The First Step of the Phoenix

The morning after the Golden Iris Gala, every gossip column, every trending search, carried the same name: Lin Wanrou.

Not because she had attended the gala—no, her half-sister Lin Qingyao had stolen that spotlight—but because of the fiery declaration she made at the hospital gates.

“The Lin Wanrou you knew is gone… watch closely, because I will rise higher than any of you dare to imagine.”

The public scoffed. “Delusional.” “Pathetic.” “A desperate woman’s last scream.”

But in between the jeers, some voices wavered. “Did you see her eyes though? She wasn’t crying this time.”

“She looked… regal, somehow. Like a completely different person.”

Wanrou sat cross-legged on the couch in her penthouse, the morning paper spread before her. Her lips curved faintly. “They mock, yet they watch. Good. Attention is the seed of power.”

Mei Ling hovered nervously nearby. “Miss Lin… I did what you asked. I pulled together every casting notice that was still open.”

She handed over a folder, stuffed with printouts. Wanrou accepted it, flipping through. Most roles were pitiful—background extras, minor supporting characters, or scripts so cheap no respected actress would bother.

To Mei Ling’s surprise, Wanrou did not frown. Instead, her eyes gleamed with interest.

“This one.” She tapped a thin packet.

Mei Ling blinked. “A… web drama? Budget barely ten million yuan, director unknown. They’re casting for the second female lead. Miss Lin, if you return with this, people will laugh harder.”

Wanrou’s smile was calm, almost indulgent. “When I entered the palace, I was nothing more than a concubine candidate, one among dozens. They laughed then, too.”

Her eyes sharpened. “It is not the size of the role, but the weight one brings to it. Give me even a single line, and I shall carve my name into their memory.”

Mei Ling shivered. That tone—it was not the voice of an actress. It was the voice of a sovereign.

---

Later that afternoon, the Lin family mansion buzzed with activity. Qingyao was being fitted for a designer gown, basking in her newfound fame from walking the gala carpet with Jun Lianhe.

When Wanrou entered, all chatter fell silent.

She wore a plain blouse and trousers, yet her presence filled the room. Her gaze swept across the servants, the decorations, her sister—unhurried, assessing, as if she owned it all.

“Wanrou?” Lin Guosheng’s voice was sharp. “Why are you here? You should be resting. Do you want another scandal?”

“I came,” Wanrou replied evenly, “to inform the family of my decision.”

Qingyao smirked, hands on her hips. “Decision? What decision could you possibly make? The only choice left for you is whether to hide in the countryside or in some cheap apartment.”

Wanrou ignored her and looked directly at their father. “I will return to acting. I have accepted a role.”

Gasps echoed. Lin Guosheng slammed the table. “Nonsense! After everything—your failed auditions, your scandals, your attempted suicide—you dare to drag our family’s name through the mud again?”

Wanrou met his anger with unflinching calm. “Do you think the Lin family’s reputation is so fragile it crumbles with me? Or perhaps it already crumbled long ago, and I am merely the scapegoat.”

Lin Guosheng’s face reddened. “You—!”

Qingyao laughed, her voice sweet and cruel. “Oh, sister, this is rich. What role? A servant girl in some third-rate web drama? How humiliating. Do you know what people will say when they see you grovel on screen while I stand beside President Jun at international banquets?”

Wanrou turned to her slowly. Her eyes, deep and steady, silenced the room more effectively than a shout.

“Qingyao,” she said softly, “you are so concerned with how the world views you. That is why you will forever chase approval. But me? I do not chase. I command. Even if I stand in rags, they will still remember me more than they remember you in jewels.”

Qingyao stiffened, the mockery on her lips faltering. For a heartbeat, she swore she saw not her sister, but a woman in phoenix robes, towering above her, untouchable.

Wanrou turned gracefully, her every step deliberate as she left the room. Her final words lingered in the air like a decree:

“This is merely the first step. Watch closely, sister. The stage will crown me again.”

---

That evening, as the city lights glimmered, Wanrou sat by her window with the script of the low-budget drama in hand. It was poorly written, the role minor—yet she read it as though it were an imperial edict.

Every line, every gesture, she dissected with a precision that once commanded nations.

Mei Ling watched her from the side, awed. This isn’t acting. This is… transformation.

Finally, Wanrou set the script down. Her smile was faint but resolute.

“They think I chose weakness. But this is a strategy. A phoenix does not rise by fire alone—it begins in ashes.”

She looked out at the horizon, neon lights sprawling like constellations.

“And soon, the world will realize: Lin Wanrou has returned.”

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