Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 22

Chapter 22

 

Time passed slowly. The “temporary inducement during sensitive period” was taking effect. Song Yanrong felt a strange sensation in her neck, her cheeks flushed, breathing even—but it felt like self-coercion. She was very uncomfortable.

 

She had no sensation in this strange environment… Was this marriage actually necessary?

 

She lingered in the room for a long time, exhausted, with barely any “dew.” Just as she was about to feel a slight stir, her phone vibrated on her wheelchair—

 

It stopped.

 

She sighed. It had never felt this difficult before—perhaps it was the unfamiliar surroundings, or this room full of “devices”…

 

Her screen lit up. No label, but she immediately knew who it was—she hadn’t had time to name “Jia” in her phone yet this morning’s exchange.

 

JIA: “Need it? Want help?”

 

Seeing those words, Song Yanrong already felt Su Jia standing before her, lips curling, her peach-blossom eyes both innocent, intimate, and provocative.

 

Song Yanrong: “No need.”

 

She put down her phone. If the pleasure was gone, it felt like chewing wax—it was hard to continue. The gentle effects of this medicine progressed so slowly she wished someone would just give her a strong dose to get it over with, rather than boiling a frog in warm water.

 

Suddenly, the special doorbell rang.

 

Her phone vibrated again. She regretted replying so quickly—it must signal to the outside world that she hadn’t succeeded.

 

The phone shook insistently. She sighingly answered.

 

A soft, intimate voice: “It’s me. Open.”

 

“…no need,” she replied. “Aren’t you supposed to do the test?”

 

“I already did,” Su Jia replied, concerned she’d panic. “Usually omegas get tested by machines or doctors—quick.”

 

Understood. She didn’t rise.

 

Song Yanrong mocked her own naiveté—why was she even arguing?

 

“Understood. You can hang up.”

 

“Song Yanrong,” Su Jia whispered, like a silk thread slipping through the door into her ears and heart’s depths: “Wait any longer and I’ll have to come back tomorrow…”

 

Song Yanrong’s scalp tingled.

 

“Open the door for me and I’ll help you. Didn’t we say we help each other?”

 

Song Yanrong’s face was sweaty. She bit her lip hard and tasted the anxiety—the eager craving. She exhaled heavily: “How will you help?”

 

She’d never heard a fairy’s voice, but she imagined Su Jia’s was the same.

 

She could picture her hand on her shoulder, leaning close, cheek brushing her ear: “You’ll like it…”

 

Just hearing Su Jia’s voice made her body react. Whether guided by fate or discarded logic—

 

Song Yanrong opened the door.

 

Su Jia leaned against the doorway, eyes drifting to the sculpted female forms on the wall—the decorative artwork they’d earlier glanced at, and Song Yanrong remembered noticing them too.

 

Her heart felt oddly unsettled.

 

She noticed the transparent sleeve still on Song Yanrong’s middle finger.

 

Casually she asked, “Miss Song—are they pretty?”

 

Unconsciously, Song Yanrong twirled her finger and replied, “Didn’t notice.”

 

“Really? They’re lovely. Good figures—looks like the type alphas like.”

 

“I don’t… detect women that item by default.”

 

A flare of irritation kindled in Song Yanrong’s chest. With the drug’s effects stirring her emotions, Su Jia’s words hit harder than she expected, and her tone grew heavier—before softening as soon as she realized.

 

“Really didn’t notice.”

 

Su Jia: “Then—do you notice me?”

 

Song Yanrong’s lowered gaze trembled. When she lifted her eyes, the room had dimmed—only the projector’s glow lingered behind Su Jia.

 

Facing that white haze, Su Jia loosened the chiffon cardigan draped over her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She revealed a mist-blue slit-camisk dress.

 

She looked at Song Yanrong, her slender fingers tracing the slit’s edge, then stopping at the smooth swell beneath.

 

She gripped it.

 

Like a small hand grasping a ripe peach—too full to hold.

 

Song Yanrong’s nerves jolted.

 

She felt the fruit about to burst. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply… She heard Su Jia’s voice again—a seductive, playful melody, like a cat’s mewl of delight.

 

Her eyes half closed, she saw Su Jia standing in the dim light, head tilted back, sighing, gazing at her—then one hand sliding down to stroke herself.

 

An unbelievably erotic tableau.

 

Even the world’s finest painting couldn’t compare.

 

Omegas’ voice grew increasingly brazen.

 

Song Yanrong felt her own pheromones stir like wild demons—raging, wanting to sink their teeth into the omega before her, to pierce that thin fragile barrier… and claim her.

 

Their murmurs intertwined and stopped. Breaths lowered.

 

Song Yanrong let out a long sigh. She looked at Su Jia again and saw her trembling, about to fall. She moved forward in her wheelchair and gently caught her with one arm.

 

Su Jia sank onto her lap, upper body leaning against Song Yanrong’s knee, face pressed to her thigh.

 

Su Jia reached out for Song Yanrong’s finger, tracing its wet sheen, and bit her lip emotionally.

 

Softly, she asked: “Do you… like it?”

 

Song Yanrong’s heart hadn’t fully recovered. Su Jia’s touch held her hand—it was like freshly washed water. Her stroke moved up to the wrist where a sandalwood bracelet lay.

 

She felt herself exposed, as if Su Jia was laughing at her—thinking, “That bracelet’s just to hide your truth, isn’t it?”

 

“Do you like it?” Su Jia persisted.

 

Song Yanrong bowed her head. Su Jia’s heated face pressed to her leg, hair cascading down, indescribably intimate.

 

Song Yanrong’s defenses vanished: “Mm…” she whispered.

 

…

 

The test results would come tomorrow morning.
Marriage registration also needed an appointment the day before. They needed to wait two days before leaving again.

 

They drove back to Nanping Bay.

 

Su Jia looked tired. As soon as she sat down, she leaned against the window and rested. The sun cast her frown onto the glass. She tilted her head.

 

Song Yanrong spoke softly, “Want to lean?”

 

Su Jia opened her eyes, surprised, then lay her head against Song Yanrong’s shoulder.

 

“Am I heavy?”

 

“How could you be?”

 

Su Jia smiled gently and closed her eyes.

 

Was this Song Yanrong’s change? Letting her lean in—it felt like a first.

 

Song Yanrong seemed… satisfied today.

 

But not enough. Su Jia wanted Song Yanrong’s official mark of ownership—her dependency. Though they were contracted without feelings, if Song Yanrong truly belonged to her in body and mind, that would be perfect.

 

She even found herself enjoying Song Yanrong’s sexual drive.

 

The cold, serious person brought down—as both warned and intriguing.

 

Su Jia wrapped her hand around Song Yanrong’s arm, pressing close as if she were a needy cat.

 

Song Yanrong’s half-arm was engulfed by warmth.

 

They were in a strange place: not lovers, yet acting like them. No feelings, yet pursuing a legal marriage.

 

Boundaries had lowered with “necessity.” She was doing things she’d never have done before.

 

This uncontrolled transformation mirrored the danger she foresaw.

 

Like a plant may eventually grow attachment with time, bodily pleasure inevitably evolves into emotional intimacy.

 

If they were partners, it was best to stay clear—Song Yanrong had thought when agreeing to the marriage.

 

Yet today, Su Jia shattered that boundary with ease.

 

With Su Jia’s fragrance in her breathing, memories of the small room flooded back—and Song Yanrong’s heart raced again.

 

Thirty minutes later they returned home. Lunch hadn’t been eaten yet, so Song Yanrong prepared to order food.

 

When she asked Su Jia what she wanted, she found her picky: no cilantro, no chilli, no shrimp. Finally she chose braised beef brisket, sautéed vegetables, and pumpkin-milk soup.

 

Song Yanrong asked: “No favorite dishes?”

 

Su Jia shook her head: “Not anymore. I did when I was young—but after my mother died, I lost the appetite.”

 

Indeed, her former favorite foods now repelled her—they reminded her of softness and loss.

 

While she grabbed a drink from the fridge, she asked: “What are you having?”

 

“Wusu ba,” Song Yanrong said. When she heard Su Jia’s words, she felt a pang—cherishing people and things when young, and losing them, always brings sorrow.

 

She had lost loved ones too.

 

But the memory left something precious.

 

Su Jia said: “The person’s gone. The living shouldn’t be distracted. Sorrow robs one of resolve.”

 

She handed two cans of Wusu ba.

 

Song Yanrong saw the cap was tough to open. She took one hand, used a tissue to grip it, opened it—then handed it back while gently saying: “At least now I know I was once protected… cherished. I was worthy in their eyes.”

 

Memory need not just bring sadness—it can boost happiness, especially when the world is cold.

 

Su Jia looked at the can wrapped by tissue. Her eyelashes fluttered softly like butterfly wings as she spoke: “But for those greedy, that’s not enough.”

 

Song Yanrong looked at her.

 

In the soft shadow, Su Jia’s face was steady and composed. She took a sip, then said: “Greedy people wish to possess that protection and affection forever. They want it not just in memory, but tangible—something they can smell, hold, touch…”

 

On the last words, their eyes met.

 

Song Yanrong paused. That gaze… raw and provocative.

 

Indeed—who isn’t greedy?

 

She lifted her head and took a drink.

 

Lunch arrived soon. It was hot, and they’d already struggled through the morning—so hunger was mild. They spoke casually as they ate. After the meal, they returned to talk about the marriage “agreement.”

 

They had mentioned civil and financial arrangements that morning; the asset notarization Su Jia suggested was reasonable, so Song Yanrong agreed.

 

The rest was their private agreement.

 

The terms weren’t many:

 

1. 1. 1. 1. Neither may see other partners.

 

1. 1. 1. 1. Mutual help (flexible application).

 

1. 1. 1. 1. Keep the first two.

 

1. 1. 1. 1. This agreement may be interpreted by both equally.

 

It sounded serious. But the final clause—about future adjustments—made it less rigid.

 

Because it implied everything could be negotiated as long as both sides agreed.

 

So far, neither had objections.

 

To avoid it seeming ridiculous, Song Yanrong persuaded Su Jia to skip printing a paper copy. Instead they created an electronic document and signed it.

 

Later, Su Jia noticed a few other documents Song Yanrong sent and paused.

 

She opened them and stared.

 

Song Yanrong said: “These are some talent agencies I’ve shortlisted—independent from Song Corp, old and new firms, good background and prospects. Take a look if you like any; if not, I’ll find more.”

 

“When did you start searching?”

 

“After you said you wanted to return to acting that day—look them over.”

 

Su Jia’s fingertip rubbed the screen—the nail soft as marshmallow—as she realized these firms had been carefully chosen. Song Yanrong had taken her words to heart.

 

“It’s Baijia Media—I’ve followed it a while.”

 

Su Jia said: “Once things calm down in a few days, I’ll test the waters. A friend works there.”

 

“Good,” Song Yanrong nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”

 

She wouldn’t meddle directly in Su Jia’s career—it was Su Jia’s choice.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Song Yanrong’s pale cheeks looked composed as Su Jia spoke seriously. Su Jia recalled how Song Yanrong blushed red in the wheelchair that morning, her low moan anxious—the beta trembling…

 

She felt tempted to draw out this version of Song Yanrong again… or have Song Yanrong draw it out.

 

Su Jia cleared her mind—whenever she touched Song Yanrong, her thoughts unraveled.

 

“Your face is so red.”

 

She heard Song Yanrong ask suddenly—Song Yanrong tried touching her cheek tentatively, it felt warm.

 

Song Yanrong asked: “Does alcohol not agree with you?”

 

Su Jia glanced at the can’s label and set it down: “I didn’t check—I thought it was mild.”

 

She wasn’t drunk—just a bit buzzed.

 

“Better avoid it next time,” Song Yanrong said.

 

Su Jia propped her chin, smiling gently at her, the blush on her cheeks and lips and even the lids returned: “Have I ever told you—you sometimes seem like an ‘old cadre’?”

 

“Old cadre” — that made her sound ancient. She was only 27.

 

Song Yanrong snorted: “Nope.”

 

“Don’t like it?”

 

“Mm, if you must say, call me ‘older sister’.”

 

“Then… big sister.”

 

Song Yanrong’s eardrums tingled—she almost melted.

 

Su Jia’s voice was intoxicatingly sweet and well-behaved—though calculated.

 

Song Yanrong maintained a composed expression, sipping her drink, then smiled:

 

“So obedient.”

 

Su Jia’s eyes held satisfaction, and she called again:

 

“Big sister.”

 

“…”

 

Song Yanrong felt her brain heat up: “Really—don’t drink next time.”

 

…

 

Afterwards:
“Big sis? Sister…”

 

“Sis—if you’re drunk, does that mean random hooking up is okay?”