The Movie Queen Always Wants to Kiss Me - Chapter 54 - You Look So Sweet

To be fair, Baidu wasn’t entirely reliable, but sometimes it did have useful information.

This time, the search yielded several video clips of Tang Anhe and a few meme images. Most showed her chewing gum on set or reciting numbers during filming. The original audio had been replaced with subtitles like “456” and “12345,” and astonishingly, the numbers matched her lip movements perfectly.

Tang Anhe’s cheeks reddened, and she defended herself awkwardly. “Honestly, I wasn’t in the best mood back then… my mind wasn’t really on it, so I didn’t memorize my lines. Usually, I do memorize my lines for most of my shows and movies.”

Cheng Muye didn’t even care. She reached out, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Whether you memorize your lines or not doesn’t matter. Those who like you will still like you, and those who don’t won’t change their minds. For me… I’d hate for fans to picture your face and imagine a voice that isn’t yours.”

That possessiveness—so quiet yet so overwhelming—made Tang Anhe’s heart race.

Of course, she didn’t mind at all. She picked up the script again and flipped through the lines. Cheng Muye said nothing, simply turning her back to Tang Anhe and slowly lying down. Her head rested on Tang Anhe’s shoulder, shifting slightly until it fit perfectly against her soft curves. The position was unbelievably comfortable. Completely satisfied, she closed her eyes to rest.

But while Cheng Muye was relaxed, Tang Anhe felt a peculiar unease.

Her head was firm, yet her chest soft—an odd pressure, difficult to describe. Pushing her away felt impossible. She loved having her lean on her, the sense of closeness and attachment wrapping around her like a warm, unbreakable thread.

Cheng Muye constantly demanded this subtle dependence.

At lunch, she insisted on being fed, refusing to use her own hands despite having them. Later, Uncle Xiang brought grapes, and Cheng Muye opened her mouth wide, insisting Tang Anhe feed her, even ordering her to peel them. Tenderness sparked in Tang Anhe’s heart, and she responded with even greater care.

“Good girl,” Cheng Muye murmured.

Another grape was fed into her mouth. She licked Tang Anhe’s finger, eyes crinkling into a rare, tender smile.

Tang Anhe’s heart fluttered uncontrollably. She had seldom seen her smile like this—soft, intimate, completely unguarded. Her lips were vivid red, glistening, utterly tempting.

“Is it good?”

“Mm… sweet and sour. Not bad.”

“Oh… you look so sweet—no, you look downright delicious.”

Tang Anhe’s cheeks flushed crimson at her own words. The playful remark, however, had the desired effect: it ignited a fire in Cheng Muye. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, eyes sparkling with delight. “Come here.”

“Hm?”

“Give me a kiss.”

Before the words had fully fallen, Tang Anhe leaned in. Shy and hesitant, she didn’t dare touch her lips, only brushing her cheek. Cheng Muye’s surprise quickly melted into delight. “Mm, good girl,” she murmured.

Encouraged, Tang Anhe leaned in again, this time pressing a light, butterfly-soft kiss to her lips. It was gentle, fleeting, but enough to satisfy Cheng Muye. She pulled Tang Anhe onto her lap, pressing her face tightly against her chest. Her voice dropped low, thick with emotion and joy. “Anhe… don’t ever leave me.”

Having once glimpsed paradise, leaving now would mean plummeting into hell.

Tang Anhe stroked her hair, eyes softening. “Mm… I’ll do my best to stay by your side. Cheng Muye, I’ll try really, really hard.”

She couldn’t promise what the future held, but she could promise her effort.

Cheng Muye hugged her tighter, squeezing again and again until it bordered on pain—but it was a comforting, possessive pain.

Yet fate has a way of intruding. Just as they were lost in each other, Uncle Xiang arrived, wearing a solemn expression and carrying a paper box. Unlike ordinary courier packages, this one was a delicate pink gift box, tied with a perfect red bow.

“Miss Cheng, I checked—there’s no sender listed, but it’s addressed to you,” Uncle Xiang said, frowning as though weighing some hidden significance.

And indeed, the contents were significant—alarmingly so.

Cheng Muye frowned, undoing the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside lay a stack of intimate, suggestive photos of the two of them.

It was unmistakably a blackmail attempt.

Tang Anhe’s face drained of color as she stared at the photos, lips trembling. “Wh-what… is this?”

Cheng Muye closed the box, placing it deliberately on the coffee table. She took Tang Anhe’s shaking hand in hers, her gaze firm yet reassuring. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” Then she turned to Uncle Xiang. “Who sent this?”

“I checked—no sender information. I asked the delivery guy, but he slipped away the moment I looked away.”

“Any description?”

“He wore a baseball cap, half his face hidden. From his build… short and thin, maybe twenty-three, twenty-four years old.”

Hardly useful.

Cheng Muye didn’t press further. She pulled out her phone and called Song Qiluo.

After hearing the situation, Song Qiluo’s voice came through, casual and sharp. “Oh, those photos? I’ve seen them too. I was just thinking about how to deal with them. Got any bright ideas?”

Clearly, she had no intention of helping.

Cheng Muye’s frown deepened. “Sister Song, what exactly do you mean by that?”

Song Qiluo laughed, a sound cold and cutting. “The fault lies with you, Miss Cheng. If you hadn’t been so… flirtatious with her, none of this would’ve happened. And as for Tang Anhe—she’s beyond my control now. You’re quite capable, Miss Cheng, aren’t you? Handle it. Show us how dependable you really are.”

Cheng Muye’s expression turned glacial. “So, you’re not going to do anything?”

“Not unwilling… just unable,” Song Qiluo drawled.

“That’s clearly unwillingness,” Cheng Muye snapped.

“Perhaps,” Song Qiluo said, her words dripping venom, “since you’re Tang Anhe’s protector, if she’s relying on you, it’s your job to show some real strength. Otherwise… should the mountain collapse or she runs away, it would be highly entertaining.”

Every word was filled with hostility.

Fuming, Cheng Muye slammed the phone down.

Unbeknownst to her, Song Qiluo was seated at a nearby café, phone still in hand. Across from her, a short, lean young man—the same baseball-capped delivery guy Uncle Xiang had described—accepted a wad of cash from her with a grin.

“Take it. You’ve worked hard.”

“It’s no trouble,” the man in the baseball cap said, shaking his head and refusing the cash.

Song Qiluo pursed her lips, but the gesture froze mid-motion. That little pout was Tang Anhe’s habit—having been around her for so long, she had unconsciously picked it up. She gave a wry smile, shook her head to dismiss the thought, and turned her attention to the man in front of her. “Huo Ze, how’s my dad?”

Huo Ze nodded, lifting his head to reveal a delicate, almost boyish face. His skin was pale, eyes bright, and they held a deep, protective concern as he said, “Sister Song, Uncle Song is doing well. And you… what about Sister Tang? What exactly was that you asked me to deliver? Why couldn’t you give it to her yourself?”

Song Qiluo ignored the question, deflecting with ease. “My dad has liver issues. Keep an eye on him—no alcohol, understood?”

“Okay.”

Huo Ze was the son of Song Xian’s new wife, a college junior working part-time at a courier shop. Song Qiluo had picked him carefully: he was a courier, knew Tang Anhe, could plausibly feign ignorance if traced, and was obedient enough to follow orders without question.

“Take it. You deserve it. And make sure you look after my dad properly from now on,” she said again, pressing the money into his hands.

“I don’t want it,” Huo Ze insisted, flushing slightly. Seeing her persist, he finally stood and began to leave. Teenagers were always honest and impulsive, their feelings untainted.

Song Qiluo watched his retreating figure with a satisfied smile, flicked the cash a few times, kissed it lightly, then slipped it back into her handbag. Money had always been in her blood, inseparable from who she was.

Unbeknownst to her, a plump man nearby was quietly snapping photos.

The yellow bird catches the cicada, unaware of the mantis behind it.

The man lifted his phone, dialing with a greasy grin. “You won’t believe it—Song Qiluo and her artist are at odds. I bet Anxin Studio’s finished.”

A low, husky voice answered on the other end. “Keep tailing her. Report any developments immediately.”

“Of course. But, um, Mr. Zheng… what about the money?”

“Once the job’s done, you’ll get your share. Besides, didn’t your cousin join my production team?”

“Hehe, you’re right. Got a little carried away.”

The fat man nodded obsequiously, muttered a few more words, and hung up. The instant the call ended, the smile plastered across his face shattered like thin porcelain, replaced by a sudden, icy glare.

“Damn it! Bunch of idiots!” he spat, venom dripping from every word.

Back at the studio, Song Qiluo—the very target of his outburst—returned to find Cheng Muye and Tang Anhe waiting. She paused, surprised for a brief second, then composed herself. “What brings you here? Something wrong?”

Tang Anhe fidgeted, clearly more anxious than Cheng Muye. “Sis… I got photographed,” she blurted.

Song Qiluo nodded knowingly. “I see. Could be serious… or not. I’m sure Miss Cheng has her ways of handling it.”

Indeed, Cheng Muye already had a plan. She had tracked down the courier responsible and was en route to their office to get answers. But since the studio lay along the way, Tang Anhe had insisted they pull over.

“I’m going with Muye to that delivery company to get the facts. We need to find out who’s behind this,” she said.

“And then what? Settle it privately? Pay them off? Might as well have done that from the start,” Song Qiluo quipped with a teasing lilt.

“One problem leads to another. If we ignore it, who knows? They might threaten us again in the future. We need to snuff out the danger before it even sprouts.”

Impressive—she really thinks ahead.

Song Qiluo clapped her hands, encouragingly. “Good, excellent. Then go ahead and investigate.”

Her demeanor was that of a spectator, thoroughly entertained by the unfolding drama.

Cheng Muye narrowed her eyes, studying Song Qiluo carefully. Every word seemed to carry a hidden meaning and woven between the lines were subtle traps and quiet schemes.