The Scumbag Alpha Movie Queen Pampers Her Wife - Chapter 21

The dazzling extravagance of N City lay hidden beneath the fading sunlight. Multicolored neon lights merged with the distant mountain ranges, casting their glow over the bustling streets.

The Omega lay flat on the soft bed, her gaze drifting aimlessly toward the darkening sky visible through the window. From this high floor, only the twilight sky was visible.

She tapped on Gu Muchu’s profile. The chat history still lingered on Gu Muchu’s apology from when she had been ill.

Ji Yuran had seen the message but hadn’t replied, choosing instead to grab her pillow and move to another room.

The clock ticked past 10:30 PM. By now, Gu Muchu would have already boarded her flight.

Ji Yuran repeatedly tapped the text input box, the keyboard rising and falling as if mirroring her restless emotions. If she sent Gu Muchu a message now, the Alpha would undoubtedly reply the moment she landed.

But that would make her seem too eager, forcing conversation where none was needed.

Ji Yuran rolled over, as if trying to discern Gu Muchu’s current mood through her profile picture.

The bright ceiling light shone like a pale moon, while the air conditioner hummed, its cold breeze lifting a corner of the bedsheet facing the vent.

Omega draped an arm across her forehead, staring at the ceiling light for a moment before finally closing the chat window. She rolled over, reached for the tablet on her nightstand, and tapped the red icon to log into the game that had recently captivated her.

The game’s soothing art style had made it widely popular. Though technically a social app, Ji Yuran was a lone wolf with an empty friends list. Whenever she felt down, she would find a quiet spot and quietly grind in the game.

As her character passed through a dimly lit tunnel, the view opened up to reveal a vast expanse of yellow sand stretching beneath her feet. In the distance, a churning sea of clouds merged seamlessly with the radiant moonlight. The little avatar sat atop a dune, its bulbous eyes staring intently at Ji Yuran through the screen.

Ji Yuran lowered her gaze and swiped open the camera function in the lower right corner of the screen. She snapped several photos of the game’s scenery until she found the perfect shot, then sent it to her phone. All the while, her eyes kept drifting back to Gu Muchu’s chat window.

Gu Muchu’s profile picture, true to her name, was a romantic sunset photo.

Ji Yuran wasn’t one to share her life online, but today she made an exception, posting a screenshot from a game with the caption:

Watching the moonlight alone is so healing! [Image]

After posting, an inexplicable wave of embarrassment washed over her. She wanted to delete it immediately, but staring at the “1 minute ago” timestamp, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Setting down her phone, Ji Yuran tried to focus on completing her daily game tasks, but her mind kept wandering. Every few minutes, she found herself refreshing her WeChat Moments.

A long-awaited red notification dot finally appeared. Her heart skipped a beat as she clicked on it.

The like came from a friend she’d made when she first started working. The friend commented, “So pretty! What game is this?”

Her elation was instantly doused with cold water. It was the predictable outcome. Ji Yuran replied politely and then turned on her phone’s always-on display, placing it next to her tablet.

Perhaps because Ji Yuran rarely posted, many people came to show their support. A steady stream of red dots appeared, and she scrolled through them one by one.

Nothing.

It was nearly 2 a.m. now. Gu Muchu’s flight should have landed by now. She should be… checking her phone.

Ji Yuran kept finding excuses to comfort herself, finally deciding to distract herself.

Fifteen more minutes passed, and the likes on her WeChat Moments kept pouring in. Watching the numbers tick up, she felt inexplicably irritated.

Her knuckles gripped her phone until they turned white, the shame and embarrassment slowly solidifying in her heart.

She didn’t even know what she was doing—entertaining herself in this tiny digital world.

Like a fool.

Ji Yuran’s face hardened as she coldly tapped on the post, ready to delete it. Just as she was about to, a notification banner popped up at the top of her screen.

In the profile picture, the twilight cast a warm, golden glow over the surrounding scenery.

First Light of Dusk: Still awake so late? Hiding in your room playing games?

First Light of Dusk: [Image]

She had actually sent a screenshot of Ji Yuran’s WeChat Moments directly to her.

Ji Yuran froze for a moment, the gloom that had been weighing on her heart inexplicably lifting. She tapped into the chat window, puffed out her cheeks slightly, and poked the screen twice with her fingertip.

A silent protest against Gu Muchu’s neglect.

The airport was quiet in the early morning hours, the lights outside the exit extinguished as if in deep slumber.

Gu Muchu repeatedly checked Ji Yuran’s social media updates, convinced that her being awake at this hour meant she was too excited to sleep after Gu Muchu’s departure.

You don’t have to be that happy, she thought, amused. She took a screenshot of the update and decided to ask Ji Yuran directly.

The contact name switched between “Little Lion” and “Typing…” several times, but the chat remained silent, with no message sent.

Gu Muchu initially thought her internet connection was acting up. It wasn’t until five minutes later that a message finally arrived.

Little Lion: Aren’t you awake too?

Gu Muchu had just finished reading the message. Her smile faded, and she didn’t press further. Recalling their conversation about horror movies the previous night, Gu Muchu regretted her insistence on watching them, feeling like a creepy aunt.

Determined to be more understanding, she decided to keep Ji Yuran company if she was scared.

Little Lion: ?

After sending the question mark, there was no further response. Gu Muchu waited patiently, wondering what Ji Yuran was doing. Just then, Lan Jing walked over and waved.

“Sister Gu, I’ll wait for my luggage here,” Gu Muchu said, nodding toward the bench.

Gu Muchu nodded, thanked her, and walked over to the bench. The area was dimly lit, relying on the spillover from the luggage carousel. The curved, hollowed-out bench wasn’t particularly comfortable.

The air conditioning was cold. She wrapped her long coat tighter around herself as her phone vibrated.

Little Lion: I’m free.

Gu Muchu’s lips curved into a smile as she tapped the voice call button. The call connected almost instantly.

She pressed the receiver to her ear. Across the phone screen, neither of them spoke first. Their long, steady breaths filled the silence, gradually syncing into a shared rhythm.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Ji Yuran finally spoke after two seconds of silence. As the one who initiated the call, she seemed a little embarrassed, her voice low and muffled, with a nasal quality that added to the hazy, dreamy feeling.

Gu Muchu had been doing it on purpose, simply wanting to hear Ji Yuran’s voice.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Sensing the Little Omega’s awkwardness, she replied slowly. Her voice, raspy from disuse, had an alluring, ticklish quality.

Gu Muchu admired Ji Yuran’s straightforward and proactive nature. She clearly knew what she wanted and didn’t want. What Gu Muchu couldn’t understand was why this Omega, so poised and confident in public, became so timid and hesitant around her.

Ji Yuran choked on the counter-question, nearly plucking all the fluff off her nightgown. Staring at the tufts of white fuzz on her fingertips, she leaned in and blew on them, stammering, “I… I…” but couldn’t force out a single word.

“I… I wanted to call you,” Ji Yuran finally blurted out, scraping together a reason. Now that she had a justification, her voice gained conviction, ringing with righteous indignation.

Gu Muchu chuckled softly, responding with a firm “Hmm,” like a teacher acknowledging a student’s correct answer. The sound, transmitted through the phone, tickled Ji Yuran’s ear, leaving half of it tingling.

As they spoke, Lan Jing glanced around before dragging her suitcase over, still holding her phone with the screen lit. She seemed to have just confirmed arrangements with the airport driver.

Gu Muchu covered the microphone with her hand and whispered, “I’m muting the mic now. I don’t want to disturb you when I go out later.”

As soon as Gu Muchu finished speaking, Ji Yuran immediately protested, “No need!”

Realizing her overreaction, she cleared her throat to hide her embarrassment and murmured softly, “It’s so quiet at home… there’s no one there at all…”

The end of her sentence carried a hint of coquettishness, instantly melting Gu Muchu’s heart. She had never heard Ji Yuran speak to her in such a soft, tender tone before, though she wondered if it was just the phone.

The Omega’s dazzlingly beautiful face flashed in her mind, and she could almost imagine how obedient Ji Yuran would be if they were face-to-face.

“Alright, I won’t turn it off,” Gu Muchu replied with indulgent affection. She slipped her phone into her pocket, turned to Lan Jing, and thanked her.

“Thank you.”

Her tone was polite and measured. She stood up, and the two walked toward the exit, one behind the other.

Outside the airport, streetlights cast slanted shadows across the road lined with taxis. Gu Muchu strode across the crosswalk with her long legs to reach the waiting vehicles on the other side, while Lan Jing scurried to catch up.

“Oh, right, Sister Gu, who was Yuran talking to on the phone just now?” The young girl’s innocent curiosity couldn’t be contained.

Gu Muchu stood by the stone pier, her hand in her pocket, tracing the edge of her phone. The faint breathing on the other end was masked by the rustling of her clothes.

The sensation was peculiar, like carrying a tiny Ji Yuran in her pocket and taking her everywhere.

A warm, familial smile slowly spread across her face. “I’m still on the phone with my family. Do you mind?”

The Alpha stood tall and slender, her black hair swept up with a wooden hairpin, radiating an air of effortless elegance.

As she spoke, her usually aloof features softened, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement.

Lan Jing had never seen Gu Muchu display such warmth, but she suppressed her curiosity and waved her hands frantically. “No, no, not at all!”

How could she possibly object?

Besides, she’d heard from others in the industry that Gu Muchu’s relationship with her family was strained.

Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, Ji Yuran listened intently to the conversation, every word reaching her ears. When Gu Muchu mentioned “family,” she clutched the pillow beside her tightly and muttered under her breath, barely audible even to herself:

“Who said you’re family to me…”

Gu Muchu’s film, The Age of Splendor, was a historical drama centered around court intrigue and power struggles. The main cast consisted almost entirely of veteran actors, with only a few supporting roles filled by newcomers through connections with the production team.

Acting alongside a group of actors in their fifties and sixties, Gu Muchu stood out as one of the most promising talents.

After a late-night video call with Ji Yuran, Gu Muchu had struggled to sleep, her eyes burning from exhaustion. She wore sunglasses to conceal the dark circles and avoid drawing attention to her fatigue.

On set, the assistant director led a large group on a tour of the lavishly constructed sets. The production had spared no expense, with intricate mortise-and-tenon joinery, soaring eaves, carved beams, painted rafters, and vermilion-lacquered corridors stretching endlessly into the distance.

Gu Muchu trailed at the back of the group, Lan Jing dutifully following close behind, carrying her bag and offering water.

A clumsy kind of cleverness, Gu Muchu thought.

“This is where the princess and the general will have their fight scene,” the assistant director, a portly Beta with a khaki baseball cap, explained, his script rolling up as he spoke, spittle flying. “We’ll build a platform here and use wirework to suspend them for the action.”

After listening for a while, Gu Muchu grew bored. Her dark brown, long-sleeved shirt concealed the pockets of her light blue jeans, accentuating her long, slender legs. With her hair pulled back in a sleek high ponytail, she exuded an air of sharp intelligence and competence, her entire presence striking and refined.

Having already memorized the first half of the script, which didn’t include any of her scenes, Gu Muchu pulled out her phone and began scrolling through Weibo out of sheer boredom.

Swiping down to refresh, Gu Muchu noticed a new post from Ji Yuran, one of the accounts she followed.

Life was always full of strange coincidences. For instance, when one’s heart was completely devoted to someone, their presence seemed to permeate every corner of the world.

Ji Yuran: New drama premieres soon! Please show your support.

Her words dripped with reluctant professionalism, and she had reposted the official drama announcement. Gu Muchu clicked through to find the exact time and location of the premiere.

After a quick glance, she casually liked the post and scrolled to the comments, curious about what fans were saying about Ji Yuran.

The comments were overwhelmingly supportive, filled with praise and adoration for her beauty. Occasionally, a few questions about the plot would surface.

Ji Yuran didn’t have a massive fanbase, so the comment section remained harmonious, free from malice.

Gu Muchu breathed a sigh of relief. By the time she finished reading through the comments, she realized that her former die-hard fan, “Ruanruan Drinks Cola,” hadn’t appeared.

Just as she was wondering about this, a new comment popped up:

Loves Beautiful Os: Pretty lady, can I get your contact info? I’ve DM’d you [winking emoji].

Gu Muchu stared at the comment, her brow furrowing slightly. A subtle unease stirred within her. It wasn’t possessiveness, but rather the casual, flirtatious tone—a far cry from the cautious reverence one might expect from a fan, and more akin to blatant sexual harassment.

She clicked on the user’s profile and found that most of their posts consisted of liking photos of beautiful Little Omegas, both male and female, and frequently leaving lewd comments beneath them.

Scrolling to the top, she checked the profile details: first gender male, second gender Alpha, IP address located in N City, and the profile picture was a provocatively dressed, flirtatious male Omega.

Gu Muchu felt physically nauseated. She immediately blocked the user, and the screen cleared, the offensive comments vanishing.

She pushed her glasses down her nose, rubbed her eyes, and finally felt a little better.

She considered sending Ji Yuran a comforting message, but after a moment’s thought, Gu Muchu realized Yuran wasn’t someone who needed coddling.

Ji Yuran rarely checked Weibo for comments about herself, let alone responded to them. A deliberate reminder would only cause unnecessary anxiety.

Forget it.

Gu Muchu suppressed the urge and pressed the power button to turn off her screen. At that moment, a figure appeared in her peripheral vision. She looked up and saw Yu Yue, the veteran actress.

Yu Yue, a 48-year-old female Omega, had upturned eyes, a narrow nose, and a lively, captivating gaze. Her remarkable versatility allowed her to embody diverse roles, yet her resolute nature shone through, like a determined young female knight.

While most of her peers had retreated behind the scenes, Yu Yue remained a prominent figure on the silver screen, constantly expanding her range and challenging herself with new styles.

Faced with rumors of her fading beauty, Yu Yue pressed forward with unwavering determination. Gu Muchu admired such resolute individuals; had Yu Yue not been a longtime friend of Lu Panwei, Gu Muchu would have eagerly sought a deeper connection with her.

Yu Yue and Lu Panwei were contemporary Qingyi actresses, evenly matched in talent and ambition. In their youth, their studios had engaged in fierce rivalry, constantly undermining each other. Their similar performance styles only intensified their mutual animosity, creating an irreconcilable divide.

Later, as the era of celebrity worship dawned, rising young stars eclipsed them both. Forgotten by the public eye, the two women developed a newfound sense of camaraderie. Lu Panwei, with her proud and solitary nature, refused to compromise her principles for industry norms. She withdrew from the screen to become a true Qingyi artist in Peking Opera. After meeting Gu Yiqiong, she married swiftly, a veritable leap from obscurity to prominence.

“Xiao Gu, what are you so engrossed in?” Yu Yue approached, recalling rumors of a rift between Gu Muchu and Gu Yiqiong years ago. Since moving out of the Gu family home, Gu Muchu had rarely returned.

Yu Yue had initially believed the child to be difficult, rebellious to the core. Yet now, she observed a humble demeanor and proper manners.

Gossip is never reliable, she thought, shaking her head inwardly. Remembering Lu Panwei’s request, Yu Yue stepped back to walk beside Gu Muchu. “Are you settling in well on set?”

Gu Muchu nodded, returning a polite smile. “It’s been going well. The senior cast members are all very approachable. I hope to learn a lot from this collaboration.”

Yu Yue’s gaze softened as she looked Gu Muchu up and down, wanting to say more. “I heard you were sick a few days ago. How are you feeling now?”

Gu Muchu smiled. “I’m almost fully recovered. I wouldn’t want to delay the production schedule because of me. Thank you for your concern, Aunt Yu.”

The assistant director up ahead was shouting enthusiastically through a megaphone. The two women stood casually, completely out of sync with the bustling crowd.

Lan Jing, sensing the moment, tactfully fell far behind, giving them space to talk privately.

Crimson lanterns hung along the corridor, swaying in the autumn breeze and stretching into a distant, unbroken line. The tender green shoots of spring had already turned golden with the arrival of fall, rustling in the cool wind.

After exchanging pleasantries, Yu Yue finally broached the real topic.

Lost in thought, she sighed deeply, her voice tinged with weariness. “Ah, I’m getting on in years now. Looking at you, I realize I can’t keep pushing myself like this. I need someone to take care of me, to put my family’s mind at ease.”

Omega’s gaze shifted, her loose, wrinkled eyelids drooping. When their eyes met, Gu Muchu lowered her lashes, instantly understanding.

Just as she had predicted, Yu Yue had likely heard Lu Panwei’s words and come to pressure her.

Gu Yiqiong believed Gu Muchu was neglecting her responsibilities by focusing on her career instead of managing the family’s jewelry brand, which had been painstakingly built over years. Naturally, she was anxious.

Even Lu Panwei had grown impatient.

Unfortunately, Gu Muchu paid little attention to the young master of the Shen Family. If Lu Panwei hadn’t intervened after Gu Muchu stood him up, Gu Yiqiong would have directly interfered in her affairs.

“Thank you, Aunt Yu,” Gu Muchu replied vaguely. “I’m currently focused on my career and not considering marriage.”

Yu Yue clicked her tongue, took Gu Muchu’s hand, and patted it earnestly. “You’ve already won Best Actress! It’s time to settle down!”

Though Yu Yue meant well, Gu Muchu felt a headache coming on from hearing so much about marriage. She subtly withdrew her hand and chuckled lightly. “These things depend on fate. You can’t rush them.”

In her previous life, many had pressured her about marriage, and she had always used this kind of fatalistic excuse, which had proven remarkably effective.

Aunt Yu paused, then a teasing smile spread across her face as she realized something. She glanced back at Lan Jing, who was quietly following behind, before leaning close to Gu Muchu’s ear and whispering, “Do you have someone you like?”

The simple question sent a cold sweat down Gu Muchu’s back.

She instinctively reached into her pocket and gripped her phone tightly. Only when the sharp corners pressed into her palm, grounding her in reality, did she finally exhale.

“No,” she replied without hesitation, the denial almost reflexive. Yu Yue’s expression remained skeptical, making Gu Muchu worry she had seen through her.

Fortunately, Yu Yue didn’t press further. Knowing Gu Muchu’s stubborn nature, she decided not to pester her. “Xiao Gu,” she said, “you know Aunt Gu’s temperament. Be careful.”

Yu Yue had correctly guessed that Gu Muchu was still hung up on someone else, which finally curbed her playful teasing.

“Really, Aunt Yu, I’m still young,” Gu Muchu insisted. Though she was a skilled actress, the woman before her had spent years honing her craft in the industry. A single glance from those perceptive eyes could likely penetrate her facade and uncover her true thoughts.

She wasn’t foolish enough to try playing games with someone like that.

Gu Muchu’s voice carried the warmth of a younger relative, which Yu Yue clearly appreciated. She patted Gu Muchu’s shoulder, left a parting warning to “keep things in perspective,” and then strode ahead to catch up with the others.

The conversation ended on an awkward note, leaving Gu Muchu feeling unsettled. She brushed aside her ponytail and discovered a fine sheen of sweat on the back of her neck.

Lan Jing slapped her forehead and, with remarkable intuition, handed Gu Muchu a bottle of mineral water. “Sister Gu, have some water.”

Gu Muchu waved it away, her mind still echoing Yu Yue’s warning.

My marriage to Ji Yuran is illegitimate and can’t even be made public. We have to hide it, which is so unfair to her.

The thought made Gu Muchu suddenly want to talk to Ji Yuran, about anything at all.

At least it would make me feel better.

Ji Yuran was like a bubble hidden deep within her heart, shimmering with a dreamlike surface but easily burst, unable to conceal her true feelings.

Gu Muchu unlocked her phone and opened their chat.

First Light of Dusk: When is the new drama being released?

Though she had seen the announcement on Weibo, she preferred to ask Ji Yuran directly.

After waiting about ten minutes, a reply finally trickled in.

Little Lion: Next month, the 6th, at 7 PM.

Gu Muchu’s finger hovered over the screen, about to send a reply, when another message popped up.

Are you coming?

In those four simple words, Gu Muchu inexplicably sensed a hint of anticipation, or perhaps it was just the filter she had skillfully applied to Ji Yuran. Even if the other woman genuinely didn’t want to be bothered, Gu Muchu interpreted it as feigned indifference.

This reaction, however, struck her as particularly endearing, like a haughty cat raising its head only to be pulled into a warm embrace and kissed.

Snapping back to reality, Ji Yuran’s question reminded Gu Muchu of something. She opened her calendar to check the dates and realized the drama series had already begun filming a week ago.

Many production teams schedule scenes requiring actors’ elaborate and time-consuming costumes for a single day of shooting. Gu Muchu happened to have three free days available.

She wasn’t delaying progress for personal reasons, though taking a day off around the new drama’s launch wouldn’t have made much difference anyway.

Gu Muchu found herself in an internal struggle. She had never seen Ji Yuran in a public setting before.

She looked up, momentarily lost in thought. Her gaze happened to fall on Lan Jing, who stood nearby. The young assistant felt a chill run down her spine under Gu Muchu’s intense stare, even through her sunglasses.

Lan Jing cautiously ventured, her voice tentative, “Sister Gu, is there anything I can help you with?”

Gu Muchu snapped out of her reverie and shook her head. “No, I’ll let you know later.”

The ambiguous reply left Lan Jing’s heart suspended in mid-air, neither rising nor falling.

Unaware of Lan Jing’s unease, Gu Muchu lowered her head again and continued chatting with Ji Yuran.

First Light of Dusk: So, do you want me to come?

Ji Yuran: I don’t want you to.

Stubborn.

Gu Muchu even imagined Ji Yuran’s tone of voice in her mind. Her thumb deftly tapped the screen, typing out a line of text only to delete it all. After carefully considering her words, she reluctantly replied:

First Light of Dusk: Then I’ll just watch online.

Little Lion: Okay =_=

The message was followed by an adorable emoticon, as if expressing Ji Yuran’s current moodiness. Gu Muchu poked the screen, as if Ji Yuran were right there on the other side, hoping this small gesture might instantly reach her.

Recalling the soft texture of Ji Yuran’s hair when she was home, Gu Muchu grew melancholy. She sent a simple “Mm” to end the chat, leaving it at the bottom of the conversation window.

Gu Muchu planned to ask the director about the situation in a few days. If possible, she’d try to carve out some time to return to S City and surprise Ji Yuran.

The message sank like a stone into the sea; as expected, there was no reply.

She scrolled through their chat history, noticing that almost all the voice calls had been initiated by her. Sometimes they’d last over ten hours, not even hanging up while sleeping.

Gu Muchu worried about Ji Yuran being alone at home, and they had inexplicably developed a habit of staying connected during sleep. Ji Yuran hadn’t objected, even seeming to accept it well.

This thought brought Gu Muchu a sense of comfort.

So, has Ji Yuran been half-converted by me now?

The filming location was quite large, and after a full day of walking, Gu Muchu looked exhausted. The lingering heat of late summer hadn’t dissipated. She sat in the nanny car, rubbing her temples with her eyes closed to rest, while the others dispersed.

For an actress of her caliber, the production team naturally provided luxurious accommodations—a charming little villa.

The nanny car pulled into the alley and stopped. Gu Muchu stepped out. The narrow, winding alleyways exuded the rustic charm of Jiangnan’s misty rain, and the scene would have been even more picturesque if a light drizzle had fallen.

After dropping her off, Lan Jing couldn’t resist adding one last remark before getting back into the car to return to her own dormitory.

Gu Muchu stepped out of the elevator. The top floor opened onto an open-air courtyard, where craggy artificial mountains rose from a small pond. Purple flowers dotted the vines that draped over the gate, and a swing hung nearby.

In the living room, a square table was laid out with snacks and meals prepared by the production team. She touched the dishes and found them still warm. She pulled up a long bench and sat down, then called Ji Yuran as usual. The call was answered almost immediately, as if Ji Yuran had been waiting for it.

“Why are you calling so late?” Ji Yuran hummed, her tone betraying no real annoyance. Their conversations always began with this pretense of aloofness.

Gu Muchu responded with a drawn-out “Oh,” feigning sudden realization. “Should I hang up, then?”

Silence hung in the air for a moment before Ji Yuran mumbled, “You’ve already called…”

Gu Muchu chuckled, pleased that her deliberate bluff had worked.

“Have you eaten?” She straightened up, her voice shifting from languid to clear. She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, freeing her hands to open the bento box the film crew had provided.

The box was divided equally between hearty purple rice and a vegetable salad. Bright green broccoli florets mingled with a small portion of buckwheat noodles, while pepper-seasoned chicken br3ast and shrimp made her mouth water.

This was Gu Muchu’s special request; aside from formal dinners, she rarely ate greasy or spicy food at night.

Rustling sounds came from Ji Yuran’s end, as if she were packing up kitchen waste to take out. When Gu Muchu asked about her meal, a single word popped out: “Mm.”

“What did you have?” Gu Muchu asked, pulling out the vinaigrette dressing from its packet. Their conversation settled into a comfortable, domestic rhythm.

Looking at the meal she had prepared, Ji Yuran found it utterly unappetizing. She hadn’t minded it before, but ever since witnessing Gu Muchu’s culinary skills, she had begun to yearn for something more.

“Noodles,” she said flatly, then closed the door.

Gu Muchu paused, snapped apart her wooden chopsticks, and mumbled, “Carbs?”

“Unlike you, the big star,” Ji Yuran retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She suddenly became more talkative, as if resenting Gu Muchu for depriving her of her culinary desires.

Gu Muchu corrected her, “Not a star, an actress.”

A disgruntled hum came from the other end of the line. The two continued their desultory conversation, mostly initiated by Gu Muchu, while Ji Yuran responded with little enthusiasm, occasionally offering a perfunctory acknowledgment.

Just then, the elevator whirred to life at the door, an untimely interruption.

Gu Muchu frowned. She was certain she was the only one with access to the villa’s elevator.

The place was supposed to be private, surrounded by film crew members. No outsiders should have been able to get in.

She set her phone on the square table, pressed the receiver to her ear, and whispered, “I’ll go see who’s here. Wait for me.”

Exhausted, Gu Muchu dragged herself to the door and opened it to find a stranger.

The woman had an ordinary face, but her narrow, upturned eyes radiated shrewdness. As their gazes met, she smiled faintly and extended the item in her hand.

Gu Muchu glanced at the exquisite packaging, her hands remaining tucked in her jeans pockets. She didn’t accept it. She rarely adopted such an impolite posture when speaking to people, unless she was genuinely angry.

“May I ask who you are?” Her voice turned cold, already guessing the woman’s purpose.

Undaunted, the woman withdrew her hand and placed the gift box on the ground. She pulled a business card from her shoulder bag. “Miss Gu, I’m Yao Jinfeng, Guo Hao’s manager from Visionary Entertainment. I hope you’ll offer my client some guidance during filming.”

Gu Muchu had encountered this situation before. Well-connected actors would curry favor with established stars under the guise of seeking “guidance.” Some even “accidentally” leaked intimate photos during filming to create scandals for publicity.

She was about to refuse, but the name “Guo Hao” piqued her interest. “Guo Hao?”

“He’s the one who played the Sixth Prince in the sixth act, the one who had that dramatic scene with Miss Gu,” Yao Jinfeng explained.

Gu Muchu vaguely remembered the scene where she had verbally sparred with a group of scholars, and one of the unfortunate targets had been the Sixth Prince, though he only had two lines.

She wondered how Guo Hao had managed to land a role in such a major production. He must have some family connections; otherwise, his looks alone wouldn’t have gotten him through the door.

This guy must have some serious backing, or his manager wouldn’t have personally come to deliver the gift. Even from their brief interaction, it was clear he wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

Remembering Ji Yuran’s earlier words, Gu Muchu reached out and accepted the gift box. “Thank you. I’ll definitely take good care of it.”

She deliberately emphasized the word “care.”

After seeing the visitor off, Gu Muchu returned to the main hall and realized Ji Yuran was still waiting. She casually set the gift box on the floor and sat down on the long bench. “Sorry for the wait.”

“No problem,” Ji Yuran replied, sounding like she had been waiting by the phone. Gu Muchu guessed she had put the call on speakerphone and patiently explained, “Someone just came to deliver a gift and asked me to look after him.” She didn’t mention Guo Hao, not wanting to remind Ji Yuran of that scoundrel.

“Gifts?” Ji Yuran paused, her tone sounding troubled. “Is this… some kind of unspoken rule?”

Clearly, her mind had wandered to some absurd conclusion. Gu Muchu picked up her wooden chopsticks, laughing heartily. “It’s just a gift, not a sexual transaction! What are you imagining?”

The bright chandelier swept across the Alpha’s figure as she focused on drizzling vinaigrette over her salad, glancing at her phone occasionally. Her long lashes cast shadows beneath her eyes.

Ji Yuran, stung by the teasing, retorted indignantly, “I don’t know anything about these things!”

Working on a web drama set, she had far less exposure to the upper echelons of society.

Gu Muchu’s laughter faded. Her slender fingers gripped the chopsticks, revealing pale veins on the back of her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m practically a married woman myself. I wouldn’t mess around.”

She recalled the later plot developments from the original novel, silently repeating to herself:

I absolutely will not repeat the mistakes of my Original Self.

A casual jest met with sudden silence. Ji Yuran’s brain short-circuited before snapping back to reality. She raised her voice in immediate denial, “Who’s your ‘family’? Don’t you dare claim any connection!”

“I’m eating my own food.”

Clearly annoyed, the Omega hung up immediately after saying this.

Gu Muchu withdrew one hand, shifted her gaze to their chat window, and pressed the voice input button with her thumb.

“I was wrong. I won’t say it again next time. Please forgive your sister.” Having apologized so many times, she had become adept at gauging Ji Yuran’s moods.

Gu Muchu found her truly adorable, like a mimosa plant swaying in the breeze. At the slightest touch, its tender green leaves would curl inward.

There was no response from the other end.

After tidying up, Ji Yuran sat on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest, the pillow squeezed between them deformed from the pressure.

Gu Muchu’s mention of “family” had left the Omega utterly flustered. Her lashes fluttered, the corners of her peach-blossom eyes flushed a delicate pink, and she rested her chin on her knees.

Her phone, buried in the bedding, vibrated. She stubbornly averted her gaze, but ultimately, she couldn’t resist picking it up.

Seeing the voice message from Gu Muchu, Ji Yuran waged an internal battle before finally pressing play.

The Alpha’s voice was clear and crisp, like water flowing beneath the crystalline surface of a frozen lake—serene yet gentle.

Gu Muchu must be annoyed with me, she thought. Even her voice sounded distant, carrying a detached, ascetic coldness.

And yet, it’s even more alluring.

Ji Yuran curled her fingers into a fist, gripping the edge of the pillow tightly. She pressed her ear against the speaker and replayed the message, thinking childishly, This cold, hard stone—I’ll show her how to warm it up!

As she listened, Ji Yuran felt a strange sensation. Her cheeks flushed crimson, as if deprived of oxygen. Each syllable of Gu Muchu’s voice landed squarely on her heart, leaving her feeling strangely empty afterward.

Hesitantly, she replayed the message. The Alpha’s voice sent shivers down her spine, spreading from her earlobes through her limbs and into every fiber of her being.

“I was wrong. I won’t say that again. Please forgive me, Yuran.”

Her fingers, acting of their own accord, tapped the play button again.

Not for the first time, the Omega lay on her bed, gradually curling up like a shrimp. Her pajamas outlined the delicate, protruding butterfly bones on her back. She blinked, her lashes dampening, feeling as if she were about to melt.

Especially the way Gu Muchu had rolled her tongue around the word older sister, leaving a small dent in her soft heart.

Ji Yuran punched her pillow twice, feeling like a kettle filled with boiling water. Even the slightest movement threatened to spill the scalding heat.

Her surging emotions found no outlet. She buried her face in the blanket, letting out a muffled, indecipherable hum through her nose, her lips twitching upward despite her efforts to suppress the smile.

Clutching the edge of the blanket, Ji Yuran wrapped herself up, then threw it off to cool down. She long-pressed the voice message and silently saved it.

The moment she exited WeChat, she couldn’t resist listening to it one more time.

This is so annoying.

Ji Yuran decided she needed to calm down. She sat up, rubbing her flushed cheeks, and turned her gaze to the teddy bear sitting on her bedside table.

The teddy bear sat quietly, nearly half her height, its glossy black eyes staring innocently at her.

Gu Muchu’s words lingered in her mind. Ji Yuran had never imagined her voice could be so alluring.

That wicked woman, always trying to seduce me.

Seizing the bear, she gave it a thorough beating.