A Flirtatious Beauty Alpha Provokes a Crazy Omega - Chapter 43

The car came to a stop in the corner of the set.

Hiding at this point would only seem awkward, so Jiang Mi simply stepped out of Yan Wei’s nanny van.

As soon as she got out, she heard Shen Ruoxi calling out.

She turned to look—Shen Ruoxi’s car was not far away, likely just arrived as well. Soon, Shen Ruoxi walked over and gave Jiang Mi a familiar pat on the shoulder. “Yo, you—hey… Teacher Yan… morning.”

Her voice abruptly changed tone, like it had been choked mid-sentence, her gaze frozen on the car door behind Jiang Mi, which hadn’t fully closed yet.

Yan Wei was just about to step out of the car, her figure caught perfectly in the divide between light and shadow.

Shen Ruoxi froze, her eyes darting quickly back and forth between Jiang Mi and Yan Wei. It was like she’d swallowed water wrong—she gave a couple of forced coughs to cover it up.

“I thought this car looked familiar. Not the one you usually drive, Mi-mi…”

She shot Jiang Mi a look, but because she was so wary of Yan Wei’s presence, the signal was confusing and hard to interpret.

Jiang Mi thought about it and gave a vague response: “My car broke down.”

“No wonder! What a coincidence… Last time it was Teacher Yan’s car that had issues, now you’re the one benefiting from her.”

Jiang Mi turned to say goodbye to Yan Wei—she had an early scene and needed to get ready. Shen Ruoxi greeted Yan Wei briefly as well and followed Jiang Mi off the lot.

A few steps later, Shen Ruoxi leaned in conspiratorially, unlocking her phone and shoving it in front of Jiang Mi. “Look at this. It’s blown up.”

The two walked closely, shoulders occasionally brushing, their figures clearly visible to the distant, calm but slightly stiff gaze watching from behind.

Yan Wei’s eyes faintly swept over the two figures walking side by side. The cool morning light traced her delicate, cold features.

Her lips pressed together. For a fleeting moment, a cold and mocking curve appeared at the corner of her mouth.

Whether it was a sixth sense or coincidence, Jiang Mi suddenly felt a chill down her spine. She glanced at Shen Ruoxi and subtly shifted to the side, putting a small but noticeable distance between their arms.

Only then did she lower her head to look at the phone screen.

“Remember that young girl who tried to ambush you in the DK restroom? A few days ago, she attempted suicide. Her family even got the news into social media.”

Jiang Mi frowned instinctively. “Suicide?”

She asked softly, “Why?”

“Rumor has it DK made a move.” Shen Ruoxi’s tone was complicated. “That girl was definitely reckless, but…”

She paused. “The methods used were brutal. Supposedly, they sent the video to her mom’s workplace, and made sure every relative got a copy. The mother—a piece of work herself—beat and humiliated the girl in front of a livestream. It was a disaster. The girl couldn’t take it and tried to kill herself twice…”

Jiang Mi was silent for a few seconds, her fingertips unconsciously scratching the edge of the phone.

How did things escalate this far?

“I just think,” Shen Ruoxi lowered her voice, “even if that mother-daughter pair knows DK is a big corporation, it doesn’t mean they won’t come bother you. You should be careful.”

“Me?” Jiang Mi let out a bitter laugh.

“I haven’t even had time to deal with them. I just mentioned it to Zhao Jia—asked if she could get the mom to sign some kind of agreement. But I heard their situation is rough. Honestly, I always felt it was Qin Yao who…”

She didn’t finish her sentence. Maybe it felt meaningless. She waved it off. “Who knows how it ended up like this. Now, in this situation, I don’t really have the right to say anything. After all—someone sort of stepped in for me, didn’t they?”

Shen Ruoxi nodded. “I get that. But I’ll say this…” Her gaze sharpened. “These DK execs… they’re something else. That’s not just ruthless—it’s driving someone to a dead end. I don’t know which higher-up made that decision, but I’d love to meet them. Still, gotta admit, working with them kind of makes you feel safe in a twisted way.”

Her words were half-joking.

Jiang Mi listened and suddenly glanced behind her. Yan Wei still stood quietly a few steps away, holding a cup of coffee—probably brought by Surui earlier. Her gaze seemed focused on something in the distance, but sensing Jiang Mi’s glance, she looked over.

Jiang Mi felt a strange flutter in her chest and smiled at her.

Shen Ruoxi followed her gaze, turned back, and sucked in a sharp breath. Her voice squeezed out through her teeth: “Honestly, I really admire you. Getting along with Yan Wei like that? You’re amazing.”

She gave Jiang Mi a big thumbs-up.

Jiang Mi almost laughed. Looking at Shen Ruoxi’s exaggerated expression, she said calmly, “Teacher Yan is actually… pretty soft-tempered.”

Especially last night.

Yes, especially very soft.

Shen Ruoxi turned to stare at her like she was an alien. Her lips moved, and after a long pause, she blurted out in disbelief:

“Are you okay?”

…

The morning scenes with Shen Ruoxi wrapped up smoothly.

As the daylight mellowed, the final scene was between Jiang Mi and Yan Wei.

Zhang Lu knocked on the door, bringing in a dewy bouquet. Smiling brightly, she said to Qin Shui inside, “Cousin, what’s your relationship with that lady downstairs?”

Qin Shui paused mid-sip. “Why?”

“She’s leaving.”

She added, “With her fiancée.”

Clang!

A sharp, piercing crash rang out. The glass Qin Shui was holding slipped from her stiff fingers.

Water and broken glass scattered across the floor.

Qin Shui’s face went pale as paper. She stood frozen.

Not long after, the downstairs door was knocked on. Liang Yongping opened it, saw who it was, and asked with an unreadable expression, “What is it?”

Her fingertips turned white as she forced herself to keep her composure, then turned back to the kitchen.

The lighting there was dim, almost suffocating.

“When were you planning to tell me?” Qin Shui’s voice was taut, each word slicing through the air.

Liang Yongping was wiping a perfectly clean counter, movements steady. They stood close, shoulders nearly touching. Her voice was calm: “Was there still a need to?”

Qin Shui’s gaze landed on Liang Yongping’s neck—just above the collar.

In that dim yellow light, a faint red mark peeked out—intimate and undeniable.

A stabbing pain ripped through Qin Shui’s heart. She gritted her teeth and spat, “No need? Liang Yongping… you really don’t have a heart, do you?”

The heavy words clogged her throat, eventually reduced to a deep sigh—and deeper sorrow.

Liang Yongping took a deep breath. “I was wrong too. This mess… who could really sort it? We both made mistakes. I made more.”

She suddenly paused, her voice laced with exhaustion and finality.

Qin Shui heard her say, “I don’t think I’ll ever make another mistake again, not in this life.”

Qin Shui stumbled two steps back, staring at Liang Yongping’s back. “Even if we never see each other again?”

“You’ve already…” Liang Yongping finally stopped wiping, but didn’t turn around. Her voice came out quietly, “…moved on, haven’t you?”

She didn’t need to finish. The air was already emptied of all breath.

“…Okay.” Qin Shui’s voice cracked. “I understand now.”

Something shattered completely.

She didn’t look back. She shoved open the thin kitchen door and disappeared into the shadows.

Filming for the day finally wrapped.

Most of the lights were off. The set felt hollow, filled with a heavy, smoky aftermath.

Jiang Mi looked at the apartment where “Liang Yongping” and “Qin Shui” had parted ways, her mind in chaos. So many things were on the tip of her tongue, yet she didn’t know how to speak.

She turned toward Yan Wei, who was talking to Surui. That emotion in her chest swelled—heavy, stifling. She wanted to say something.

But no matter how long she looked at Yan Wei, Yan Wei never looked back.

“Jiang Mi.”

Jiang Mi turned at the sound of Jiang Qu’s voice.

Their eyes met, and Jiang Mi nodded silently in greeting. At that moment, she instinctively looked toward Yan Wei again.

Their gazes met—just for a second—like sparks striking in the silence.

Yan Wei’s eyes lingered briefly on her face, then drifted away, emotionless, steady. They landed instead on Jiang Qu, standing a few steps away.

Jiang Mi froze. A sudden sense of weightlessness overtook her.

By the time she naturally walked to Jiang Qu’s side and looked back, all she saw was Yan Wei’s retreating figure.

The set around her was a mess, empty.

Jiang Qu was in a great mood, very satisfied with Jiang Mi’s recent performance. “You nailed the emotions. Great work.”

His voice was encouraging, snapping Jiang Mi out of her haze.

She forced a smile. “Thank you, Director.”

But she knew that smile was fake. She really didn’t feel like smiling.

The heaviness in her chest spread—not just sadness or anxiety, but a thick, shapeless frustration she didn’t know how to express.

Acting drains you. It eats you alive.

It’s a kind of self-harm.

An actor once told her that, long ago.

She thought she understood. But only today—suddenly—did she finally grasp it.

She didn’t know what was wrong with her.

She returned to the dressing room. It was still early. The crew had dinner ready. A boxed meal sat neatly on the table.

Zhao Jia was tidying up. “You should eat something. The food’s pretty decent today.”

But Jiang Mi had no appetite. She blankly poked the lid with her disposable chopsticks. All she could think was—Where did Yan Wei go?

If it were Yan Wei, how would she deal with emotions like this? Or maybe… Yan Wei didn’t have emotions like this.

Jiang Mi put the chopsticks down and suddenly said to Zhao Jia, “There’s only about a month left of filming.”

Zhao Jia looked surprised. “Yeah. Why?”

Jiang Mi shook her head. “Nothing.”

One more month. That’s it.

That tangled, stifling feeling that had no name, no direction, weighed in her chest like a stone. She took a deep breath.

She took out her phone, found that contact, and typed a message:

“Where did you go?”

Sent.

Then waited.

As expected—

The screen stayed dark, quiet like a still black lake.

So quiet it felt normal.

So quiet it hurt.

She stared at the phone for a while, then typed again:

“You’re still sick. Take care of yourself.”

She deleted it.

“Teacher Yan.”

Deleted.

“Jiejie.”

Deleted.

Finally, under a wave of nervous frustration, she sent:

“Yan Wei, I don’t like this. I really don’t.”