Who Are The Main Characters In The Billionaire Who Doesn'T Love Me?

Alright, let me gush a little: 'The billionaire who doesn't love me' centers on Lin Yuhan and Xu Hanyi, and the chemistry (and emotional tug-of-war) between them. Lin Yuhan is that endearing protagonist who stumbles into a life she didn’t plan—she’s practical, sarcastic in a low-key way, and peppered with moments of fierce independence. Xu Hanyi is labeled as the billionaire who supposedly doesn’t love—standoffish, guarded, almost painfully composed until the walls crack.

Beyond them, Shi Yue is Lin’s best friend and emotional anchor, offering comic relief and surprisingly sharp advice; Song Madeline is the glossy antagonist who complicates things professionally and romantically; then there’s Liu Na, the hand who steadies Xu Hanyi behind the scenes. The story leans on misunderstandings, slow-burn confession scenes, and a couple of big turning points that reshape loyalties. What sells it is the growth—both leads learn to negotiate trust, and supporting players keep things spicy. I still catch myself replaying one particularly quiet scene where Lin Yuhan just shows up at the office—small moments like that stick with me.

The heart of 'The billionaire who doesn't love me' really lives in its mismatched leads. Lin Yuhan is the heroine: earnest, a little stubborn, funny with quiet resilience. She’s someone who scrapes by working at a small design studio, loves thrift-shop finds, and refuses to sell her self-respect for a cushy life. Her growth is the emotional engine—she learns boundaries, learns to trust, and learns how to laugh at herself.

Opposite her is Xu Hanyi, the titular billionaire—icy in headlines, ruthless in boardrooms, but graceless around feelings. He’s the classic closed-off male lead who slowly thaws, largely because Lin Yuhan refuses to perform like the women in his past. Around them orbit a tight supporting cast: Shi Yue, Lin’s loyal roommate and sparring partner; Song Madeline, the polished rival with complicated motives; and Liu Na, Xu Hanyi’s efficient, empathetic secretary who acts like a quiet guardian. Add a meddling father figure and a jealous ex, and you’ve got the push-and-pull drama the novel thrives on.

I loved how these characters don’t feel flat—everyone has shades. Xu Hanyi isn’t evil; he’s terrified. Lin Yuhan isn’t perfect; she’s stubborn in a way that makes you root for her. That dynamic is the real draw for me.

Quick top-line: the story revolves around Lin Yuhan (the relatable heroine) and Xu Hanyi (the billionaire who pretends not to love). Lin Yuhan’s friends and rivals—Shi Yue and Song Madeline—create the social friction that drives much of the plot, while Liu Na, the loyal secretary, softens Xu Hanyi’s edges behind closed doors. There’s also familial pressure (parents and exes) that complicate decisions, and a handful of side characters who bring humor, danger, or wise counsel.

What makes those main players stick for me is how their flaws interact—Lin Yuhan’s stubborn honesty collides with Xu Hanyi’s cagey reserve and gradually reshapes both of them, which is precisely why I kept reading until sunrise.

From a more critical angle, the cast of 'The billionaire who doesn't love me' is deliberately designed to explore power imbalance, social expectation, and emotional literacy. Lin Yuhan functions as the narrative viewpoint—her background, ambitions, and insecurities color how we interpret every wealthy gesture Xu Hanyi makes. She’s not a damsel; she’s pragmatic, which makes her reactions to Xu Hanyi’s wealth and aloofness more interesting than the typical spoiled-rich-guy trope.

Xu Hanyi is the novel’s foil and eventual mirror: outwardly immovable, inwardly indebted to old wounds. His arc—moving from control through isolation to tentative vulnerability—is paced through encounters with Liu Na (who quietly mediates his public and private faces) and several relays of family pressure that explain but do not excuse his emotional distance. Shi Yue and Song Madeline are not mere background; Shi Yue reframes the heroine’s choices with humor and loyalty, while Song Madeline forces honest reckonings about reputation and compromise. Even smaller roles (a disgruntled ex, a business rival, a kindly neighbor) create tonal variety and plot flexibility.

I appreciate that the author uses the supporting cast to test the leads’ development rather than to just stir up melodrama—so the main characters feel lived-in, and the romance earns its quieter rewards. That’s the part I keep thinking about when the plot quiets down.