After Becoming the Live-in Scummy Alpha, I Pamper Her with Real Strength - Chapter 7

He Song was acutely aware—she was dreaming.

In the dream, she stood outside a lavish white villa. The night was pitch black, with only the porch light casting a pale glow by the entrance. As she approached, the front door opened before she could even knock.

A well-dressed woman greeted her with a polite nod and a smile. “Miss Jiang, Miss Mo is in the bedroom upstairs. Second door to the left.”

Joy bubbled up in her chest, and “He Song” chuckled lowly. “She’s still putting on that cold front after we’ve already slept together? Let’s see how high and mighty she is once her heat kicks in tonight. Are all preparations done?”

The woman with the high ponytail pulled a small pink vial from her pocket. “I’ve already brought out the inhibitor, Miss Jiang. Everything’s ready.”

“Good work. You’ll be rewarded for it.”

With that, “He Song” headed up the staircase, its plush carpet muffling her steps. Even barefoot, it felt luxurious.

It was as if her soul had been separated from her body—she floated outside herself, watching everything unfold. The sensations were so vivid she almost believed this was real.

She continued up to the second floor. A faint scent of floral wood mingled with the sweet aroma of peaches in the air. “He Song” smirked, opened the bedroom door—and was immediately hit by a dense wave of pheromones.

The peach scent wrapped around her like velvet, seeping into every inch of her being. The back of her neck began to burn, and a surge of cedar—her own pheromone—rose in response. The mingling of the two raised the room’s temperature in an instant.

And at the center of it all was Mo Qingran.

The short-haired beauty lay weakly on the bed, her vision hazy, body trembling, barely conscious. Her fair skin was flushed pink, and she was wrapped in nothing but a white towel, clearly just out of the shower.

Damp strands of hair clung to her cheeks, softening her aloof beauty with a fragile allure.

Her rosy lips parted slightly, exhaling faint breaths. The usually cold face was now dazed and sweetly vulnerable—like a lost fawn caught in the woods.

He Song felt a jolt. She knew exactly what was about to happen—and she wanted to stop it. But her body kept moving on its own, step by step toward the bed. She had no control.

She watched herself roughly yank Mo Qingran up by the hair, her movements violent, her face twisted in a hideous sneer like some demon from hell.

“Let’s see if you dare give me attitude again after this. Don’t act like we haven’t slept together. What, you’re too good for me now? A spoiled little heiress? Let’s see if you still act high and mighty after you beg me.”

The sharp tug at her scalp brought Mo Qingran back to her senses for a brief second. When she saw the face before her, she began to struggle furiously.

“Still resisting?” “He Song” growled, then raised a hand with long red nails and slapped her across the face.

Smack.

Bloody scratches appeared on Mo Qingran’s delicate cheek.

Mo Qingran’s gasp of pain was choked in her throat. She clutched her face and glared at “He Song” with venom. “Jiang Weiran! If you touch me, I’ll make sure you’re kicked out of the Mo family by tomorrow.”

The moment those familiar lines came out, He Song realized: this wasn’t just a dream—it was a replay of the original plot.

This scene occurred after Jiang Weiran and Mo Qingran got married. Mo Qingran had refused to sleep with her, so Jiang Weiran planned to take advantage of her heat.

He Song felt powerless. This was only the beginning. From here on, Jiang Weiran’s abuse of Mo Qingran escalated. She could only watch helplessly, unable to change anything.

Mo Qingran’s cold, angry voice did nothing to deter Jiang Weiran—if anything, it made her worse.

“You think you’re still that untouchable heiress? Your parents are dead, the Mo family has no place for you. You think I’m scared of someone all alone?”

Mo Qingran’s eyes were sharp as blades. “Don’t think siding with Mo Yun means you’ll get everything you want. She’s only helping you because she wants to use you.”

“So what if I’m being used?” Jiang Weiran slapped her again, unable to handle the glare that pierced like talons.

Mo Qingran’s breath came in ragged gasps, her heat-weakened body on the verge of collapse.

Jiang Weiran knelt down, leaning in to gaze into her tear-reddened eyes. “Feeling it now, aren’t you? I can smell it. Our pheromones have a 95% compatibility. We were made for each other. It’ll feel amazing.”

“Beg me, and I’ll make it quick.”

Mo Qingran bit her tongue, the metallic taste of bl00d snapping her back to lucidity. If she didn’t get out now, she’d lose control.

She stumbled toward the edge of the bed, dragging herself to the bathroom. Jiang Weiran crossed her arms, watching with a sneer. “You’re not going anywhere. There’s no inhibitor left in this house. I’m your only cure.”

She sniffed the air and licked her lips. “That scent… I’m about to lose it.”

Mo Qingran froze, then groped for the lamp on the nightstand. Jiang Weiran didn’t expect someone mid-heat to fight back, let alone throw the lamp at her.

Crash.

Glass shattered across the floor. Jiang Weiran dodged nimbly, then scoffed—only to see Mo Qingran sprinting for the bathroom.

“Sh1t!” Jiang Weiran lunged after her, but the door slammed shut with a click.

Inside, Mo Qingran collapsed against the cold tile, breath ragged, body burning.

BANG BANG BANG.

Jiang Weiran pounded the door, shouting furiously, “Get out here, Mo Qingran!”

Peach pheromones seeped through the cracks beneath the door. Jiang Weiran wasn’t in heat, but she had a pheromone-dependence disorder—she craved Mo Qingran’s scent like a drug.

She never expected this plan to backfire. Who would’ve thought Mo Qingran could resist the call of her own pheromones and refuse to bond?

As the dream blurred, He Song’s consciousness began to dim. In Jiang Weiran’s enraged shouts and furious pounding, she looked at Mo Qingran—now unconscious and curled on the floor—with sorrow, and closed her eyes.

When she awoke, He Song couldn’t move. She felt nothing. It was as if her body no longer belonged to her.

Panic surged.

Was Jiang Weiran coming back?

Was she returning to reality—or fading away completely?

The helplessness of having no control over her body lingered long after she woke. It took ten minutes of breathless anxiety before sensation began to return.

Dragging her aching body into the shower, He Song stood under freezing water until her thoughts cleared. The shock of cold gave her back her sense of self.

The face of the woman who’d opened the door lingered vividly in her mind. Tomorrow, over lunch, she had to warn Mo Qingran—just in case.

—

Meanwhile, at the Mo residence.

Mo Qingran woke up with a gasp, tears still streaking her face, pooling at her jaw and dripping down her neck.

Shivering, she curled into a ball, hugging her knees, burying her face in her arms. The nightmare clung to her—the shouting, the slap, the unbearable shame.

Why did she dream of something like that?

Her body was weak, damp with sweat. Just like the heat episode in the dream.

It was too real. Almost like it had truly happened.

She’d nearly forgotten what Jiang Weiran used to be like. Her outer charm was deeply misleading. The first time they met—system-assigned—Jiang had shown up in loud, flashy clothes with a bouquet of roses, her ambitions written all over her face.

Cliché as it was, her sultry Alpha presence could fool many naive girls.

Mo Qingran had driven her out immediately.

But somehow, Jiang Weiran kept showing up—“coincidentally”—at events, her pursuit becoming more and more outrageous. Mo Qingran rejected her every time.

Eventually, rumors spread in the company that Jiang was her fiancé. Gossip painted them as madly in love, with a wedding on the horizon.

Jiang Weiran reveled in the attention.

At first, Mo Qingran hadn’t cared—someone so ridiculous would self-destruct in time. But after the drugging incident, she realized she’d underestimated her.

It was Mo Yun who had manipulated the system assignment. Which meant she was also using Jiang Weiran.

Jiang’s clumsy antics made her seem harmless, so Mo Qingran hadn’t suspected her before. Nor had Mo Yun expected her to be so useless—chasing for a year and still getting nowhere.

So why not flip the game? Use the enemy’s pawn as her own? Cooperation was the best disguise. Offer some bait, and betrayal could be avoided.

But now Jiang Weiran—no, He Song—was like a completely different person. Polite. Funny. Kind.

That night, instead of negotiating contract clauses, they’d ended up casually chatting.

Strangely, Mo Qingran hadn’t stopped her. In fact… she’d kind of enjoyed it.

What had she been through to become like this?

If this was still Jiang Weiran putting on a show, then she truly had the performance of a lifetime.

Mo Qingran picked up her phone. Their chat from earlier was still open.

He Song: To celebrate my successful audition, can I treat you to dinner?

Mo Qingran: I’m busy.

He Song: You still have to eat, no matter how busy. Where’s your office? I’ll find a nearby place.

Mo Qingran: Huiji Pavilion, then.

He Song: OK!

Staring at the screen, Mo Qingran frowned.

Was she getting too close?

Could she trust this new He Song?

—

Author’s Note:

The dreams they have about the original book plot are connected.