Flirting Recklessly With the White Moonlight Will Get You Marked - Chapter 8
8:
The heat was unbearable. Yan Qingqiu spent the entire night in a daze, tormented by the thought—she truly didn’t want to differentiate.
Even less did she want her gland removed.
The next morning, Yan Qingqiu carefully picked out an outfit: a white crop top paired with matching hot shorts, effortlessly cool and youthful. Her natural curls felt stifling down, so she tied them up, securing them with a pearl butterfly clip. She hooked a finger around a blue-tinted strand at the back, she’d never liked this dyed color. Her natural curls should’ve been golden, radiating innate elegance.
She scrutinized herself in the mirror before grabbing a tape measure to check her bust. Whether it was psychological or not, it seemed slightly fuller than yesterday. She jotted down the numbers.
The handbook mentioned omegas developing pheromones have scents detectable by alphas. She lifted her arm to sniff. She’d deliberately avoided scented products during her morning shower, yet still smelled nothing. Weird.
When she opened the door, the butler stood waiting outside.
Startled, Yan Qingqiu stumbled back. Before she could speak, he respectfully handed her a sheet of paper. “Miss, today’s update.”
“Oh.” She took it.
The butler lowered his voice conspiratorially. “A friendly suggestion, read this alone. Definitely not in public.”
“!”
Her eyes widened.
Wait… is this smut?
She immediately stuffed it into her pocket.
Song Qingre was already awake, seated at the dining table with perfectly arranged cutlery. Her smile was pristine, cold as winter light—utterly unlike someone who’d been drunk and sleepless.
As Yan Qingqiu descended, yesterday’s image of Song Qingre’s loneliness flashed through her mind. Though a night had passed, it felt like a blink—how had she shifted to cheerfulness so quickly?
Song Qingre propped her chin on interlaced fingers, her skin brushing against her knuckles. “Good morning, big sister.”
Yan Qingqiu blinked. “Huh?”
She sat opposite Song Qingre. “What did you say?”
The chef brought out their dishes. “Please enjoy.”
Breakfast was lavish, gourmet dishes covered the table. Yan Qingqiu picked up her spoon, only to notice Song Qingre watching her.
“Why are you smiling?” Yan Qingqiu countered.
“Big sister, want some congee? Shall I serve you?”
Yan Qingqiu choked on her toast. Gulping milk to dislodge it, she felt her ears burn. Being called “big sister” wasn’t her kink, but hearing it from a beautiful woman could kill her.
“Don’t—don’t call me that,” she hissed.
“Oh? Has our sponsorship arrangement ended?” Song Qingre tilted her head.
Yan Qingqiu suspected that if she said yes, Song Qingre would call her a living bodhisattva. Instead, she muttered, “That kind of talk belongs in bed. Overuse dulls the thrill.”
“Ah… true. I thought you’d make me call you Master next time to humiliate me. But if you prefer “big sister” consistently, that works too.”
Is she doing this on purpose?
The master did sound… exciting.
The game’s opening animation resurfaced in her mind—Song Qingre kneeling, calling her Master.
Yan Qingqiu ate in silence, her thoughts spiraling. If I get the chance, I’ll use my sponsor status to make her say it. After breakfast, she lingered in the living room to cool down.
According to the doctor, both Song Qingre and Fu Ye were alphas with zero compatibility. How could they date? Wouldn’t their scents repel each other? Was this a plot hole or deliberate?
Song Qingre finished eating and donned her blazer with practiced grace.
“What’s your plan today?” Yan Qingqiu asked. She intended to go out, her socialite “friends” had been bombarding her with invitations.
“Not too busy. Preparing the art exhibition meeting with some people later. Probably won’t return until evening.” Song Qingre picked up her jacket, then stepped closer, whispering, “Sorry about last night’s drunkenness. Wait for me tonight.”
Yan Qingqiu: “!”
Goosebumps erupted. Her ears burned.
Wait for what? To… do it?
By the time she recovered, Song Qingre was gone.
A sinking realization hit, she’d walked into a trap. By “sponsoring” Song Qingre, she’d unwittingly activated Plot Point 2. No wonder the system stayed silent.
Damn it.
Today’s mission was clear: avoid the “gland removal” trigger by staying away from Song Qingre during differentiation. A trip to the bank to unlock her cards was essential, she needed financial leverage for future tasks.
“I’m washing this blue out of my hair. You’re coming with me,” she told the butler. The dye disgusted her, she wanted her natural gold back.
The butler frowned. “But you loved it before? Specifically requested it.”
“Over it now.”
“Fair. Your natural color suits you better. When you were little, sunlight turned it golden—reminds me of something memorable…”
As he scribbled in his notebook, Yan Qingqiu’s curiosity prickled.
She pulled out a salon membership card. The driver took her to her usual spot. Upon arrival, a voice called out:
“Princess Qingqiu! What’ll it be today?”
Princess? She cringed. Inside, a stunning woman—more model than stylist—in a red V-neck dress greeted her.
“Revert to my original gold.”
The stylist, Ye Sichun according to her tag, twirled a curling iron. “Told you it was your best look. Let’s undo that damage.” She gestured to a chair. “Sitting or lying down? Facial too?”
“Just hair.”
As Ye worked, loud voices carried from upstairs:
“Fu Ye funded Song Qingre’s exhibition? Pathetic. I’ve blacklisted her, anyone who buys her pieces is my enemy. Let’s watch Yan Qingqiu tear her apart.”
“Yeah, that pretentious ‘white moonlight’ act? Total fraud.”
Ah. More Fu Ye simps.
But Song Qingre was the canonical white moonlight.
“Her exhibition will flop. I’ll ruin her,” declared a voice named Luo Xi.
Fury boiled in Yan Qingqiu. Song Qingre worked tirelessly, enduring sponsorship deals and drunken networking only for these vultures to circle.
She nearly stormed out, but Ye held her down. “Bad timing. Let me perfect your hair first, then you’ll slay them.”
Logical. Charging out mid-process would undermine her intimidation factor.
“Trust me,” Ye whispered. “Gold will elevate you, my noble princess. Let them scheme. Then blind them.”
Yan Qingqiu sat back, soothed. Ye felt like a true confidante.
Three hours later, her hair gleamed gold—lighter and brighter than before, amplifying her porcelain complexion.
“When did I first dye it blue?” Yan Qingqiu asked as Ye trimmed her bangs.
“You came to me after cycling through red, green, purple—full rebel phase. This is your first revert. Princess, gold is you.”
By evening, Yan Qingqiu had unlocked her bank cards—totaling 120,000 yuan. She dismissed the butler, claiming she’d stay at a friend’s.
At a hotel, she debated checking in when Song Qingre texted:
[Off work.]
Her head spun. She pulled out her ID.
I don’t want to die.
The system had erased chunks of her initial test answers, likely to obscure lethal traps like gland removal. If it later demanded suicide, she’d be helpless.
Song Qingre called. Panicked, Yan Qingqiu pocketed the key card and headed upstairs, planning to relay Luo Xi’s threats.
The call connected. Song Qingre spoke first:
“Aren’t we fulfilling the sponsorship tonight?”
Yan Qingqiu nearly choked. A kiss was my limit! Despite her fantasies, she lacked experience.
“Is there a problem? No sleeping?”
“Why the rush?”
A window creaked open on Song Qingre’s end. “Not rushing. Just… ensuring you won’t back out.”
“Why would I? The contract—cough—the bank transfer happened.”
“You never gave me the password.”
Oops.
“It’s my birthday—November 22, Light Snow day.” She paused, nervous. Her ID matched “Yan Qingqiu’s” birthday, but what if it was falsified?
“Why so quiet?” she demanded.
“Nothing. Just nostalgic. You used to introduce your birthday as ‘the snowy day.’ Then stopped.” Song Qingre’s warmth seeped through the phone.
Did I? Yan Qingqiu tugged her collar, suddenly flushed.
“When’s yours?”
“February 14.”
“Valentine’s? Lucky. Every gift feels like a confession.”
“Are you deflecting?” Song Qingre teased.
Yan Qingqiu fired back: “Are you this eager to sleep with me?”
“You made me call you Master. Shouldn’t we settle this before you demand public displays at my workplace?”
Valid and kinky.
Song Qingre continued, “Mostly, I fear you’ll revoke the 1 million. My studio’s new, I can’t refund you. Let’s… finalize this.”
Also valid. Given Luo Xi’s malice, playing nice was pointless.
“Rushing ruins the experience!” Yan Qingqiu bluffed. “I want my money’s worth—proper preparation, maximum thrill. Or it doesn’t count.”
Silence. Then a whisper:
“Name a date. I won’t be strung along forever.”
“Day after tomorrow! Or the next! Slack off, and I’ll take you by force.”
Song Qingre changed topics. “Which friend’s house are you at?”
“None of your business.” Yan Qingqiu hung up, clutching her chest.
Any sane person would flee after that. Distance should skip the plot.
Yet the hotel bed felt alien. What if tonight’s fever returned? She’d rush home if overheating struck, no way was she stripping here.
Sleepless, she unfolded the butler’s note. Her cheeks burned. Butler, you genius!
She crumpled it. Enough, Song Qingre won’t even need to seduce me at this rate.
Fortunately, the hotel dulled her symptoms—no uncontrollable stripping urges. The system must force plot progression. Avoiding triggers up my survival odds.
She touched her damp nape—warm, not scalding.
Song Qingre didn’t press further, likely intimidated. Their contact continued cryptically:
Song Qingre: “3”
Song Qingre: “2”
Song Qingre: “1”
At first, Yan Qingqiu thought she was overwriting past messages—until “0” arrived:
[Qingqiu, it’s 0. Which hotel?]
[Or do you prefer home?]
[Too vanilla for your tastes?]
Yan Qingqiu burrowed under the covers.
No hotels! No seven-day marathons!
Mercy!
She screenshot a calendar, circling:
Auspicious: Work/Travel
Inauspicious: Weddings/Funerals
Then typed: [Buddha says: Work hard today. Avoid bedroom affairs.] She wished she could bold the last phrase.
Song Qingre: [The almanac was written by the Yellow Emperor. What’s Buddha got to do with it?]
Yan Qingqiu froze.
More messages arrived:
Song Qingre: [Ah. I see. You prefer the outdoors.]