Without looking, she tossed it behind her. With a clatter, the bottle landed accurately in the trash can. “Go to sleep.”

Ji Chenli’s gaze moved past Ming Lang, looking longingly at the Erguotou in the trash. She stood up with unsteady steps, holding her dizzy forehead. After wobbling for a moment, she finally found her balance.

“Fine, sleep… let’s sleep…” She reached out, intending to lean on Ming Lang’s shoulder, but Ming Lang instinctively stepped aside to avoid her. Ji Chenli stumbled, her body pitching forward until she crashed onto the floor.

A flash of annoyance—or perhaps regret—seemed to cross Ming Lang’s eyes. She raised her hand as if to help Ji Chenli up, but she pulled it back halfway. She stood there like a wooden post, maintaining that same cold-faced, cold-hearted expression.

Ji Chenli knelt on the cold floor tiles, her stomach twisting in a searing, agonizing pain. She took several sharp, deep breaths. A metallic sweetness welled up in her throat, and a large mouthful of blood sprayed out uncontrollably. Mixed with stomach acid, it pooled on the floor, staining the high-end tiles that Ming Lang loved most. These floors had been styled by Han Xinyuan years ago; if a servant left a single speck of dust, Ming Lang would fly into a rage—let alone this.

Ji Chenli swallowed the remaining blood in her mouth, baring her blood-stained teeth in a desperate grin. Finally, she curled into a ball like a shrimp in the pool of blood and lost consciousness.

Stomach cancer. It had been diagnosed six months ago.

At that time, Ming Lang was thousands of miles away in a desert, accompanying Han Xinyuan on a film set. In the middle of summer, Ji Chenli had gone to the hospital alone to receive the diagnosis. Despite the scorching sun, she had hugged her arms, shivering with cold.

She had walked back. The former Movie Queen, who seven years ago could cause “empty streets” whenever she appeared, walked through the busy city without a single person recognizing her. The billboards and posters in every street and alley featured Han Xinyuan’s elegant, composed smile. Countless pairs of exquisitely painted eyes stared at her. Ji Chenli felt like a stray dog with nowhere to hide.

She thought back to those years—the year she and Ming Lang had just married, the year she first held the Best Actress trophy. It was a similar spectacle then: overwhelming advertisements and peak popularity. Even wearing masks, hats, and sunglasses in layers, people would still recognize her on the street.

When Ji Chenli woke up again, she was in the hospital. The walls were a sterile white and the smell of disinfectant was pungent—not even the luxury private rooms on the top floor were exempt.

“Why was she brought in for treatment so late? She’s already missed the window for optimal treatment.”

“Doctor, no matter the cost, you must cure her.”

“I will do my best, but I’m afraid two-thirds of her stomach will have to be removed…”

The door far from the bed was slightly ajar. Outside, two people were talking in low voices. Ji Chenli’s consciousness wasn’t fully clear, but she caught the gist of it. They seemed to be discussing her condition, though she didn’t particularly care herself.

Ji Chenli had lived a messy life. She had no parents, and her only friend had died years ago. The only remaining connection she had to the world was probably Ming Lang, and even that had long since become optional. To her, living or dying was just the difference between being able to move or not.

Ji Chenli loathed the smell of disinfectant. She sat up, ripped the IV needle from the back of her hand, and threw back the covers to get out of bed. Ming Lang and the doctor walked in one after the other, witnessing the scene.

“What are you doing?” Ming Lang asked with a frown.

In Ji Chenli’s memory, this woman rarely had a relaxed brow when they were together. She always looked as if she were carrying a deep, bitter grudge. To an outsider, they didn’t look like a legally married couple—they looked more like sworn enemies.

“Going home,” Ji Chenli said. “I’m not staying in the hospital.”

Ming Lang blocked her path. “No.”

Ji Chenli looked up at her.

They were about the same height, though Ji Chenli was perhaps a centimeter shorter than Ming Lang. Both were sharp-edged personalities with bad tempers. The young doctor stood between them, looking back and forth, shrinking his neck timidly. “Miss Ji, your illness requires observation…”

“I’m discharging myself!” Ji Chenli said again, her voice forceful and leaving no room for negotiation.

“No.” Compared to Ji Chenli’s burning rage, Ming Lang was clearly much calmer. The micro-expressions on her face were so few they were almost impossible to read. She was, after all, someone accustomed to the negotiation table; by standing perfectly still, her aura completely suppressed Ji Chenli’s.

Ji Chenli’s hands hung at her sides, nearly gripping the fabric of her hospital pants into shreds. After a few minutes of glaring at Ming Lang through gritted teeth, she finally backed down. Without a word, she returned to the bed and pulled up the covers.

Ming Lang’s tense face relaxed slightly, and the sharp edges in her gaze softened.

“You may leave first,” she said to the sweating doctor.

The doctor let out a sigh of relief as if a heavy burden had been lifted. He mumbled an affirmative and vanished like he had greased his heels.

The large ward fell silent. Ji Chenli and Ming Lang remained in a quiet standoff. After standing there for a while, Ming Lang walked to the bedside and chose her words carefully: “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Let’s get a divorce.”

Ji Chenli and Ming Lang spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping so much it was hard to tell who said what.

Ming Lang stared at Ji Chenli’s face. “What did you say?”

“Let’s get a divorce.” A weak arc formed at the corners of Ji Chenli’s pale mouth. Time had left too many marks on her face; she was like a pearl that had lost its luster, long stripped of the grace she once had.

“I don’t agree.”

“Ming Lang, look at me. I’m neither human nor ghost right now.” Ji Chenli touched her bloodless cheek, laughing at herself. “Ming Lang, I’ve followed you for seven years. Seven years. I’ve blocked every knife Han Xinyuan was supposed to take. You’re a person of ‘great mercy and righteousness’—at least give me a way out.”

Ji Chenli had never shown weakness in front of Ming Lang; every interaction had been “the tip of the needle against the edge of the blade.” But this time, she was truly weak. Her vitality and fighting spirit were withering at a visible speed, like a rose that had finished its bloom—the thorns on the stem had shriveled, and the petals would scatter completely with a single gust of wind.

Ming Lang stood by the bed, silent. She had rushed Ji Chenli to the hospital in a hurry, and a patch of Ji Chenli’s blood had stained the hem of her clothes. It had dried into a brownish hue, turning the flowing hem of her trench coat stiff and lifeless against her leg.

“You were the one who requested the marriage back then,” Ming Lang said.

“I regret it.” Ji Chenli’s smile was ruthless. “Ming Lang, if you have even a shred of humanity left, let me go. I don’t want a cent of your money. I only ask that you let me die with a little peace of mind.”

Ming Lang seemed quite averse to Ji Chenli mentioning the word “die.” Her expression finally wavered, and her brow furrowed. “You won’t die.”

Ji Chenli smiled and, for once, didn’t bother to argue.

Perhaps because she had been a “superior” for too long, Ming Lang actually naively believed she could control everything about another person. Even Ji Chenli herself couldn’t control life and death—could Ming Lang? What a joke.

“You won’t die.” Ming Lang paused, then added, “And you aren’t allowed to leave.”

Ji Chenli watched Ming Lang’s departing back, completely bewildered. Her marriage to Ming Lang had been nothing more than a one-sided contract. Now that her usefulness had long been exhausted, Ming Lang should have kicked her away without a second thought. Why was it that she was the one asking for a divorce, yet Ming Lang was the one refusing?