The Movie Queen Always Wants to Kiss Me - Chapter 51 - Cheng Muye, Let’s Be Together

Cheng Muye’s premonition had been right.

In the next instant, Tang Anhe leaned close, her lips brushing against her ear, and whispered, “Cheng Muye, let’s be together.”

Her eyes widened, a spark of disbelief and joy lighting them. Her heart thudded wildly, each beat pounding so fiercely it seemed it might burst, the rhythm loud enough to make her ears ring.

“Wh-what did you just say?”

Her voice trembled, caught between nervousness and excitement.

Tang Anhe’s chest swelled with pride and elation. Rarely had she seen her so flustered, so completely undone by a single phrase. Any lingering irritation over her own boldness vanished in an instant. This was it. She would be with Cheng Muye. She was so extraordinary, and to have her wholehearted devotion—that, she realized, was a kind of fulfillment and happiness few ever experienced.

Yet she was still too naive. She hadn’t yet grasped that loving someone sometimes meant standing against the entire world.

Squatting down to meet her gaze, her eyes steady and solemn, Tang Anhe repeated, deliberate and heartfelt. “Cheng Muye, let’s be together.”

The words fell into the quiet room like the sweetest music, a promise forged in the depths of her heart.

“Click, click—”

From a shadowed corner of the corridor, a plump man’s head peeked out. The faint, almost imperceptible shutter of a camera clicked, unnoticed by anyone caught in the moment.

Lost in bliss, Cheng Muye pulled Tang Anhe into her arms and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Tang Anhe, I heard you. You said we’re together. You can’t go back on your word.”

“Go back on what? I’m not a child. I don’t break promises.”

“Mm, remember what you said.”

Before they could savor the moment further, a pair of firm footsteps approached.

Song Qiluo stormed into the room, seizing Tang Anhe by the shoulders. Her voice cut through the air like a whip. “Have you lost your mind? What gives you the right to pull and hug her in public? My mother is still inside. Are you trying to drive her to her grave?”

The patient came first, so Tang Anhe dared not argue. She bit back her words, lips pressed tightly together, and stepped aside.

Cheng Muye wheeled past her, reaching out to take her hand and guide her into the ward.

Song Qiluo followed closely behind. Her gaze locked onto their interlaced fingers, her brow furrowed, her expression taut with unease. In that moment, she understood the gravity of the situation. Cheng Muye was her greatest obstacle, the one destined to unravel everything she had carefully planned.

What should she do?

Song Qiluo rubbed at her temples, sinking into troubled thought.

Inside the Ward.

An Shanghua sat in silence, her eyes fixed on the young woman in the wheelchair.

Dressed in a crisp white blouse and a plaid cotton-linen skirt, Cheng Muye exuded a quiet elegance. Her short, neatly cropped hair brushed her ears, adding a playful touch to her refined appearance. With her sharp yet spirited features, she was strikingly beautiful—handsome in a way that stood out.

Too bad she was a woman.

While An Shanghua studied her with veiled scrutiny, Cheng Muye was observing her in return. Strictly speaking, this was not their first meeting. Two years earlier, while serving as Tang Anhe’s agent, she had seen An Shanghua at several industry gatherings, though they had never exchanged words.

“Ms. An, hello. I’m Cheng Muye.”

“I’ve heard much about you.”

“I understand your health has been poor. Coincidentally, my family has some fine ginseng. I brought it in hopes it will aid your recovery.”

At her words, Lin Yue stepped forward, setting the delicately wrapped gift box on the bedside table.

An Shanghua cast her a calm glance, her eyes as placid as still water. “You’ve gone to too much trouble.”

“Not at all. You’re Anhe’s aunt. Anhe and I are as close as sisters. It’s only right that I show my respect.”

A show of defiance?

So, she’s staking her claim already?

An Shanghua’s expression remained serene, but the thought coiled in her heart like smoke.

“I can see you’re both good children. Alas, when children wish to care for their parents, the parents are no longer there. What a pity your parents passed so early, never to witness your devotion.”

The loss of her parents was a thorn Cheng Muye never touched. For years, she had avoided the subject, the wound too raw to bear. Yet An Shanghua’s words pierced deep, making her fists clench until her nails dug into her palms.

Still, she smiled—a fragile smile, tinged with sorrow yet filled with stubborn defiance. “My parents passed peacefully. I believe they went to heaven.”

An Shanghua shook her head gently, her smile laced with tender pity. “No, child, you’re mistaken. The Bible teaches that suicide is the gravest sin, a blasphemy against the divine. Those who take their own lives, like your parents, may be condemned to the deepest hell. But if you live a righteous life, perform good deeds, you can atone for their sins. As a filial child, you must know what should be done.”

“Enough!”

Tang Anhe’s voice broke the air, her composure shattering.

She stood there, trembling, her eyes wide in disbelief. The woman before her—the gentle, kind aunt she had depended on—was now spitting out words like blades, each sharper than the last.

“How could you say such a thing? No elder with any conscience would use the deaths of someone’s parents as a weapon!” Her voice shook with fury, eyes glistening as though she herself had been struck.

Yet her aunt’s words weren’t aimed at her. So why did her heart feel as though it had been torn open?

Tang Anhe finally understood her own heart in that moment.

So that was it.

She had already fallen for her—that was why she thought of her so often, why she tried to shield her, why she couldn’t bear to hear anyone speak ill of her.

Her joy was Tang Anhe’s joy; her pain was Tang Anhe’s pain. Their hearts were bound so tightly that every ache and sorrow Cheng Muye carried seemed to echo within her.

Tang Anhe crouched down beside her, grasping her hand firmly. Her gaze burned with determination, as if lending her strength. “Muye, let me take you home.”

Cheng Muye nodded with quiet sorrow. As the wheelchair turned, she cast one last glance at An Shanghua lying on the hospital bed. Her thin lips curved in a cold, mocking smile. Once, she had believed An Shanghua to be formidable. Now she saw it clearly—just another schemer of limited means. A few words of provocation had been enough to force her to reveal her hand.

But an old fox was still an old fox. An Shanghua suddenly slumped against the pillows, startling Song Qiluo into a panic as she rushed to call for the doctor. Tang Anhe, who had been walking ahead, heard the commotion behind her. She froze, then hurried back, her heart lurching.

The elderly doctor pressed the stethoscope to An Shanghua’s chest, murmuring as he worked. Tang Anhe rushed forward, but Song Qiluo shoved her aside with a sharp, contemptuous shove. “Get out of here! What are you doing back? Don’t pretend—you won’t be held responsible even if you drive my mother to her death. It’s her own misfortune! After twenty years of raising you, who would have imagined she’d end up with such an ungrateful wretch?”

The words were like knives, heartless and cruel.

Tang Anhe felt as though her heart had been torn out and thrown to the ground, crushed again and again until it was nothing but bloodied fragments. Tears blurred her vision, staining her cheeks. Her eyeliner had melted into two thin black streaks, her lips smudged, her once-delicate makeup now a ruined mask—pitiful and wretched.

An Shanghua had kept her eyes shut, but at the sound of her daughter’s scolding, she forced them open again. Gasping for breath, she snapped hoarsely, “Shut up! Shut up! Do you even hear the nonsense coming out of your mouth?”

After her scolding, An Shanghua’s gaze drifted toward Tang Anhe. Seeing her cry so miserably, her tone softened, and she reached out as if to soothe her. “Anhe, my dear, don’t cry. Your tears are breaking my heart.”

But was that truly care?

If she cared, why had she pretended to be sick just to deceive her?

Tang Anhe stood silently, watching as the doctor finished his examination and rattled off the usual reassurances—“get more rest,” “keep a calm mind.” Yet there was something hidden in his tone, something that made her expression grow vacant as she trailed after him out the door.

“Anhe, come back! Come back!”

“My dear, come back. Auntie will explain everything.”

“Anhe, I’m sorry—Anhe!”

An Shanghua’s voice, thick with what sounded like tears, echoed behind her.

Tang Anhe could hardly believe it. As she stepped into the hallway, she spotted Cheng Muye stopping the doctor just a few paces away. Muye slipped the wristwatch from her own wrist into the pocket of his white coat, her voice dipped with careful deference. “Dr. Yang, how serious is Madam An Shanghua’s condition? Is it truly critical? I can’t shake this unease. Please, give me an honest answer.”

The truth could not stay buried forever.

Dr. Yang felt the weight in his pocket, frowned, and after a pause, withdrew the watch and pressed it back into her palm. Only then did he answer slowly, “Ms. An Shanghua’s chemotherapy is actually progressing quite well.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“Ms. An Shanghua’s condition is already under control. With proper rest and care, there should be no danger of recurrence for at least three years. In fact, she was discharged some time ago. For reasons I don’t quite understand, she suddenly asked to be readmitted today.”

So, it was all a façade.

Tang Anhe understood—she truly understood.

Once again, she had been deceived.

Tears welled up, but she refused to let them fall. She blinked hard, fighting them back, desperate to appear strong. Yet the ache in her chest was unbearable. These were her family—how could they bring themselves to trick her again and again?

“Ever since she fell ill, I’ve lived in constant fear. I’ve tiptoed around her, careful with every word and action, terrified that upsetting her might worsen her condition.”

Her voice quivered as she went on, “Qiluo said stomach cancer costs an enormous amount to treat, so these past two years I’ve thrown myself into work, trying to earn enough. Last year, I filmed a palace intrigue web drama and was paid seventy million yuan. The production company accused me of being greedy, and netizens called me money-obsessed, a gold-digger. But the money never mattered to me—I only wanted to earn enough to pay for her treatment.”

They say online that cancer can’t be cured, that nine times out of ten it’s a death sentence. I was terrified, truly terrified. For so long I searched frantically for every possible treatment for stomach cancer. Every time I opened my phone, it was filled with nothing but alerts and warnings about the disease. I was so scared I couldn’t even bring myself to touch it… How could they do this to me? They have no idea how much I worried, how much I suffered… They… they never cared about me at all…”

This was the cruelest truth of all.

She had treated them as her only family, poured out her heart without reservation, only to be discarded like a worn-out shoe and trampled underfoot.

Dr. Yang listened quietly, then offered a polite but uneasy smile before taking his leave.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, Tang Anhe finally broke down. Her sobs tore through the silence, ragged and breathless, until she collapsed into the wheelchair, burying her face against her knees. Her shoulders trembled as she wept silently, her sorrow spilling out in waves.

After a long time, her voice hoarse and barely audible, she murmured, “Cheng Muye… it seems… it seems you’re the only one I have left.”

A sharp ache pierced Cheng Muye’s chest. She pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, as if afraid she might vanish.

“Tang Anhe… the truth is… you’re all I have left too.”

Two souls, scarred and battered by fate, clung to each other in their loneliness. It was both a tragedy and a miracle.