Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 30

Chapter 30

 

“You’ve truly changed.”

 

Su Jia looked at the cold and solemn doctor before her. The pale memories in her mind gradually faded. She understood what Song Lu meant, especially the words that followed her initial sentence.

 

“I think the Su Jia I used to know—the one who said she was used to being responsible for herself—never meant taking others along in that responsibility.”

 

Su Jia’s temperament had indeed shifted drastically. She briefly wondered if she had developed a split personality.

 

It sounded harsh—and Su Jia knew that Song Lu was genuinely angry. Although she didn’t know exactly what triggered Song Lu’s reaction, she recognized its depth.

 

But Song Lu wasn’t wrong; her advice was well-intentioned. And when the words were said, they remained.

 

Yet suddenly, Su Jia’s smile brightened with uncanny delight. A seed of vengefulness sprouted from nowhere. “The doctor I used to know wasn’t like this either. At least—not before, five years ago, before your aunt from the Song family married…”

 

She stood, picked up an apple and a fruit knife, as though oblivious to Song Lu’s tense expression. “You’ve also gone through bitterness and hardship to become who you are. Why can’t I also change? Why can’t I be the bewildered, ignorant, and laughable Su Jia you once knew?”

 

Her pale lips were like a silent blade, effortlessly cutting through Song Lu’s throat.

 

Song Lu’s voice was hoarse for a long moment. They faced each other like warriors. Finally, Song Lu let out a faint, humorless snort and lowered her gaze. “Fair enough,” she said.

 

She glanced at the apple in Su Jia’s hand. “But do you really think you can have full control of that bomb in your hand?”

 

…Or fully control Song Yanrong?

 

…

 

Song Yanrong’s prediction almost came true.

 

At the shareholders’ meeting, there was actually very little contention. After it ended, she sent Su Jia a WeChat message.

 

A dozen minutes later, her reply came: “They just lack vision.”

 

Song Yanrong curved her lips in a faint smile: “They really do.”

 

She asked: “Did you drink the chicken soup? How was it?”

 

Su Jia replied after a moment: “Yes, it was very tasty.”

 

Song Yanrong left the meeting room: “What are you doing now?”

 

Even though words on the screen lack facial expressions, there are times their tone feels like a reflection in a mirror—you can sense sincerity.

 

Before Su Jia could respond, a shareholder called for her attention. He was an older man who had earlier defended Song Hanshuang against her plan. He said,

 

“Third Miss may not be happy, so let me speak up. At our age, sometimes it’s better to enjoy life rather than chase unrealistic plans.”

 

Song Yanrong smiled and didn’t reply. The man continued,

 

“And maybe someone whispered nonsense in your ear—your health isn’t good, and yet you’re chasing these unreliable proposals.”

 

Earlier, Song Hanshuang had scrapped many of her plan’s sections, but Song Yanrong had reintroduced investment proposals—gaming, automotive, and e-commerce.

 

In the world they lived in, e-sports was growing but still required field research; and the auto industry was not booming. Their company had dabbled in it before without much success. E‑commerce was more established but saturated.

 

Song Hanshuang’s approach was conservative. But Song Yanrong hadn’t just followed a script—since the day she took over, she studied the market.

 

She had played those game titles from start to end, identifying bugs and strengths. She was investing in talent. The automotive investment? Secondary. E‑commerce needed capital and management.

 

She wasn’t short on funding; her 30% stake in the company could be cashed out.

 

Naturally, Song Hanshuang didn’t understand—and neither did the others, making Song Yanrong’s plan seem laughable coming from her.

 

Song Yanrong, in her wheelchair, wore an elegant black suit with an open-button shirt. Her posture was dignified, her expression serene—almost disdainful.

 

She calmly said, “Yes, that’s all.”

 

The man’s attempted follow-up was cut off when Song Hanshuang interjected coldly:

 

“I heard you bought land in Qishui.”

 

Stepping forward, Song Hanshuang offered a brief look at her sister: “How dare you?”

 

That piece of land had been at rock bottom in property value for three years. Why invest there unless redevelopment was certain—which was nearly impossible without government support.

 

A high-level businessperson should know better.

 

Song Yanrong’s wheelchair turned slowly, positioning her beside Song Hanshuang just briefly before pivoting toward the elevator.

 

“You failing to act means you’re not capable. Holding a high position yet mocking others—how small-minded,” she said as she reached the elevator.

 

Song Hanshuang glared at her. Song Yanrong—smiling politely—said,

 

“No need to see me off.”

 

The elevator door closed. She headed downward. As she passed the lobby, a familiar woman in a brown dress caught her eye.

 

“Take your time,” Song Yanrong said softly.

 

One shareholder had voted for her—despite everyone else rejecting her proposal. That person was none other than her aunt, Song Qi.

 

Seated on a lobby couch, Song Qi waved her over. Nine years older, she’d once cared for Song Yanrong far more than Song Hanshuang or Song Lu did. But after getting married, she’d become distant—only reaching out at festivals.

 

Her smile held the elegance of her age, and Song Yanrong greeted her, “Aunt.”

 

Song Qi said, “I ordered you a soda. I voted for you at the meeting, and now I owe you some face.”

 

Their conversation felt natural. They talked about missed times: when Song Qi had last seen her was after the accident—four years ago.

 

Song Qi noticed Song Yanrong’s leg, but quickly masked it with another question: “I hear you seem fond of Su Jia. When did you meet?”

 

Song Yanrong seldom spoke of Su Jia. But she surprised herself by opening up—her deepest emotions were hidden, and she needed to share them, even with a relative.

 

They chatted effortlessly. Time passed.

 

Glancing at her watch, Song Qi said, “I have to go to meet a friend now.”

 

Song Yanrong offered, “Shall I see you off?”

 

“No need, I’m driving,” said Song Qi. “A director friend named Han is visiting. You know I’ve always been interested in screenwriting. I want to get some tips from her.”

 

Song Yanrong didn’t say more. She’d heard Song Qi had divorced her husband and was now involved in a media startup abroad—so this path wasn’t surprising.

 

When they parted, Song Qi smoothed her skirt and casually asked, “Have you been in touch with Ah Lu (Song Lu) lately?”

 

Song Yanrong answered, “Yes—Su Jia’s been having her health checks there these past days.”

 

Song Qi nodded: “Is she doing okay these days?”

 

“She seems fine, but she’s been quiet,” Song Yanrong replied.

 

Song Qi smiled faintly: “Does she have a girlfriend now?”

 

That question caught Song Yanrong off-guard.

 

She hesitated: “Doesn’t seem like it. But I’m not certain.”

 

…

 

On the way back to the hospital, Song Yanrong recalled the three questions her aunt had asked at the end and sensed something subtly off—something with an undertone she couldn’t fully grasp.

 

Perhaps she was overthinking it. In any case, it didn’t directly concern her, so she let it go.

 

Opening WeChat, she saw Su Jia hadn’t replied yet. She typed:

 

“Sleeping.”

 

Her finger hovered over “send.” Am I too clingy? She paused for two seconds, then tapped “send.”

 

She chuckled at herself—perhaps she was too caught up in caring about Su Jia’s thoughts.

 

Half an hour later, the black car pulled up outside the hospital. Song Yanrong headed inside with a few mandarins and rose grapes.

 

Entering the ward, she found Su Jia asleep, her rest shallow—barely a stir, though at the sight of her, the sleeper flinched.

 

“Back?” Su Jia mumbled as she woke.

 

Song Yanrong tilted her head, smiling: “Could tell it was me even with your eyes closed.”

 

Su Jia opened her eyes, lips curling: “You smell different.”

 

Song Yanrong washed her hands and returned to the bedside. “Picked some oranges—taste this.” She peeled one and offered it.

 

Su Jia sat up but didn’t take it—just parted her lips and glanced at it.

 

Song Yanrong couldn’t resist the sweet mockery. She nudged the wedge gently against Su Jia’s teeth. “Not eating?”

 

Su Jia softly bit it.

 

Song Yanrong withdrew her hand, wiped off juice with a tissue—unaware of Su Jia’s subtle change in expression—and then asked, “How is it?”

 

Su Jia swallowed and smiled gently: “Delicious… very sweet.”

 

“Not sour?”

 

Su Jia shook her head: “Not at all. You try.”

 

Song Yanrong shrugged and ate one herself—only to be hit by extreme sourness that twisted her face. Juice exploded in her mouth; she gagged.

 

Su Jia buried her face in the covers, laughing.

 

Song Yanrong froze.

 

Tapping Su Jia’s ear, she asked: “Funny?”

 

“Not funny,” Su Jia said, her eyes reddening with mirth. “Song Yanrong, I think you should give up buying fruit.”

 

Song Yanrong sighed: “I’ll practice next time.”

 

She wasn’t good at picking fruit, something she’d never had to do before.

 

She tossed the sour orange aside and began washing grapes. In the sound of running water, Su Jia’s smile slowly faded—like waves flattening to a horizon.

 

Su Jia had seen Song Yanrong’s message at the moment Song Lu left, and thoughts replayed in her mind like a movie reel.

 

She suddenly didn’t want to reply.

 

She told herself: see—you’re good at tempting Song Yanrong. Even if you don’t reply, she’ll come running. She’ll do things she’s not good at just for you.

 

She can be heartless now, and one day… she can be merciless to let go.

 

What bomb? The trigger’s in her hand. The bomb isn’t in her body anymore.

 

She has nothing to fear.

 

Su Jia clenched her fingers, gripping the sheet tightly.

 

…

 

In the afternoon, Song Yanrong stayed with the computer. Once Su Jia fell asleep, she went to find Song Lu, as promised earlier.

 

She opened the office door. Song Lu’s expression was unexpectedly colder than that morning.

 

Reluctant to push, Song Yanrong said: “If you’d rather not, I can find someone else.”

 

No hidden meaning intended.

 

Song Lu didn’t like to change her mind easily. She asked flatly: “What is it?”

 

Song Yanrong closed the door, looked at Song Lu, then spoke seriously: “You know my leg condition.”

 

Song Lu nodded: “Speak directly.”

 

There was no escaping it—Song Yanrong’s leg condition was practically common knowledge among the city’s doctors.

 

No cure. Legs permanently disabled. Wheelchair-bound for life.

 

Song Yanrong said softly: “Don’t be alarmed.”

 

Song Lu didn’t respond—but watched as Song Yanrong lifted one leg, moving it up and down before her eyes.