A Flirtatious Beauty Alpha Provokes a Crazy Omega - Chapter 44

Chapter 44: Magnify

 

Jiang Mi remembered that night clearly. Yan Wei didn’t reply to her message. She hadn’t eaten and had gone to bed early, but oddly enough, when she woke up the next morning, she was still utterly exhausted.

 

She held the breakfast Zhao Jia had prepared, but had no appetite.

 

It was as if something had cursed her—she had lost interest in almost everything.

 

How did it come to this?

 

How did it come to this?

 

On the way to the set, Jiang Mi asked herself that question over and over. So… was it all just a dream? Or was it real?

 

Which parts were real, and which parts were fake?

 

That was the second day.

 

Yan Wei, uncharacteristically late, arrived while Jiang Mi was already deep in her script, listening intently as Jiang Qu explained the scene.

 

She was genuinely focused—so much so that, for a moment, she slipped into the world of Liang Yongping, imagining scene after scene from the script…

 

“Yan Wei’s here. Want to take a break, or keep going?”

 

The name Yan Wei felt like a sudden stab. Jiang Mi flinched, and it took her two seconds to lift her head. She knew Yan Wei was looking at her. When she turned to look, sure enough, their eyes met.

 

There was no difference.

 

She felt that to Yan Wei—whether it was a few months ago, the day before yesterday, yesterday, or today—it was all the same.

 

No difference at all.

 

Jiang Mi didn’t smile this time. She didn’t even try to force it. Her eyes skimmed past Yan Wei’s face, and she heard Yan Wei say, “No need. Let’s begin.”

 

Jiang Mi stood up, handed her script to Zhao Jia, took a sip of water, and let the makeup artist retouch the pale lips that belonged to “Liang Yongping.”

 

Her current state of emotional deadness required no acting at all.

 

She nodded to Jiang Qu—she was ready.

 

In the days that followed, Qin Shui and her “girlfriend” became a constant presence on set, like a recurring image.

 

That open, public intimacy carried a searing heat. It slipped into Liang Yongping’s ears like needles through invisible cracks. Sometimes, just looking up casually, she’d see them returning hand-in-hand.

 

The bouquet in Qin Shui’s arms always bloomed so proudly, the delicate petals and rich colors—once, long ago, those same flowers had adorned Yongping’s windowsill.

 

Now, they felt like a silent slap across the face of Yongping’s increasingly withered heart.

 

For two days straight, the food made in the kitchen sat untouched and cold. Bai Xiao’s words grew crueler, the emotional back-and-forth more violent. And Yongping? It was as if her spine had been removed—she let herself be tormented without resistance.

 

That day, some unseen force drove her to the second floor. As she passed a half-closed door, the muffled laughter of Qin Shui and her girlfriend pierced the air like needles. She hadn’t meant to listen—but the words still slipped into her ears.

 

“Don’t you love that Liang Yongping downstairs?”

 

A silence followed.

 

Then came the voice of the woman—familiar, clear: “You’re overthinking. I never loved her.”

 

Yongping’s legs gave out. Her back slammed into the cold wall behind her.

 

In that instant, the dam that had held back everything for so long finally broke. A flood of heat surged through her. She didn’t remember how she made it downstairs. Her vision blurred. She pushed open the door and shut herself inside.

 

As the door clicked shut behind her, Jiang Qu’s voice called out, “Cut.”

 

Jiang Mi remained crouched on the ground. Zhao Jia came over and gently patted her back. She felt a faint tremble through her palm. Slightly surprised, she realized—it was the first time she’d seen Jiang Mi this overwhelmed after a scene.

 

She stayed beside her quietly, waiting for Jiang Mi’s emotions to settle.

 

But Jiang Mi didn’t really know what was happening to her either.

 

Her heart just… hurt. An unbearable weight pressed on her chest.

 

Then suddenly, a warm hand landed gently on her head. Inhaling through her blocked nose, she caught a faint familiar scent—brandy and rose.

 

With her eyes buried in her knees, she heard that calm, cool voice: “Jiang Mi, it’s all fake.”

 

Yan Wei was comforting her.

 

She knew that.

 

But…

 

But still…

 

A chill crept over her heart, cold and hollow.

 

She knew deeply that Yan Wei would never understand where her empathy came from—whether it was Liang Yongping’s unrequited love, or Liang Yongping’s inability to understand Qin Shui, or Qin Shui’s inability to understand Liang Yongping.

 

If Liang Yongping and Qin Shui’s love was fake—acted out, fictional—a giant bubble of a story…

 

Then was this moment too? The hand now resting on her head, the scent in the air, the flutter in her chest—could all of it be fake too?

 

Once that thought took root—

 

It became a blade suspended at her throat, constantly reminding her.

 

…

 

The days that followed were painted in a shade of invisible gray.

 

For several days, Jiang Mi and Yan Wei had no contact.

 

That day, just an ordinary day in June, Jiang Youshu called with his usual check-in. Jiang Mi held the phone, the early summer sun flickering through the trees outside, forcing her to squint.

 

Time was like sand in an hourglass.

 

Jiang Youshu chatted on about her return in July, saying words like “come home” and “it’ll all be over soon”—each word striking the walls of Jiang Mi’s heart.

 

“You sound tired—working too hard?”

 

Jiang Mi shook her head on her end. “Didn’t sleep well yesterday, probably. But I’m fine. Old Jiang, how’s your health? Don’t eat too much cold stuff.”

 

“You just take care of yourself. Yu Ying called—she might visit in a few days.”

 

“She’s been needing a break. Don’t ask her about work stuff.”

 

“Alright, alright. Sweetie, Mom misses you. I still get to see Jiang Hu now and then, but you’ve been gone for months. Let me know if you come back—I’ll get ready in advance…”

 

Jiang Youshu rambled on.

 

Jiang Mi responded softly.

 

When the call ended—

 

She sniffed lightly.

 

Once this film wrapped, she and Yan Wei would part ways.

 

And after that? They’d go back to their predetermined lives. The tiredness she felt now—distance would only deepen it, and they might never see each other again.

 

When that time came… maybe it really would be like Zhao Jia said.

 

Everything would end.

 

Jiang Mi took a deep breath, smiled faintly.

 

It’s fine. Everything passes.

 

There’s nothing in this world that doesn’t pass.

 

Suddenly, her phone lit up. She glanced at the screen—Yan Wei’s contact flashed on it. Jiang Mi’s heart thumped in panic.

 

She paused for two seconds.

 

Then opened it.

 

A short message:

 

“Come to my dressing room.”

 

…

 

The door closed softly behind her. The room was silent except for a faint hum. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, landing on the table beside Yan Wei.

 

Jiang Mi saw a sword resting there.

 

“Sit,” Yan Wei said without inflection, nodding toward the stool beside her. She leaned back on the sofa, looking relaxed, but her gaze slowly scanned Jiang Mi’s face and finally settled beneath her weary eyes.

 

Jiang Mi looked away. Her eyes fell on the table—cake, fruit, and on a lower side table—

 

A cup of juice, unopened. The one she’d asked Zhao Jia to give away today.

 

Perhaps noticing her gaze, Yan Wei said, “Been busy today.”

 

Jiang Mi said nothing.

 

Yan Wei added, “You should eat something.”

 

Jiang Mi paused, turned her head slightly. Her gaze was questioning, probing.

 

“You’ve looked off these past two days,” Yan Wei said—almost like an explanation.

 

Silence sank into the room, thick and heavy, weighing down Jiang Mi’s breath.

 

After a few seconds, Jiang Mi said, “Not really hungry.” Her voice was flat, like ice. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll go.”

 

Her tone wasn’t harsh, but the detached coldness in it unsettled Yan Wei.

 

“Jiang Mi.” Yan Wei’s voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped her in her tracks.

 

It was dry, finally breaking the wall of distance she’d been maintaining. Her brows creased as she said, “There’s just been some stuff at home.”

 

Jiang Mi turned back, gaze questioning the irritation on Yan Wei’s face. “What happened?”

 

Maybe even she didn’t realize the concern in her tone.

 

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Yan Wei replied decisively, resisting further questions.

 

But within that resistance, a flicker of unease passed through her—she remembered Jiang Mi’s unanswered message:

 

“Yan Wei, I don’t like this. Not at all.”

 

Maybe cornered by her own restlessness, maybe desperate to hold onto something—Yan Wei suddenly stepped forward and grabbed Jiang Mi’s wrist.

 

Skin against skin, and the two days of estrangement shattered instantly. The touch was real, familiar—and alarmingly warm.

 

Her hand slid slowly up Jiang Mi’s arm, fingers curling, pulling her closer until their breaths mingled.

 

“Hold me.”

 

Her voice carried a vulnerability she hadn’t even noticed in herself. In her eyes, something sharper swirled—grievance, maybe, or frustration, or a confusion even she didn’t understand.

 

Jiang Mi looked down at her. She didn’t resist—just quietly gave in to this sudden closeness and wrapped her arms around Yan Wei’s waist.

 

As their bodies pressed together, Yan Wei’s breath caught in a near-silent gasp.

 

Jiang Mi could feel the tremor in her body, and the quick, uneasy thump of her heart beneath layers of softness.

 

Then—

 

Jiang Mi closed her eyes. When she opened them, the restrained darkness had become a storm.

 

She grabbed Yan Wei’s chin, her thumb pressing firmly against the soft skin.

 

She leaned in—dangerously close.

 

The scent of sweet milk clung to Yan Wei. Her body stiffened, breath halted—

 

So good.

 

She craved more of Jiang Mi’s nearness.

 

Just as she thought that kiss would fall—

 

Jiang Mi let go.

 

Her arm dropped from Yan Wei’s waist at the same time.

 

She took a step back and stared at the shock and dismay in Yan Wei’s eyes.

 

Her gaze was calm, like deep water—yet full of undercurrents.

 

“Yan Wei.” Jiang Mi’s voice was soft, each word piercing straight into Yan Wei’s heart like silk-threaded needles:

 

“Let’s not even talk about how we don’t have a relationship. Even if we had something—anything—I wouldn’t be someone you can just pick up and throw away at your convenience. Come close when you’re feeling good, treat me like a trash bin when you’re not…”

 

Her eyes locked with Yan Wei’s—not cold, but far more painful to look at because of their serenity.

 

She said:

 

“Remember how ‘uncomfortable’ you feel right now. Because I’ve been feeling that—at least ten times worse.”