The atmosphere in the waiting lounge turned heavy, the air thick with anticipation.
The other actresses waiting for their turn glanced between Bai Chenxi and Zhao Qian, their eyes gleaming with the excitement of spectators about to witness a spectacle.
Chenxi's lips curved in the faintest, humorless smile. Of course. Zhao Qian would never pass up a chance to press her down. If Zhao Qian was here, it meant this S+ role was already her target—and that she had known from the start Chenxi would be coming.
"What's the matter? Is this role yours alone? Am I not allowed to audition?" Chenxi's voice was cool, detached. She walked calmly to an empty chair and sat, not even sparing Zhao Qian a glance.
That indifference was a blade sharper than mockery. Zhao Qian's smile stiffened, her pride stung. But with others watching, she forced her mask back on, her tone pitched deliberately loud so everyone could hear:
"Of course you can audition. I was just… concerned for you." Her false warmth dripped like poison. "It's been ages since you last acted. Jumping straight into such a big production—won't the pressure be too much? And…" She let the words linger, her smile widening. "I heard your family has a bit of a 'special situation.' Can you really handle both?"
The words—special situation—were weighted, barbed, meant to hint at her child.
A murmur rippled through the room. Every ear strained, eager to catch the unfolding gossip.
Chenxi's fingers stilled on the script. Slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes locked onto Zhao Qian's with icy precision, cold as an arrow.
"No need for your concern. My private life is mine to manage," she said evenly. Then her tone sharpened, each word like a needle. "But you—if your acting skills were half as strong as your talent for scheming and backstabbing, this role wouldn't even need an audition. They'd hand it to you outright."
The blow landed clean.
Zhao Qian's smile cracked, her face paling, fury flaring for an instant before she forced it back under control.
"You—!" she hissed, but before she could lash out, the door opened.
"Next up, Bai Chenxi," a staff member called, polite but firm.
Chenxi rose smoothly. As she passed Zhao Qian, she leaned ever so slightly closer, her voice low, for her rival's ears alone:
"Zhao Qian. What's mine, I will take back—one piece at a time. Everything you stole from me… I'll reclaim it with my own hands."
She didn't bother to watch Zhao Qian's expression collapse. Her spine straight, her steps steady, she walked into the audition hall as though she owned the stage.
The setup inside was worlds apart from her last audition.
A long table was lined with producers, the director, the scriptwriter, and several senior executives from Xingyao Media. The scale, the formality, the pressure—it was all on a different level.
Chenxi exhaled, shutting out every distraction. She became the role.
Today's audition piece was Princess Huayang—a woman torn between loyalty and survival, crushed beneath the weight of her fallen dynasty, yet rising from despair like a phoenix.
The parallels to her own life were uncanny.
Her performance carried no artifice. Instead of polish, it bore raw truth. Her delivery came from her very soul—layered, anguished, and unyielding.
The highlight was a scene atop the city walls, where the princess watched her homeland collapse. A single blood-streaked tear slid down her cheek, yet she stood tall, spine unbending, refusing to kneel.
The silence that followed was electric.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then, as though struck by the same realization, the director and producer exchanged glances—surprise and admiration written plainly in their eyes. This was no "washed-up scandal actress." This was a performer reborn.
Applause erupted, firm and genuine.
Chenxi lowered her head, breathing hard, her body trembling faintly from the intensity of the scene. When she lifted her gaze again, Li Sijue's chair was empty—he hadn't attended this audition. But the weight of his shadow lingered.
The director leaned forward, his expression full of respect. He whispered rapidly with the producer beside him, both nodding.
Just as relief began to stir in Chenxi's chest, a new voice cut through the air.
From further down the table, a man with a severe face and rimless gold glasses—the Xingyao executive—spoke up.
"Miss Bai's performance is… powerful," he acknowledged. His eyes were sharp, his tone deliberate. "However, we have received certain… reports about your personal background. Negative information. That could pose a risk to the project's reputation. Do you have anything you'd like to say in response?"
Every gaze in the room shifted back to her.
The stage lights blazed. Silence pressed in.
And once again—Bai Chenxi stood at the edge of a cliff, forced to fight for her life.