Toxic Pheromones of a Scumbag Alpha (GL) - Chapter 9

Lou Juan gently ran her fingers across the signature on the agreement, as if reluctant to let go. It took her several deep breaths to calm the trembling in her hands.

It was real. What they said was true.

She was back.

The sudden ring of her phone pulled Lou Juan out of her thoughts. She glanced at the screen and answered calmly, “Yes, I’m still at home.”

The person on the other end said something that made Lou Juan frown. She replied, “I didn’t go in. We only saw each other briefly. If you’re so worried, why didn’t you stay with her yourself?”

A soft chuckle came through the line, followed by a cold, detached voice. “I know her better than you do. This time, I won’t push her too hard…”

Lou Juan’s frown deepened. She lowered her voice, pressing the phone closer. “You are pushing her.”

“It doesn’t matter. As long as I get what I want, the method doesn’t matter,” Tan Zishu said casually, despite claiming to be busy with her schedule. “Alright, your time’s up. You’ve seen her. Now leave.”

With shaking hands, Lou Juan hung up. She gave one last look toward the closed door behind her, then turned and walked away with her head down.

Inside the house, Ji Yao sat down and took a few sips of water.

“System—” she called out lazily, slumping into the couch. One foot had already kicked off her slipper, and the other hung loosely from her toes. She looked completely laid-back and unbothered. “You there?”

The system responded promptly, “I’m here.”

Ji Yao, clearly bored, asked, “Can you look something up for me?”

System: “Depends on what it is.”

“Oh,” Ji Yao said. “Can you check what’s going on with my body? Like, has it differentiated yet? What kind of attribute it might develop into?”

System: “Can’t access that.”

Ji Yao hadn’t really expected it to be able to. She quickly moved on. “Then can you check what Tan Zishu is doing right now?”

System: “No idea.”

Ji Yao: “…”

“But,” the system added, “I can make a prediction based on her schedule today. We systems are pretty good at probability analysis.”

Ji Yao gave a lazy “Mm” and was just about to praise it when the system spoke again, this time in a very serious tone:

“She’s thinking about you. Probability: 80%.”

Ji Yao blinked in surprise at that answer. Naturally, she followed up: “And the other 20%?”

System: “She’s regretting.”

That wasn’t the answer Ji Yao expected. Was Tan Zishu actually feeling remorseful? Had she decided to turn over a new leaf? Ji Yao asked curiously, “Do you know what she’s regretting exactly?”

“Based on the most likely scenario…” the system replied flatly, “she’s regretting not getting her way last night. Regret so strong it’s eating her up.”

Ji Yao: “…”

She really shouldn’t have kept asking questions.

It wasn’t until the system went into sleep mode after answering her that Ji Yao suddenly realized something — wait a second. She had asked what Tan Zishu was doing, so why did the system respond with how she was feeling?

Besides, Tan Zishu was supposed to be very busy today, with a tightly packed schedule. How could she possibly have time for all those emotional ups and downs?

Ji Yao held her cup, thinking about it seriously for a long while. In the end, she came to a ridiculous conclusion — could Tan Zishu actually be… a hopeless romantic?

Like, one of those types — infamously toxic, but also deeply emotional?

Someone who genuinely loves every “canary” she keeps, but still lies, cheats, and flirts without hesitation?

Pfft…

Her views really were messed up.

Ji Yao didn’t even know what she was supposed to be doing now. She had no interest in going out, and, truthfully, she felt a little relieved that Tan Zishu was busy today — at least she wouldn’t have to deal with her hovering around all the time. Just looking at that familiar face made it hard for Ji Yao to handle the woman’s blatant desire and teasing.

After all… she was the child Ji Yao had raised.

If Tan Zishu hadn’t chosen the wrong path — and gotten involved with that cursed system — Ji Yao would never have come close to her in the first place.

Ji Yao hated being bound, whether it was by people or by emotions. She didn’t know why, but she always longed for freedom. If it weren’t for certain circumstances, she might have chosen a drifter’s life — moving from city to city, never settling down.

She looked at the sleeping system and chuckled bitterly. “If it weren’t for Tan Zishu, I wouldn’t be doing your stupid tasks at all. If I die, then I die. I hate being threatened.”

System: “…”

But as soon as Tan Zishu came to mind again, Ji Yao fell back into a sullen mood.

“Just seeing her yesterday and her annoying attitude… I lost my mind and promised myself to her.” Ji Yao rubbed her temples in frustration. “Looking back, if something had actually happened between us…”

System: “Would you not have been able to accept it? Because you raised her and can’t bring yourself to cross that line?”

Ji Yao: “Not really.”

System: “If that’s the case, I can offer some options. For example, I could wipe your memory the next day, or make you pass out before anything happens.”

Ji Yao let out a laugh, half amused, half annoyed. “That’s just fooling myself. I’m not exactly morally upright. Doing it with anyone is still doing it — Tan Zishu isn’t all that different. And honestly, we’re not even that far apart in age now. It’s just… it feels weird.”

For once, the system didn’t respond.

Ji Yao went on. “Right, can you help me look into what happened to her these past ten years? After I died, how did she survive on her own? And what made her change her mind — to walk down the same path I once did?”

System: “You never asked. I thought you didn’t care about her.”

“I just want to finish your tasks faster and get it over with. Die and be done with it,” Ji Yao said. “It’s not really about caring. I only took her in — we weren’t really family. And look at the result: I didn’t raise her right. I didn’t mean anything to her. She doesn’t even remember me.”

System: “Sigh.”

Ji Yao let out a long sigh too. “If I’d known it would be like this, I wouldn’t have chosen her back then. I can’t even rest in peace after death. Still have to clean up her mess.”

Meanwhile, in the dressing room, Tan Zishu’s face suddenly darkened for no apparent reason.

The makeup artist jumped in fright, nervously glancing up at Xu Xiyan.

Xu Xiyan gave her an apologetic smile, as if to say: Stay calm… even though I’m panicking too.

Tan Zishu stood up. “Stop the makeup. I have something to take care of. I need to go home.”

“Tan-jie, but we still have to go to the audition today…” Tan Zishu’s assistant, Xu Xiyan, was on the verge of tears. “Director Huo is still waiting for you!”

Tan Zishu looked completely unconcerned. “Then just tell him I’m not going.”

Xu Xiyan nearly dropped to her knees. Dear god, what kind of situation was this? Everyone knew Director Huo had a terrible temper and hated being kept waiting. This was already the third time Tan Zishu had stood him up! Once might be forgiven, twice could be smoothed over, but a third time? If she missed today, Tan Zishu was definitely going on his blacklist!

Wait — she said she was going home, didn’t she? That meant Ji Yao was still there. Tan-jie must be going back to see her, that’s why she was in such a rush! All she had to do was get Ji Yao to send a message saying she wasn’t home — problem solved.

Xu Xiyan quickly pulled out her phone to contact Ji Yao, then suddenly froze — Tan-jie had told her plenty about Ji Yao and she had a basic idea of what kind of person she was, but… she didn’t actually have Ji Yao’s contact info!

Xu Xiyan: “……”

At that moment, a woman with dark burgundy hair approached from the hallway. It was Lou Juan. She glanced at Xu Xiyan and finished the sentence for her: “This is the third time. You can’t keep breaking promises.”

Tan Zishu looked at her through the mirror, eyes cold. “You know I’m not in the right headspace for this right now.”

“That doesn’t matter. Headspace or not, you still have to keep going — this is our job.” Lou Juan gestured for the makeup artist to continue, then turned to Tan Zishu. “This is your prime career window. Don’t you want her to see how well you’re doing? Then show her.”

Tan Zishu laughed — not with amusement, but with the hollow grin of a villain. “She doesn’t care at all.”

Lou Juan reminded her, “Have you forgotten? The person auditioning with you today — the one competing for the lead role — is Jiang Jiaran.”

Tan Zishu paused, then told the others to wait outside for a moment.

Lou Juan pressed on. “You can’t keep hiding Ji Yao at home forever. If some tabloid photographer catches even a glimpse of you two, Jiang Jiaran will definitely find out. And if she knows… with the way she operates now, don’t you think she’ll do whatever it takes to steal Ji Yao away?”

Tan Zishu said flatly, “And what does that have to do with me going to this audition?”

“This film will be a hit no matter who stars in it. If you don’t go, the role will go to Jiang Jiaran.” Lou Juan’s tone turned serious. “In your past lives, she always held back because she wasn’t good enough. She didn’t dare get close to Ji Yao. But if she lands this role and wins a major award, the moment she has something to hold over you — even a little — she’ll run straight to Ji Yao looking for praise.”

Tan Zishu fell silent.

Lou Juan had only joined this cycle of rebirth in the past few lives. Both of them retained memories from each life, and while Tan Zishu had leverage over her, Lou Juan also knew her weaknesses. Their relationship had always been one of complicated balance — neither ally nor enemy, bound by shared pain accumulated across lifetimes.

Lou Juan was calm and rational. If she took the time to intervene, it meant the matter was worth considering.

“Jiang Jiaran really is like a piece of clingy tape,” Tan Zishu said coldly. “Every lifetime, I’ve found her equally annoying.”

Lou Juan didn’t deny it. Back when Ji Yao planned to adopt a child from the orphanage, nearly every child had hoped to be the one chosen — especially Jiang Jiaran. She was cute, well-spoken, and had once been a favorite of Ji Yao. Ji Yao had seriously considered adopting her… but then something happened with little Tan Zishu, and the plan changed. If that incident hadn’t occurred, the child taken home would’ve been Jiang Jiaran.

Tan Zishu’s mood darkened further, her words cutting and bitter. “I wish it hadn’t been me. I wish she’d taken Jiang Jiaran instead.”

If Ji Yao had adopted Jiang Jiaran, she wouldn’t have developed those inappropriate feelings. They wouldn’t have clashed so often during her rebellious phase.

If they’d never crossed paths like that… she wouldn’t be trapped in this lifelong cycle of unfulfilled love.

And maybe that would’ve been a kind of freedom. Better than… being trapped in this endless loop of suffering, lifetime after lifetime.

“Jiang Jiaran has always seen Ji Yao as her guiding light,” Lou Juan sighed deeply. “You should be glad Ji Yao wasn’t the kind of overly compassionate person who takes in everyone. If she had been, she might’ve taken both of you home.”

“You were special to her. After all, you two lived together for seven years. She still can’t stand watching you fall apart.”

“This is the only way I can keep her here.” Tan Zishu looked up, her expression sharp, her voice laced with irony. “She doesn’t tolerate imperfection. As long as I never meet her expectations, she’ll stay and keep trying to fix me.”

Tan Zishu let out a long breath and looked into the mirror. Her pale reflection stared back — the face of a former rebel, now buried under layers of pretense — all of it rooted in that one person.

Lou Juan lowered her gaze. “Yes.”

Tan Zishu raised a hand and covered her reflection’s eyes in the mirror. “She’s killing me… and I just can’t help it. I keep running back to her.”

“Ack—”

Back at home, Ji Yao’s hand slipped while watering the plants. Her sleeve was soaked, and the watering bottle — a fragile one — slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.

Water spread across the tiles. Her clothes were wet.

She crouched down, gathering the broken pieces, and as her fingers brushed the edge of her skirt, she felt a hard bump.

A bug. Maybe a tracker or a recorder. It didn’t matter anymore.

It had gotten wet — soon, she’d have a perfectly reasonable excuse to throw it away.