A Flirtatious Beauty Alpha Provokes a Crazy Omega - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Audition

The full name of Spring was The Woman Who Appeared in the Spring.

Director Jiang Qu had completed the script five years ago, and parts of it that leaked online once sparked heated discussions due to its bold themes and dialogue.

The script removed the ABO elements from this world and instead told a story of adult forbidden love in a universe without ABO genetic structures.

With Jiang Qu’s unique style, the show was jokingly nicknamed Spring: Rated 18+ by netizens.

But in truth, every one of Jiang Qu’s works possessed a profound and aesthetic depth.

What you saw were desire and human nature—but beneath it was the corruption of the soul.

The audition was scheduled for Wednesday. From morning on, the sky was unusually overcast. The forecast said the rain wouldn’t fall until night, meaning the city would stay stifling all day.

It was already afternoon.

There were over a hundred people in the audition waiting area, packed to the brim. Luckily, Zhao Jia had coordinated with the staff earlier, so the spot where they waited was less crowded.

“Nervous?” Zhao Jia asked.

Jiang Mi shook her head, looking calm. Compared to the other anxious actors around them, she seemed utterly composed.

She even bragged, “Since I was a kid, I’ve never known how to spell the word ‘nervous.’”

Zhao Jia praised her, “You’re such a woman!”

Not long after, the actor who had just finished auditioning came out, face flushed red, complaining to a companion: “Damn, even for such a minor role, Director Jiang is personally selecting?! And Yan Wei was there too! I was so nervous I was shaking. I don’t even know what I acted. It’s over…”

Three seconds later, Zhao Jia noticed Jiang Mi pulling out her script—one she already knew by heart—and asked, “Didn’t you say you weren’t nervous?”

Without looking up, Jiang Mi replied, “…Just being cautious.”

Under the gloomy sky, with no rain to break the pressure, and the mass of actors waiting, the room felt like a mini sauna. Sweat gathered thinly in Jiang Mi’s palms.

Would Yan Wei think she was stalking her, clinging on shamelessly?

It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know Yan Wei would be here today—she was just here to audition. This was her job.

Jiang Zhuangzhuang, don’t chicken out now!

Another two hours passed. Zhao Jia reminded her to get ready and reassured her not to be nervous. Jiang Mi exhaled, put her things back in her bag, and by the time she reached the door, her expression was completely composed.

She walked in with her head held high and immediately saw Yan Wei in a black dress in the white room. Yan Wei clearly noticed her too but looked away after just a second.

Jiang Mi didn’t let it affect her. She politely greeted all the directors and gave a brief self-introduction.

“If you’re ready, go ahead,” said the female director, Jiang Qu—short black hair, looking sharp and capable.

The role Jiang Mi was auditioning for had very little screen time—only two lines of dialogue—but she needed to stretch it into a five-minute performance to showcase her understanding of the character.

This task wasn’t easy. But clearly, Jiang Mi handled it effortlessly.

After the five minutes ended, Jiang Qu’s serious expression softened slightly. After seeing so many people, they finally had a decent performer. She glanced at Yan Wei beside her and asked in a low voice, “What do you think?”

Yan Wei looked at the tablet in her hand and, finally landing on Jiang Mi’s smiling headshot, responded calmly, “Passable.”

“I’ll give you another role to try. No pressure—just perform it based on your understanding,” said Jiang Qu. Her assistant handed Jiang Mi a paper.

Jiang Mi accepted it, glanced at the role, and struggled to hide the shock in her heart.

…

Twenty minutes later, Jiang Mi came out of the audition room.

Zhao Jia met her. Jiang Mi’s cheeks and nose tip were flushed unnaturally, as if she’d just finished crying. Her eyes were bloodshot, her emotions still hadn’t settled, and a fragile allure clung to her like a fox’s charm.

Noticing her low mood, Zhao Jia didn’t ask questions. They walked outside together.

It was already 7 p.m. The rain, which had threatened all day, still hadn’t fallen. A sharp wind blew through Jiang Mi’s hair, cooling the sweat on her skin. She blinked and finally snapped out of her character.

Zhao Jia couldn’t hold back anymore and asked, “How did it go?”

Jiang Mi cleared her throat. “Not sure.”

Her first audition had gone smoothly, judging by their expressions. But the second… she wasn’t confident. After the second one ended, Jiang Qu had asked Yan Wei’s opinion, and Jiang Mi saw Yan Wei coldly shake her head.

The only thing Jiang Mi was certain of—was that she had given it her all.

“You did a second audition?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What was the role?”

Jiang Mi hesitated, then said, “Liang Yongping.”

Zhao Jia gasped and felt her left eyelid twitch. In a hushed voice, she said, “Isn’t that the second female lead?”

It was called a supporting role, but the screen time rivaled the female lead’s—especially in the early episodes. She’d be acting opposite Yan Wei, with a heavy emotional arc. That’s why so many actresses in the industry were scrambling for it.

Even Zhao Jia had never dared to dream of this.

Jiang Mi nodded. Yes, she had auditioned for the second female lead in Spring. That’s why she was so stunned when she received the role sheet. Not just because of the role’s importance—but because she had prepared thoroughly for it.

In fact, to grab any opportunity that came her way, she had studied every character in the script ahead of time.

But it was Liang Yongping who truly moved her—so she’d spent the most time preparing for her.

She had every available line memorized backwards and forwards.

If the director hadn’t given her another shot, she would’ve asked for it herself. She just hadn’t expected to get that lucky.

Zhao Jia said, “That’s a good thing. Why do you look so down?”

“…”

Because Yan Wei was the female lead. During the whole audition, she watched Yan Wei perform the scene. She knew she should stay professional, but who could understand the feeling of saying all those explicit lines to Yan Wei, tears in her eyes, while Yan Wei stared at her with that cold, judging look?

The scene she had to act was the final one before the two characters parted—a wildly intense love scene that tested both the actress’s skill and delivery.

The room had been silent.

With teary eyes, Jiang Mi had looked at Yan Wei and asked, in a trembling voice: “In the future, will you moan for someone else? Will your body accept another woman?”

She didn’t know what Yan Wei was thinking at that moment—perhaps judging her acting—but in that instant, Jiang Mi’s ears were filled with a vivid memory: that night, the sound of Yan Wei biting her lip, yet unable to suppress a breathy moan.

Still, she felt the second audition had gone well. Though she had never played such a role before, she had pushed through and performed her best.

She did everything she could.

Until she saw Yan Wei shake her head.

That image kept looping in her mind.

Yan Wei… shook her head.

If only Yan Wei didn’t know how to shake her head…

Jiang Mi clutched her cup tightly, clearly discouraged. Zhao Jia told her not to lose heart—at the very least, her original audition seemed to have passed.

That was true.

But Jiang Mi wasn’t disheartened. She was just genuinely curious: if she wasn’t good enough, where had she gone wrong?

She believed she could portray Liang Yongping well.

If given one more chance, just a bit more time, she could do even better.

But she knew she might not get that chance.

So in the end, she could only console herself: playing Character No. 18 was fine too. If she were the second lead, she’d have to constantly act opposite Yan Wei—including intimate scenes. She’d probably be too nervous to function. And if Yan Wei had to see her every day, wouldn’t she hate her even more?

…

On the other side of Huaicheng, auditions at the film studio wrapped at six.

Jiang Qu had booked a private room at “Xizhou Hui.” When Yan Wei entered after taking a call, the cold dishes had just been served—all traditional Huaicheng fare with a sweet flavor profile.

Jiang Qu pulled out a slender cigarette and casually offered one from the pack.

“Want one?” (a cigarette)

Yan Wei: “I have dubbing work these days.”

For any job that required vocal clarity, she always tried to avoid smoking, alcohol, and stimulating foods. Besides, she didn’t really smoke much anyway.

Jiang Qu nodded. “Mind if I do?”

Getting a faint response, Jiang Qu lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. She was clearly a bit agitated. Jiang Qu was famously temperamental in the film industry—usually calm, but the moment it came to work, she transformed into a different person entirely.

She suddenly asked, “That actress who auditioned for Liang Yongping today—what did you think of her?”

Before Yan Wei could answer, Jiang Qu continued, “Just now, Director Zhou from ‘Yonghua’ personally called and pressured me to arrange a certain actress for the second female lead. I’ve seen her work—her acting’s not bad.”

Yan Wei picked up her water glass. “So?”

Jiang Qu exhaled a puff of smoke and countered, “You still haven’t answered me. That actress—Jiang Mi—what did you think of her?”

…

Huaicheng was a well-known film and television base. Zhao Jia had been in contact with other production teams these past few days for new projects, so they stayed around, hoping to also wait for the result of Spring.

Even with a good attitude, Jiang Mi wasn’t blindly confident. So many days had passed—she had already buried all hope of being cast as “Liang Yongping.” There was no way the second female lead role would go to her. She might as well focus on doing her small role well.

She stayed up late last night reading other scripts and hadn’t planned on waking early—yet the vibration of her phone still stirred her from sleep.

When she saw the caller ID, her sleepy mind sharpened immediately. She sat up with a jolt: “Hello, Aunt Mo.”

Mo Yun’s voice came through warmly, full of laughter. “Mimi, hope I didn’t wake you?”

Jiang Mi: “No, not at all. Auntie, is something wrong?”

For no reason, she felt a bit nervous.

Mo Yun said, “Are you busy today? Come over for a meal.”

Jiang Mi instinctively wanted to decline. “I…”

“Your mom said you’re off today—and that you love eating fish. I went out early this morning to buy black fish and made fish soup to nourish you. No rush—just come before lunch.”

Jiang Mi: “……” Mom, are you serious? Your daughter’s about to go freeload at someone else’s house!

She quickly lied, “Auntie, you don’t need to go through the trouble. I’ve already made lunch plans with a friend.”

Mo Yun replied smoothly, “Then bring your friend too. It’s just me at home anyway.”

“……” Jiang Mi hesitated. “Will Teacher Yan be there?”

Mo Yun: “It’s at my place. She won’t be coming back. I’ll send you the address.”

Jiang Mi lost.

Her dear mother even sent her a gift list, insisting she bring something as a courtesy. Jiang Mi thought about how she’d already imposed on them once—returning the favor was the polite thing to do. Since she wouldn’t run into Yan Wei, she dressed up neatly and left.

The destination was a bit far from the previous apartment—a villa district.

The villa sat at the far end of the road, with black iron gates. Roses grew along the base of the wall, mixed with little blue flowers whose names she didn’t know.

Mo Yun greeted her enthusiastically, half-scolding her for bringing gifts while linking arms with her to bring her inside.

Unlike Yan Wei’s place, this villa had a cozy, wood-heavy decor. The living room had a beige woven carpet, and the whole environment was warm-toned and inviting.

After Jiang Mi set the items down, Mo Yun bustled into the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable, I still have dishes on the stove.”

“Alright. Need any help?”

“No need. It’ll be ready soon.”

“Okay.”

“Yan Wei is in the back garden—you can go say hi.”

“Okay… huh?”

Jiang Mi froze. Mo Yun looked back and said, “No idea why she suddenly came by.”

…Excuse me, Auntie, how can you not know? I only came because I trusted you!

Jiang Mi stood frozen for a few seconds. Mo Yun, thinking she couldn’t find the way, kindly directed her, “Turn left and walk straight—you’ll see a glass door.”

“…Got it.”

It took Jiang Mi five or six full minutes to reach that door—if a turtle had raced her, it could’ve run two laps.

Spring sunshine warmed the garden. Through the glass, flowers bloomed in full color, and the lawn stretched lush and green.

Standing at the door, Jiang Mi wrestled with her thoughts. If Yan Wei saw her, she might think Jiang Mi was clinging on intentionally. But she was already here—there was no turning back. They were bound to meet.

So, when they did… what should she say?

As she zoned out, the glass suddenly dimmed. Someone blocked the sunlight.

Her heart jumped. She looked up—and locked eyes with the figure on the other side.

That person looked at her with a calm, cold gaze that made Jiang Mi shrink back instinctively.

Thankfully, the other woman looked away first. The door opened from the outside. Jiang Mi stepped back out of habit, making room. As the person passed her, a subtle scent drifted in with the wind.

Jiang Mi held her breath and greeted, “Teacher Yan.”

Yan Wei glanced at her and gave the faintest nod—clearly with no intention of chatting—then brushed past.

Light flooded Jiang Mi’s face again.

Staring at Yan Wei’s back, she mustered her courage. “Teacher Yan, may I ask you something?”

Yan Wei stopped and looked back—her expression neutral, silently giving permission to continue.

Jiang Mi said, “About the audition that day… when you shook your head, was there something I did wrong? I’m not trying to press for anything—I just want to know if it’s something I could’ve improved. Something I can be mindful of in the future. I’d really appreciate your feedback.”

The 24-year-old girl looked almost transparent—those eyes so pure they didn’t seem to belong to this industry.

Yan Wei replied, “There’s nothing to improve.”

“…Not even a little?”

Yan Wei stared at her for a moment, silent for two whole seconds, her thoughts unreadable. Then she finally said, in a flat voice, “No.”

With that, she turned and walked away.

“…Thank you,” Jiang Mi said to her retreating back.

Your voice is beautiful. Your words are brutal.

Once Yan Wei left, Jiang Mi finally exhaled. She waited a couple of minutes before returning to the living room, trying to avoid any awkwardness—only to see Yan Wei walking out the front door.

She frowned slightly—just missed her.

She had originally planned to shamelessly stick around and eat lunch—but now, she wasn’t sure that was a good idea.

After all, it wasn’t her house. If she stayed, it might make Yan Wei uncomfortable.

That sense of dejection surged up belatedly.

Not only because of how Yan Wei treated her like poison, but also because… she really hadn’t gotten the role of Liang Yongping.

After lunch, Jiang Mi politely said goodbye to Mo Yun and headed straight back to the hotel.

That night, a little past 8 p.m., Zhao Jia received a call from the director while Jiang Mi was kneeling on a chair at the hotel, staring out the window.

The sky outside was dark. The warm spring day had turned into a light rain.

She couldn’t see the rain clearly—but every time the wind blew, she felt it.

“Yes, I’m Jiang Mi’s agent. Please go ahead,” Zhao Jia answered on speakerphone.

Jiang Mi turned her head in surprise. The wind and rain whispered softly behind her.

From the speaker came the director’s voice: “Director Jiang is very interested in Jiang Mi’s performance. She’d like to schedule a face-to-face meeting—how’s 1 p.m. the day after tomorrow for you?”

Jiang Mi felt a chill down her spine—and then met Zhao Jia’s barely-contained look of joy. In that instant, all the weight of the day was washed away.

Zhao Jia hung up and shouted, “Jiang Mi! Did you hear that?! Director Jiang wants to meet you in person!”

To Jiang Mi, it felt like an emotional roller coaster.

Just that morning, Yan Wei had told her—directly—that there was nothing left to save.

Yan Wei wouldn’t lie just to spare her feelings. Maybe at that moment, there really was no hope.

But maybe Jiang Qu had changed her mind.

As long as she got to meet the director—she still had a chance.

That night, Jiang Mi was too wired to sleep.

She hadn’t dreamed of acting with Yan Wei in a long time, not even in her subconscious.

But now that the thought had taken root—it bloomed into a dream.

She dreamed of a scene where, eyes red, Yan Wei kissed “Liang Yongping.”