After Becoming the Live-in Scummy Alpha, I Pamper Her with Real Strength - Chapter 12

The not-so-ordinary He Song packed up the few belongings from her apartment—and herself along with them—and moved straight into Mo Qingran’s villa.

The moment she stepped into the grand house, she was momentarily dazed. Was this it? Had she officially landed herself a sponsor and stepped onto the golden road to success?

Even her dream of owning a villa had somehow come true.

After letting her thoughts be corrupted by money for three whole seconds, He Song gave her thigh a sharp pinch to snap herself out of it.

It’s not hers. No point dreaming.

Just the living room in this luxury villa was several times bigger than her studio apartment. The lavish furnishings and decor were practically blinding. She wasn’t well-versed in antiques, but anything displayed in Mo’s home surely wasn’t fake or cheap.

There were two waist-high celadon vases flanking the entrance, a long scroll of traditional “Hundred Horses” artwork on the living room wall, and a beautifully carved pearwood tea set featuring dragons and phoenixes. No doubt, this was a proper aristocratic household.

Dragging her pink Hello Kitty suitcase, He Song stood at the foot of the staircase and turned toward Mo Qingran, who was lounging on the sofa sipping tea. “Where am I staying?”

Mo had already changed into comfortable loungewear. Her shoulder-length hair was tied into a small ponytail with a scrunchie. A laptop sat on the table beside her—she had arranged to finish today’s work remotely.

“Upstairs, second floor, take a right. All the rooms there are guest rooms.”

He Song nodded and wheeled her suitcase upstairs.

She’d assumed moving would be a big ordeal, but after some half-hearted packing, she realized she didn’t actually own that much.

Jiang Weiran’s flamboyant taste didn’t suit her at all—those obnoxious floral shirts were gratefully left behind in the wardrobe. She barely managed to pull together a few wearable items to stuff into her suitcase.

Mo Qingran had told her she could always buy more clothes after moving out anyway.

As for all the random magazines and photos, to be honest—even though she had the original owner’s memories, she wasn’t Jiang Weiran. Those things didn’t belong to her.

So in the end, He Song packed light: just a few changes of clothes and some ID documents, and off she went in Mo Qingran’s Range Rover.

Once she settled in, she stretched lazily and headed to the bathroom for a shower.

Even as a guest room, everything was fully equipped—there was even a set of pajamas waiting.

But from the moment she entered the house until now, she hadn’t seen a single other soul. Where were all the household staff?

Even if there was a mole before, surely Mo Qingran didn’t fire everyone?

As if reading her thoughts, Mo’s voice rang out, “I let most of them go. Is it inconvenient without help? I can call someone over.”

Oh, so we’re in remote call mode now…

Wearing a bathrobe, a white towel draped over her shoulder and her hair still wet, He Song stood beside Mo Qingran. “It’s not inconvenient. It’s just… with a house this big, it feels kind of empty with just the two of

us.”

The glow from the laptop screen reflected in Mo’s eyes. She answered casually, “You’ll get used to it. I don’t find it empty when I’m by myself.”

“It’s past eight already. You’re still working?” He Song sat down beside her.

Mo Qingran kept typing without looking up. “Almost done. There are still a few tweaks left in this proposal. Give me ten more minutes. Why haven’t you dried your hair?”

You say you’re busy and still claim you had time to visit the set today. Mo Qingran, could you be a little less contradictory?

He Song touched her damp hair. “It’s too much trouble. Long hair takes forever to dry.”

In truth, the long hair was just an excuse. She preferred letting her hair air-dry—unless she had to go on camera, in which case the stylists would force her into a chair and blast her head with hot air for some dramatic look.

“Not drying your hair regularly can give you headaches,” Mo said.

He Song laughed. “Mo Qingran, you sound just like my grandma.”

Mo didn’t even blink. “Your grandma’s right. It’s all for your health.”

That made her laugh even harder.

So beneath that aloof, ice-queen exterior, Mo Qingran actually had a dry sense of humor?

With nothing better to do, He Song got up. “Let me make you something sweet. Want soufflé or egg tarts?”

Mo Qingran replied, “Mango crepe cake, please. There’s mango and whipped cream in the fridge.”

He Song slipped on her slippers and headed to the kitchen. Inside, the place was stocked to the brim with appliances: a floor-to-ceiling oven with three layers, a double-door fridge filled with neatly organized fresh ingredients.

There were sections for vegetables, meat, condiments, and even one just for desserts.

It had everything.

“Mo Qingran, your fridge is so full! Do you actually cook?”

From the living room, Mo’s voice drifted over. “Probably auntie bought them. She comes every day to cook for me.”

Of course. He Song nodded to herself. Mo Qingran definitely didn’t strike her as someone who’d cook.

Making mango crepe cake wasn’t complicated.

She mixed eggs, powdered sugar, milk, and low-gluten flour to make the batter. Then she melted butter over a hot water bath and stirred it in. After preheating a nonstick pan, she poured in ladles of batter, one after another, frying each into a golden, translucent crepe.

After that, she whipped the cream, diced the mango, and began stacking the layers.

Soon, the sweet smell of butter wafted from the kitchen.

Mo called out, “Is it ready?”

He Song answered, “Almost. I’m putting it in the fridge to chill—it’ll taste better that way.”

A few minutes later, He Song emerged from the kitchen—but the living room was empty. The laptop screen was still on, but back at the desktop.

Where’d she go?

Work must be done, so she probably went to shower—He Song thought. Her eyes instinctively drifted upward. Mo Qingran’s bedroom was on the left side of the second floor.

She quickly reined in the wild mental images threatening to spiral out of control, forced herself to refocus, and sat down where Mo Qingran had been earlier, pulling out her phone.

A few new friend requests popped up right away.

He Song tapped one open and saw it was from Yu Dongdong, who’d added her through the group chat “Fenghua Drama Family.”

Since they were coworkers who saw each other almost every day, He Song didn’t think much of it and accepted.

No sooner had she accepted than a message came through:
“He Song, is that really you?”

You’re the one who added me—if I’m not He Song, who else would I be?

She replied:
“How are you feeling? Is your leg healing up?”

Yu Dongdong responded with an adorably pitiful emoji:

“Thanks for your concern, He Song! The doctor already bandaged it, but I’ll still need a few days to recover. Should be fine by the time break’s over, so it won’t delay the shoot~”

…Wait. Yu Dongdong was this lively?

The girl chatting with her now felt like a completely different person from the one on set. This version actually aligned with the original plot’s portrayal—bubbly, cheerful. Before, she’d barely acknowledge He Song, much less speak to her unless absolutely necessary.

Well, well. Someone’s got two faces.

On set, Yu Dongdong was known to be warm and outgoing. Many crew members liked her for her sunny personality—but for some reason, she always treated He Song with a frosty edge.

In the drama, her character Wen Xiao was close friends with Lu Li. On screen, Yu Dongdong could flash gentle smiles and give Lu Li all the trust and warmth in the world. But off camera, she’d go silent, bury her head in her script, and avoid small talk altogether.

Even the detail-oriented Wu Qing had noticed. He once pulled Yu Dongdong aside and told her:
“You can’t judge someone just based on rumors you hear online. It’s like acting—you have to understand a role from every angle: their personality, habits, image, the little details. Only then can you truly embody them. One-sided stories and stereotypes will cloud your judgment.”

“I know you might have some opinions about He Song, but after working together this long, you should know what kind of person she really is.”

Still, Yu Dongdong’s attitude remained lukewarm at best.

Of course, no one said co-stars had to be best friends. And Yu Dongdong’s behavior wasn’t entirely unjustified: first, He Song was an alpha, and second, Yu’s bestie had once worked in the same crew as Jiang Weiran.

That friend had witnessed Jiang Weiran throwing diva fits, pulling sour faces, and acting like the whole production had to revolve around her.

Those experiences were firsthand, and hard for Yu Dongdong to ignore.

At first, He Song hadn’t realized she was being cold-shouldered. Her habit of chatting during breaks had kicked in, and she casually shared a few thoughts on acting with Yu Dongdong.

But after a few attempts, even someone as oblivious as He Song had caught on.

Now she was left cleaning up the original owner’s mess, and boy, was it exhausting.

Looking at the sudden switch in Yu Dongdong’s tone, He Song simply replied,
“Take care of yourself.”
Then she exited the chat.

She’d done more than enough for one day. If this little incident helped improve Yu Dongdong’s opinion of her, great—future filming and promotions would be much smoother.

“Chatting?”

Mo Qingran’s voice came from right behind her. He Song flinched and spun around.

“You scared me! Why do you walk so silently?”

Mo was wearing the exact same bathrobe as He Song. Her hair had already been dried and fell smoothly over her shoulders. In one hand, she held a hairdryer.

“My house has carpet,” she replied simply, plugging the dryer into the outlet beside the sofa.
“If you don’t dry your hair, you’ll catch a cold. If it’s too much trouble, I’ll do it for you.”

He Song was caught off guard by the offer, flattered and secretly thrilled, though she tried to maintain a modest front:
“That’s too much, Miss Mo. I can handle it myself.”

Mo blinked, expression calm.
“Okay then, suit yourself.”
She shoved the plugged-in hairdryer into He Song’s hands.

Wait—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go! She was just being polite—of course she wanted you to do it!

Mo Qingran clearly saw right through her, and the amused twitch at the corners of her mouth was hard to miss. This woman really was too interesting.

Every emotion was written on her face, changes in mood flipping on a dime.

Ever since she met He Song, Mo had found herself constantly tripped up by her antics.

“Fine. For the sake of the mango crepe cake, I’ll do it. Fair trade, right?”

—

The roar of the hairdryer filled the room as He Song closed her eyes in bliss. Mo Qingran’s cool fingers gently combed through her damp hair, running over her scalp again and again.

Warm air swept across her head, dispelling the chill, while droplets of water dripped from the ends of her hair into the towel, slowly soaking it through.

Watching He Song lean into her touch, visibly enjoying it, Mo Qingran couldn’t help but think of a large golden retriever—get the right spot and it might even let out a happy little hum.

“Feels good, right? Damp hair sticking to your neck and face is the worst.”

He Song nodded obediently.
“Bad habits need fixing. Or maybe… you can keep drying my hair in the future?”

Now that was pushing it. One session wasn’t enough, she already wanted another?

But surprisingly, Mo didn’t turn her down.
“Depends on my schedule. If I’m free, sure.”

He Song couldn’t hide her grin. Her hands gripped the leather sofa on either side of her thighs, squeezing so hard the material wrinkled.

Dear god. Another day, another moment of being completely charmed by the female lead.

After about ten minutes, her hair was mostly dry. Mo Qingran finally turned off the dryer. She crouched down, about to unplug it, when her body suddenly froze.

He Song noticed immediately.
“What’s wrong?”

She bent down to help, only to find Mo’s face pale and drenched in sweat, clearly in pain.

Mo Qingran’s voice was faint and weak:
“Can you… get me some medicine? It’s in the third drawer of that cabinet.”

—

Author’s Note:

Author: So, one thinks the other is a cat, the other thinks she’s a dog. Basically, neither of you sees the other as human?

He Song: What do you know? That’s just couple telepathy.

Thanks for catching the typos—they’ve been fixed!