Toxic Pheromones of a Scumbag Alpha (GL) - Chapter 8

“Ten years?” Tan Zishu repeated, surprised. “That long?”

Ji Yao’s expression didn’t change. “I can handle it. Don’t worry, you won’t be able to break me.”

Tan Zishu chuckled. “But what if I get bored? I can’t even promise I’ll stay focused on you for a full year.”

“You’re not allowed to see anyone else,” Ji Yao cut her off firmly. “If I dared to say ten years, that means I believe I can make it work. If you do get tired of me, that’s on me… I’ll do my best not to let that happen.”

Tan Zishu looked at her, emotions swirling in her eyes, but Ji Yao didn’t notice—her gaze was lowered, calm and steady.

So this… is what actually works to make her stay, Tan Zishu thought.

Ji Yao had always been immovable. In every past life, no matter what Tan Zishu did—soft talk, hard talk, even force—nothing made her stay.

And yet now, when Tan Zishu had fallen so far from what she once was, Ji Yao chose to stay on her own.

Life truly was strange and unfair. In the past, Tan Zishu had tried so hard to impress her, to show how good she had become—to prove she hadn’t been raised in vain, that she was someone worth being proud of.

But Ji Yao’s actions said something else entirely—I never expected anything great from you. Now that you’re doing okay, I’m just relieved.

Oh, you want praise?

Fine. I’ll praise you.

What else?

Tan Zishu had cried over her more times than she could count. She loved her so deeply it hurt, and hated her just as fiercely—and yet, she was always powerless.

But this time…

She didn’t plan to prove anything anymore.

Instead, she shamelessly exposed her flaws, made them impossible to ignore—painting a loud, messy picture of herself in Ji Yao’s heart. She used “responsibility” as a chain, forcing her to stay.

And somehow… it worked.

How ironic.

As Tan Zishu looked at Ji Yao’s calm, indifferent face, she realized that her own pain was no less than Ji Yao’s.

“…Alright,” she said quietly. “Let’s go eat first.”

She tried to shake off the heaviness in her chest and reached out to take Ji Yao’s hand, wanting to walk down together.

But Ji Yao didn’t take her hand. Instead, she walked over to the window and pulled the curtains wide open.

The heavy fabric swung aside, and bright sunlight poured into the room, hitting Tan Zishu square in the face. Her pupils shrank, as if the light had slapped her.

“If one day you catch yourself thinking in extremes, or saying something twisted or crazy,” Ji Yao said, standing above her, “open the curtains. Go look at the sun. Let the light hit you. It’s good for your mind. And your bones.”

Tan Zishu: “…”

Why did that sound like an insult?

Before she could respond, Ji Yao suddenly changed her tone. Just like Tan Zishu could wear a playful mask at any moment, Ji Yao now put on one of her own—polite, sweet, and obedient.

She stood beside Tan Zishu and smiled. “Ah… sorry. I just remembered someone from the past and said some things I shouldn’t have. I’m sure Sister Tan won’t hold it against me, right?”

Tan Zishu: “…”

Ji Yao blinked at her with mock innocence. “Let’s go eat?”

Tan Zishu wasn’t having it. Feeling a little petty, she narrowed her eyes. “Did you just use me as a stand-in for some old flame?”

Ji Yao immediately denied it. “Nope. I wouldn’t dare.”

Tan Zishu was so frustrated she felt like she was going to explode. For the first time, Ji Yao had truly gotten under her skin.

After breakfast, Tan Zishu had work to do. Before she left, she told Ji Yao she could go out and enjoy herself or stay home—it was up to her. But there was one thing she made very clear:

Do not go into the last storage room at the end of the hallway on the second floor.

If she hadn’t mentioned it, Ji Yao wouldn’t have cared enough to snoop around the house.

But now… that she had mentioned it.

Ji Yao’s brow twitched slightly. She was curious. “What’s in there?”

“Don’t be curious. That’s not a good thing,” Tan Zishu replied quickly. She was in a rush, biting into a piece of toast as she headed out the door. But just before leaving, she came back to remind Ji Yao, “In an hour, someone will deliver a fresh copy of the contract. Make sure you sign it.”

Ji Yao didn’t even look up from her plate. She calmly cut her fried egg and said, “Got it.”

Only after the door closed did she finally put down her utensils.

The housekeeper, who had been preparing their meals, wiped her hands on her apron nervously. “Was the food not to your liking?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Your cooking is excellent—it actually made me a little nostalgic,” Ji Yao said warmly. She never took her bad mood out on others, especially those who had nothing to do with it. Smiling politely, she added, “Let me wash the dishes today. You’ve worked hard.”

From observing the space, Ji Yao could tell that the housekeeper didn’t live here. There were no personal items, no signs of a long-term stay. This woman likely came at set times to clean or cook based on Tan Zishu’s mood or cravings that day.

The housekeeper smiled kindly. “No need, no need. I’ll take care of the dishes—it’s no trouble. I’ll just load them into the dishwasher.”

Ji Yao had a naturally friendly presence, the kind that made even strangers feel at ease. With Tan Zishu out, the housekeeper felt comfortable chatting with her a bit longer.

“I’m Aunt Zhao—my hometown’s in Lancang. Just call me Aunt Zhao,” she said, her face full of warmth and the gentle concern of an elder. “Zishu told me the same thing—she said my cooking reminds her of her childhood. That’s why she has me come by every few days to make a few of her favorite dishes when she’s craving something.”

Zishu…

Ji Yao was slightly surprised by that name. For someone to call Tan Zishu “Zishu,” they had to be close—very close. But that cold, distant woman…?

It was hard to imagine. Ji Yao had trouble picturing the grown-up Tan Zishu coming home after a long day and looking forward to a warm meal. Or sitting down and chatting with someone who called her “Zishu” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then again, Lancang was a small county. Tan Zishu had grown up there until she was seven years old. Habits from childhood—like tastes in food—were hard to shake.

Still… She missed that place? The place that left her so scarred?

Ji Yao thought back. After she brought seven-year-old Tan Zishu to the city, the girl had never once shown any signs of homesickness. Ji Yao had even suggested once, half-jokingly, that they visit her hometown, just to see it again.

At the time, Ji Yao had said:
“Really don’t want to go back, even just to look? That’s where you grew up. I’m not dropping you off there, just visiting—maybe you miss it a little?”

“No. I hate that place,” little Tan Zishu said from behind a closed door. She didn’t even let Ji Yao inside. “That’s not my home.”

Ji Yao had leaned against the door, smiling faintly like she was listening to a child say something silly.

“You can deny a lot of things,” she’d said. “You can even deny that I’m your sister. But how can you deny your hometown? It’s always there. You can’t escape it—it’s where your roots are.”

But that day, she hadn’t pushed any further. She knew when to stop.

She never brought it up again.

And now, it seemed the child had grown up and learned to miss where she came from. Why else would she specifically bring in someone from the same hometown to cook for her?

Ji Yao speared a piece of fried egg—crisp on the edges, soft in the middle—and stared at it thoughtfully.

“It’s been ten years,” she murmured. “So many things have changed.”

After lunch, Ji Yao stayed behind to help Aunt Zhao with some chores. At first, Aunt Zhao tried to stop her, flustered and polite, but Ji Yao wouldn’t take no for an answer. Once she snatched the mop from her hands, Aunt Zhao gave up and grabbed a cleaning cloth. As they cleaned together, they chatted casually.

“You’re a really good kid,” Aunt Zhao said with a kind smile. “No wonder Zishu’s willing to help you. Even I like you a lot. Back where I’m from, the kids I take a liking to always go on to do great things.”

Help?

Ji Yao immediately caught the key word in her sentence. Keeping her tone light, she gently followed up, “Aunt Zhao, what kind of people has Zishu helped before?”

Aunt Zhao’s hand froze mid-wipe. She made a quiet sound in dialect—like she’d just realized she said too much. People from Lancang were usually honest and straightforward, not so practiced in keeping up polite façades like city folks. Aunt Zhao clearly wasn’t the type to hide things well. She quickly gave Ji Yao an apologetic smile.

Her meaning was clear: Zishu didn’t want me to talk about it. I’m sorry.

Ji Yao couldn’t tell whether that meant “don’t tell anyone” or “don’t tell you.” But either way, she didn’t press the issue. She wasn’t someone who liked making things difficult for others. Instead, she kindly changed the subject.

“Sounds like you’ve got a real knack for reading people, Aunt Zhao. Ever consider a side gig as a fortune teller?” she joked.

Aunt Zhao laughed, clearly relieved and grateful for Ji Yao’s understanding.

An hour passed quickly. Just before the doorbell rang, Aunt Zhao had already taken her leave.

Ji Yao went to open the door herself. She figured she’d sign the agreement quickly and then go out for a simple check-up—to confirm once and for all if she really was an Omega.

But the moment the door opened, she froze in place.

“…Lou Juan?”

She was stunned.

Standing at the door was Lou Juan, her top agent from her past life.

And now, she was working for Tan Zishu?

The woman in front of her was dressed in a sharp business suit, her deep red hair falling just below her collarbone. Her features hadn’t changed much, but it had been ten years. Time had spared Ji Yao—because she’d died young—but it hadn’t been so kind to those who kept living. Lou Juan’s face had grown thinner, more tired. There were deep shadows beneath her cheekbones.

It hit Ji Yao hard. For the first time since coming back, she truly felt the weight of time.

Maybe it was because Tan Zishu had transformed from a child into a beautiful young woman, so the difference didn’t feel so stark. But Lou Juan—already older than Ji Yao back then—now clearly bore the marks of the years.

This reunion shook her more than she expected.

“Hello, are you Miss Ji Yao?” Lou Juan’s tone was cool and professional, no warmth in her voice. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you don’t have any questions after signing—”

Ji Yao caught a tiny pause in her words. Maybe her throat was sore, or maybe something else—her voice was just a little tight, a little rushed, like she was trying to hold something back.

Ji Yao wanted to invite her in for a glass of water, but she knew Lou Juan too well. She was efficient, no-nonsense. If she said she was in a hurry, she meant it. There was no chance of getting her to stay.

So Ji Yao did the only thing she could: she took the pen and signed the document.

But just before the ink touched the page, she deliberately changed her writing style—Ji Yao.

Not the smooth, flowing signature she used to use. She didn’t want Lou Juan to recognize her—not like this. Not as a woman being kept like a pet by the very child she once raised.

Ji Yao couldn’t bear to imagine what Lou Juan would think if she knew the truth. All she knew was that she’d rather hide here in the dark, beside the broken version of Tan Zishu, than be seen like this. Until she helped Tan Zishu heal, she had no right to step into the light herself.

“You’re Sister Tan’s agent now?” Ji Yao asked, putting on her most pleasant smile—the kind a good little canary should wear. Her voice was sweet and slightly flattering. “Thanks for going out of your way. Please be safe on your way back.”

Lou Juan barely looked up. Her eyes stayed fixed behind her glasses, as if focused solely on the contract. Without another word, she turned and left.

The moment the door shut, Ji Yao leaned back against it, pressing a hand over her chest.

What the hell is this mess?

If it weren’t for that brat Tan Zishu, she wouldn’t be stuck in this absurd situation—not even daring to say hello to someone who once meant so much to her.

Truthfully, until today, even after going home with Tan Zishu, Ji Yao hadn’t really felt anything about being her canary. Even what happened last night—so what? Tan Zishu didn’t recognize her, and Ji Yao didn’t mind making some sacrifices if it meant pulling her back to the right path.

But now…

Now, she covered her face.

She had just realized something terrifying—what if other people from her past were still around in the industry? What if one day they met again… and they remembered her?

For the first time, Ji Yao fully understood what shame felt like.

She honestly didn’t think she could show her face in public again.

What she didn’t know was…

Just outside that door, the woman who said she was “in a hurry” hadn’t actually left.

And Ji Yao never thought to ask—why would someone like Lou Juan, a top-tier agent, still be personally running errands for Tan Zishu after all these years?

Was it really just to deliver a piece of paper?