Marked by My Scummy Ex-Wife’s Boss (GL) - Chapter 21
The high concentration of pheromones in the air made Song Zhen’s consciousness begin to blur again.
But she knew exactly what the issue at hand was. She grabbed Zhu Sui’s hand that was wrapped around her and asked anxiously, “Then… then what about your cousin? How did she react?”
Zhu Sui observed her for a moment, then chuckled softly. “Jiejie, you’re really nervous.”
Song Zhen blushed at the teasing, but she also knew very well that in an AO family, if they found out the next-generation pillar of the family had a Beta partner—no, wait… she suddenly remembered…
As if reading her thoughts, Zhu Sui calmly said, “I didn’t tell her you’re an Omega. My cousin thinks you’re a Beta.”
“What…?”
Now Song Zhen was thoroughly confused.
Zhu Sui stopped teasing and told her plainly, “She didn’t say much.”
“She didn’t?” Song Zhen asked, confused and still on edge.
“Mm. No comments. Just said she understood. But—”
Song Zhen’s nerves returned in full force.
Zhu Sui added in full, “She wants to invite you to a gathering—as my girlfriend.”
She still wanted to invite her? That had to mean acceptance… right?
But…
“If you want to go, go. If you don’t, I’ll decline for you. No pressure,” Zhu Sui said steadily.
“Don’t be nervous. Just do what you want.”
Her tone was so reassuring—Zhu Sui had always been true to her word. Song Zhen slowly relaxed again.
They had exchanged only a few sentences, but because their faces were so close and Zhu Sui’s pheromones were thick in the air, once Song Zhen’s mind settled, sleep swept over her like a wave. Her eyelids grew so heavy she couldn’t lift them. She tried to say something, still clutching Zhu Sui’s wrist, but only managed to move her lips before darkness claimed her.
—
By the time she opened her eyes, morning sunlight had already filled the room.
Today was the trial.
There was no time to discuss anything with Zhu Sui. After organizing her materials, she let Zhu Sui drive her to the military tribunal.
The charges Song Zhen filed were serious—“misappropriation of another’s scientific achievement” and “petition to restore original project founder status for the Z-serum.” Even without knowing what was true or false, the allegations alone were enough to stir controversy.
Especially since the pheromone stabilizer project was one of the most high-profile and closely watched projects in the country—perhaps even globally.
And now, Song Zhen was suing Cheng Lang.
For nothing less than scientific theft.
If proven true, it would become a massive scandal, shaking the entire First Research Institute—and probably dominating news headlines and trending charts alike.
Which is why, on the day of the trial, nearly every high-ranking official from the institute showed up.
It was a clear sign of just how much weight the institute placed on Cheng Lang and her project.
Song Zhen wore formal attire that day: a crisp white blazer. Her usually bare face was fully made up in a soft rosewood palette, concealing the fatigue from recent days and giving her a composed, capable appearance.
Outside the courtroom, she reunited with Zuo Tian to double-check their materials. Looking at the two men standing behind Zuo Tian, Song Zhen solemnly said, “Thank you for believing in me.”
Aside from Zuo Tian, they were the only two experimental staff who chose to stay with her.
One of them was an intern—Chen Ye, a junior at the Military Medical University.
The other was a senior lab technician, Cao Fan, who had been with the project from the very beginning. His pregnant sister had once been helped by the affiliated lab. His loyalty to Song Zhen and Zuo Tian wasn’t a surprise.
“The documents are all in order,” Song Zhen said, then looked back and frowned slightly. “But… there are more executives here than I expected. Are we short on copies?”
It was ideal if everyone could receive a personal copy.
Zuo Tian followed her gaze and immediately made a decision. “Chen Ye, go print a few more sets.”
Chen Ye took the USB drive and dashed off. Cao Fan, who had helped review the key talking points for today, stayed with them as they entered the courtroom.
There was still some time before the trial began.
The official research lab personnel had all arrived. Cheng Lang was making rounds, greeting senior executives from the institute.
Song Zhen scanned the room carefully. Vice directors from other departments were all present, each accompanied by one or two division heads. From the pharmaceuticals side, Vice Director Rong had come personally, along with more than a dozen department heads—clearly demonstrating how seriously the institute was taking this.
Song Zhen stepped forward to greet Vice Director Rong, who then introduced her to several other department heads. She responded with grace and politeness.
After speaking with the few familiar faces outside the courtroom, she turned her head and saw Zhu Sui standing behind her.
Beside her stood a middle-aged man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Zhu Sui—nearly 80% similar in appearance and demeanor.
Song Zhen froze. There was no mistaking who it was—Zhu Sui’s father, Deputy Director Zhu of the weapons research division.
And with her and Zhu Sui secretly married, the moment felt unbearably awkward.
Zhu Sui seemed to sense her discomfort and suddenly burst into laughter—a rare sight. Her long eyes curved like crescent moons, her bright smile revealing a row of white teeth, and her dimples deepened beneath her eyes. She gently placed a hand on Song Zhen’s shoulder and began introductions.
Deputy Director Zhu greeted her politely. Song Zhen bent slightly to return the gesture.
He thanked her sincerely for what she had done for Zhu Yi, offered a few polite words, and—with the trial about to begin—didn’t linger long before taking his leave.
Song Zhen was left with a complicated swirl of emotions.
Zhu Sui leaned in to explain quietly, “I didn’t ask him to come. He insisted on thanking you himself.”
After a beat, she added with a mischievous smirk, “Maybe my uncle said something to him…”
Before Song Zhen could ask more, the judge, court officers, and lawyers all arrived. Zhu Sui gave her shoulder a gentle pat and whispered, “You’ve got this, Jiejie.”
Somehow, those words calmed Song Zhen’s heart.
—
The courtroom fell silent.
The judge announced the rules, struck the gavel, and began the proceedings right on schedule.
Time moved forward, and each phase of the trial proceeded in order.
When it came time for evidence presentation, Song Zhen’s lawyer asked the judge for permission to submit all documents at once, based on their organized case file.
The court granted approval, and each executive from the research institute seated in the audience was provided a copy of the evidence.
Cheng Lang then requested her own copy—with the plaintiff’s consent, the court allowed it.
Holding the thick stack of papers, Cheng Lang might have looked calm, but inwardly, she was anything but.
And the moment she opened to the first page, she froze.
There was no mistaking it.
It was the original project application form for the Z-serum—submitted by Song Zhen.
Back in college, they were still handwritten.
And this wasn’t in Song Zhen’s handwriting.
It was hers.
She had written it for Song Zhen.
The second page was also a project application—this time bearing her (Cheng Lang’s) name. The content was nearly identical to the first.
What followed was the official approval from the Military Medical University, listing only her name as the founder.
Attached was a page of chat logs.
[“Didn’t expect the military university to value this project so highly… Zhenzhen, maybe we should put your name on it instead. I feel a bit embarrassed…”]
—That was what Cheng Lang had said back then.
[“No need. This project is incredibly complex. District Three has been researching it for over a decade. We might not even get past the first step. Let’s just start and see.”]
—Song Zhen had replied.
Then came a record of work-related discussions between the three of them.
From material selection, to analysis of the base stabilizing agents, to defining the scope of pharmaceutical compounds…
As Cheng Lang read on, her hands began to tremble involuntarily.
Because every page was real. Every page was part of those grueling, bittersweet years.
Climbing hills in the summer to find rare herbs. Staying out on snowy nights past ten to test a new formula. Never going back to the dorms…
Those were their youthful years—still in college, not yet touched by the world—driven entirely by passion.
And yet, what shook Cheng Lang even more was that Song Zhen hadn’t altered a thing.
Everything was presented exactly as it had been. Whatever Song Zhen had proposed was clearly marked. Whatever Cheng Lang had contributed was preserved and acknowledged.
They knew each other too well.
Song Zhen didn’t bother with pettiness.
Rather than submitting a one-sided set of evidence in her favor, Song Zhen had chosen to restore the full, unvarnished truth. Clear. Honest. Unafraid. Letting everyone understand what had really happened—all at once.
She refused to play a game of tit-for-tat: submit one half, then let Cheng Lang piece together the other to cobble together the full picture. Song Zhen wanted everything laid bare, right from the start.
Cheng Lang couldn’t keep reading. She shut the file with a frown and closed her eyes.
She was stunned by Song Zhen’s integrity—and even more overwhelmed by her own shame.
The cleaner Song Zhen appeared, the dirtier she felt.
Her lawyer had worried Song Zhen would only submit evidence that favored herself. So Cheng Lang had spent days scouring for proof of her own contributions.
Only to realize now—it had all been for nothing.
Song Zhen never had any intention of twisting the facts.
It had been wasted effort.
Cheng Lang lifted her head and, for the first time since stepping into the courtroom, looked directly at Song Zhen. Song Zhen met her gaze calmly and unflinchingly.
Her eyes were bright, her posture tall and straight.
Cheng Lang couldn’t describe what she felt.
It was as if Song Zhen had never changed. From high school to university to now, she had always walked the path she believed in. She never turned back. Never compromised her principles.
Not only Cheng Lang—even the high-level executives in the observation gallery were shocked.
The documentation was so detailed. They had always known Cheng Lang had contributed greatly to the project, but now they realized—Z-serum had another key figure behind it: Song Zhen.
And that the progress made in recent years owed just as much to her.
It was… beyond all expectations.
In this day and age, were there still researchers who cared nothing for fame or credit?
Apparently, yes.
And the woman in front of them was one of them.
The incident where Song Zhen had saved a destabilized pregnant subject had already spread through the Institute.
Now, after reading these documents, the leadership realized they’d underestimated her.
It was clear now—Song Zhen’s ability, not luck, had saved Zhu Yi.
Her evidence was so thorough and objective, with no deliberate attack against Cheng Lang. It was simply an accurate record of events.
Because of this, the trial proceeded unusually smoothly. The defense had no grounds for rebuttal.
The judge had seen most of the defense’s documents already—contained in Song Zhen’s file—so he only skimmed through them briefly.
Just before noon, the judge struck the gavel again and announced:
“This court will now deliver its ruling. Please rise.”
“The court finds that the defendant, Cheng Lang, did not commit the act of ‘misappropriating another’s scientific work.’ Therefore, the plaintiff’s claim on this charge is rejected.”
“However, the court recognizes that the plaintiff, Song Zhen, is indeed one of the original founders of the Z-serum project. It is hereby determined that both Song Zhen and Cheng Lang are co-founders of the project.”
“This concludes the trial.”
Just as the judge and judicial panel prepared to leave, Song Zhen’s lawyer raised his hand again.
The judge allowed him to speak.
The lawyer glanced at Song Zhen. She nodded. He then said:
“The plaintiff accepts the ruling and will not file an appeal. Additionally—”
“As the officially recognized co-founder of the project by the military court, my client would like to use this status to formally apply—before the First Research Institute—for the establishment of a second research group, led by the plaintiff. We respectfully request that the military court remain present as a witness and supervisor to ensure fairness and transparency.”
A murmur rippled through the room. No one had expected this move from Song Zhen.
“Order!” the judge called.
The lawyer handed the mic to Song Zhen. She cleared her throat gently and spoke:
“Since the court has affirmed my identity as a founder of the Z-serum project, I believe I have the right to apply for the establishment of a separate second research team.”
“From today onward, all research outcomes and honors will be clearly separated from the first team led by Cheng Lang. We will operate as an independent research group under the same project.”
“I have already prepared the necessary documentation. According to institute protocols, a decision must be reviewed by three deputy directors and three department heads in the relevant field. I believe all of them are present today in the gallery and meet the criteria for judgment.”
She paused, then spoke with resolute calm:
“I request that the review be conducted here, under military court supervision, to ensure full fairness.”
“According to Article 130 of the Hua Nation’s Research Code, which grants specific rights to project founders, I request that this matter be handled immediately in court.”
In plain language:
Song Zhen was invoking her rights as a recognized founder to establish a completely separate Z-serum team.
She wanted a formal split from the original lab. From now on, any success or failure of each team would be judged independently.
And under the authority of the military tribunal’s verdict, she was exercising her legal right:
To demand that the military court supervise and notarize this request, compelling the First Military Research Institute—within its jurisdiction—to deliver a lawful, binding decision on the spot.
This had been her true goal all along.
She would not allow the institute’s internal politics—its fear of offending Cheng Lang—to drag out her “application” due to insufficient signatories.
No. She wanted a lawful, official response in open court.