Flirting Recklessly With the White Moonlight Will Get You Marked - Chapter 7

7:

What if I’m just scaring myself? Yan Qingqiu crumpled the handbook in her hands, about to throw it away. But then she hesitated, what if it comes in handy later? After wrestling with the thought for a while, the driver approached and said softly, “Mr. Chen just called to ask if you’d like to return for dinner. If so, you can go back with Miss Song.”

Oh, right—tonight, she still had to sleep with Song Qingre!

It was too hot outside. The summer sun scorched the earth, as if trying to split the sky open. Standing out there for even a minute longer would peel a layer of skin off her. She hurried into the car.

The driver asked, “Miss, are you feeling alright?”

I’m fine, just on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Yan Qingqiu stuffed the handbook into her bag. “Let’s go home.”

She pulled out her phone and searched for information about “A turning into O.” Wait, it was “B turning into O.” No wonder the doctor hadn’t prescribed any medication. The internet had this to say:

[An A turning into O is still treatable, just take some blockers. But B turning into O? No way. Medically, it’s called secondary development. In simpler terms, it’s just late puberty. Rumor has it that such Omegas are incredibly rare, possibly even SSS-grade~]

[From what I remember, the last SSS-grade Omega was a songstress from the last century. But it was later proven that ‘SSS’ was just a gimmick, she was only S-grade.]

[SSS + secondary development? That’s stacking buffs like crazy. What about her ruts later?]

The doctor lied to me! He said this was common!

Yan Qingqiu remembered taking a test earlier, one where she had to differentiate into an ultra-rare SSS-grade Omega in front of her white moonlight.

Differentiate in front of Song Qingre?

Just as she was about to ask the system, another trending topic caught her eye:

#FuYeGetsHisDogHeadKnockedCrookedbyHisEx

Clicking in, she saw a photo of Fu Ye with his neck visibly tilted. The sight was so absurd that Yan Qingqiu couldn’t help but burst out laughing, leaning back in her seat.

Fu Ye, neck crooked, face purple with rage, could only pound the table in frustration—a perfect picture of impotent fury.

The comments were even more entertaining:

[I used to think that no matter what a handsome guy did—good or bad, loyal or scummy—I could handle it. But then I saw Fu Ye’s crooked neck, and I was instantly turned off.]

[Can’t unsee it. Contender for the most cringe-inducing image of the year: Fu Ye’s crooked neck.]

[Ahhh! Need eye bleach!]

Yan Qingqiu was thoroughly amused. Meanwhile, her phone buzzed incessantly with messages from people asking if the rumors were true. Not wanting to stir up trouble, she ignored them—except for one pinned contact, which was likely her best friend.

By the time the car arrived, she was still scrolling. The butler came to open the door for her, bowing slightly.

“Your father called earlier.”

“Huh?” Yan Qingqiu looked up from her phone. “Who?”

“Your father. He called half an hour ago.” The butler leaned in slightly. Yan Qingqiu lifted the hem of her skirt and took his hand to step out. For some reason, she felt a pang of unease—was it because she’d grown up in an orphanage and was unused to paternal affection? Or was she afraid of being exposed? The emotions were too tangled to unravel.

“What did he say?”

“It’s about the online rumors. Fu Ye apparently called him to complain that you hit him.”

“He actually tattled?!” Yan Qingqiu scowled, her nose beading with sweat from the heat.

The butler nodded. “Indeed. Quite unexpected, and utterly lacking in gentlemanly conduct. So what if you hit him a few times? He’s the one who couldn’t decide between you and Miss Song.”

The words resonated with Yan Qingqiu. She glanced at him. “Did you say that to my dad?” It felt strange—the word “dad” rolled off her tongue easily, and she could even picture the man’s face in her mind.

“I did. I pointed it out quite bluntly. But given the scale of the fallout and its impact on business, your father might call you again.”

The Yan family was in the cosmetics industry, a fiercely competitive field. Their brand was an old one, struggling to keep up with trendy new labels. The Fu family, on the other hand, was a corporate giant with investments everywhere—including Yan’s father’s projects. If Fu Ye pulled his funding, it would hit the Yan’s hard.

Yan Qingqiu hummed in acknowledgment. She sat on the living room sofa, her gaze drifting to the roses in the vase on the coffee table. The butler’s work was always to her liking. After a moment, she asked, “What do you think my dad will say?”

“Hard to say. But hitting someone and forcibly kissing Miss Song does seem a little excessive. By any standard, your actions were questionable.”

Yan Qingqiu huffed. “When is my dad coming back?”

“Probably in a week.”

Her father was overseas negotiating a deal and wouldn’t return anytime soon. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. One day at a time…”

“However, he instructed me to freeze your cards.”

Yan Qingqiu sat up straight, then immediately slumped back. She fiddled with her smooth nails. “Too late. I already spent it all.”

“…What?” The butler was stunned. “Already?”

“I told you a million wouldn’t last long. I just bought some jewelry and clothes, and poof—gone.”

“Where are the items?”

“I dumped them in Song Qingre’s office. Ugh, stop asking. It’s annoying.” Yan Qingqiu stood up and grabbed her phone, stomping upstairs. She considered texting Song Qingre to transfer the million first—just in case Fu Ye had leaked her plan to “sponsor” Song Qingre, leading her father to freeze her accounts and sabotage the arrangement. That man is pure evil.

She paused mid-step and called down to the butler, “Go prepare a guest room for Song Qingre tonight. It’s too cramped for us to share a bed.”

Too cramped was a lie. The real issue was her impending differentiation. If—just if—they lost control and did something irreversible, it’d be a disaster.

Back in her room, Yan Qingqiu pulled out the two items from her bag. The sponsorship contract no longer mattered, what mattered was the handbook.

She flipped through it repeatedly, growing more distressed with each page.

She searched for another question: [Will an Omega die if their gland is removed?]

Answer: Yes.

Yan Qingqiu’s eyes reddened instantly.

Wahhh…

—

At 8 p.m., the courtyard lights glowed dutifully, tiny insects fluttering around them. Yan Qingqiu had already eaten and was lying in bed when she heard a car pull in. She sat up to look—Song Qingre had stood her up for dinner, citing work.

Someone had driven Song Qingre home. Recognizing the assistant from earlier, Yan Qingqiu immediately ducked back inside.

Song Qingre moved quickly upstairs, her fingers pausing just before knocking. The butler appeared and said, “The guest room is ready, Miss Song. You’ll be staying next door tonight.”

Song Qingre tilted her head to look at him.

Her voice was soft. “Is Qingqiu… rejecting me again?”

“Miss Song—” The butler’s words died in his throat.

“Alright. Tonight is inconvenient. I’ve had some alcohol, she probably wouldn’t like that.” Song Qingre blinked, her eyes slightly damp. She agreed easily, asking, “Which room is it?”

The butler pointed. Song Qingre turned and pushed the door open.

Yan Qingqiu pressed her ear to the door, hearing unsteady footsteps. She cracked it open slightly—the faint scent of alcohol wafted in, barely masked by citrus. It made her nose wrinkle.

Her foot hovered at the threshold, torn between checking on Song Qingre and retreating. Then she noticed the butler, still lingering in the hallway like a specter. No wonder he knew about their teenage kisses.

She withdrew and flopped onto the bed, opening her chat history with Song Qingre. Most of the messages were demands for Song Qingre to stay away from Fu Ye, veering dangerously close to outright insults.

[You’d better keep your distance from Fu Ye. We’re engaged now. If you don’t want to be a homewrecker, don’t meet him. And if you do want to be one, don’t blame me for what happens next.]

[I’ve seen plenty of green teas like you. Stringing men along is your specialty, but don’t think I won’t make you regret it.]

Song Qingre hadn’t replied to a single one.

The further back she scrolled, the worse it got—all variations of stay away from Fu Ye, painting Song Qingre as some shameless seductress.

Yan Qingqiu propped her chin on her hand, pulling out the butler’s notes. For some reason, a pang of guilt struck her. She slipped out of her room, the butler was still patrolling the living room with a lamp. She clapped softly, and he came upstairs.

“Go wake the chef and have them make some pear soup for Miss Song. Or any other hangover remedy, just make sure it tastes good. Deliver it to her room.”

The butler nodded. Yan Qingqiu added, “Don’t tell her I asked. Say it’s leftovers. Got it?”

“Lying seems unnecessary. No one else here cares about Miss Song’s well-being but you.”

“J-just go!”

Back in her room, Yan Qingqiu strained to listen. The butler delivered the soup, but she heard no response from Song Qingre. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her into a fitful sleep.

Her body burned as if on fire, heat crawling from her neck down to her ankles. Drenched in sweat, she kicked off the blankets.

“Mmm…”

In her feverish haze, she dreamed of a strange room filled with stifled gasps—more restrained than her own.

“Qingqiu, don’t come closer. Be good.”

“Silly, you won’t die. I’m just in my rut.”

“There, there. Don’t cry. Even if it’s your rut, you can’t just sneak kisses.”

“Why are you crying?”

The girl on the bed—no, more like a teenager—wore a thin summer dress, her skin flushed pink. Yan Qingqiu stood frozen, but the other girl seemed far more composed despite her exhaustion, her tired eyes always smiling, always telling her not to worry.

Rolling off the right side of the bed, Yan Qingqiu thudded onto the floor, her nightgown riding up to reveal pale thighs and pink lace. The cool floor brought a moment of clarity—her eyelids fluttered open, then shut again.

She touched her damp lashes.

I really am sad.

That dream… it felt so real. Like it had actually happened.

She lay there for a long time, her body unbearably hot. A cold shower and twenty minutes in the tub only made it worse—her skin now burned even fiercer, as if the room itself were on fire.

The doctor hadn’t prescribed suppressants, saying they’d harm her beta physiology. If she did turn Omega, using them now could cause irreversible damage.

Yan Qingqiu yanked open the curtains and stepped onto the balcony for air. The scene below caught her eye, a figure stood beneath the plum tree in the courtyard.

Clad in a black slip dress, Song Qingre leaned against the withered plum tree. Beside it, a rose bush bloomed wildly, its leaves and petals carpeting the wall. A brown vine stretched across the ground, nearly touching the plum’s dead roots.

In the darkness, if they grew just a bit bolder, they’d intertwine exactly like in Song Qingre’s painting.

At dinner, Yan Qingqiu had asked the butler about the plum tree. He’d said it hadn’t bloomed in years—the old Yan Qingqiu had often demanded it be chopped down, but he’d “forgotten.”

Sadness was visible from a distance. Song Qingre stood motionless, radiating sorrow. Then, as if sensing eyes on her, she turned. Yan Qingqiu ducked, her heart hammering.

When she dared to look again, the courtyard was empty. The plum and rose trees remained unchanged, though the rose seemed one determined stretch away from reaching the withered roots.

Her chest ached.

Have I… have I been terrible to her all these years?