Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 33

Chapter 33

At dusk, the dedicated car lane beside the asphalt road had lost its daytime bustle. The surroundings were quiet, shrouded in a mist that said nothing.

Through the car windshield, in the disordered, damp environment, Su Jia spotted Song Yanrong.

Across the street, in the rear seat of a car with its window slightly lowered, Su Jia couldn’t clearly see her expression. But she could see the pallor on Song Yanrong’s face—like rain had soaked through her, draining all her warmth. It sent a chill through Su Jia’s chest, a sharp drop like slipping suddenly at a cliff’s edge.

Inside the car, Song Yanrong sat silently, her fingertips resting on the lid of the chicken soup porridge. Just a short moment ago, it had still been warm.

Holding her phone, she gestured at Su Jia.

Su Jia stood still in front of the car, raising her phone to her ear. “I…”

A passing car suddenly honked, and Song Yanrong heard two parallel sounds—one from this side of reality, the other through the phone.

Song Yanrong said gently, “No rush. Take care of what you need to. We’ll talk when you get back.”

She looked across the wide street and met Su Jia’s eyes. Then she lowered her phone and ended the call.

The car window rolled up slowly, sealing her off from the world completely.

“Let’s go,” Song Yanrong said.

Su Jia remained where she was, watching the black car’s headlights flare as it drove across the crosswalk and turned the corner, disappearing from view. Her fingertips pressed into her palms, untrimmed nails scraping with an unease that cut deep.

It was only later that she came to her senses, opened her phone, tapped on Song Yanrong’s WeChat chat window, and froze with her finger hovering over the keyboard.

She took a breath—this season, it seemed, only made her more restless.

…

Nanping Bay

The living room was air-conditioned at 25°C. Song Yanrong sat on the sofa, a book in hand—one she had picked at random from the decorative bookshelf.

Her phone vibrated. A voice or video call from WeChat flashed across the screen. She froze, her expression tightening.

Seeing the name “Zhou Yuan,” she lowered her eyelashes.

Without hesitation, she turned off the screen.

Then she looked down at the book again. She gave a bitter laugh—ten pages in half an hour. The book wasn’t even thick.

A faint jasmine scent lingered in the air. Song Yanrong glanced toward Su Jia’s room. The door was open. The jasmine Su Jia had bought was sitting on the bedroom balcony.

When the wind was just right, a trace of its fragrance would drift inside—subtle and faint.

As she went to close the door to Su Jia’s room, she looked around. There were very few personal belongings visible.

She had expected to find signs of daily life, but the room showed almost none.

It felt more like a temporary guest’s space.

More so than her own.

Song Yanrong stood there for a while, then quietly backed out and closed the door.

The jasmine scent was now completely drowned by the cool air.

At the floor-to-ceiling window, she looked out at the distant cityscape—so far that it felt like she could almost see the edge of the world.

Many memories resurfaced for no reason.

She had never had much time to read. Because of the family business, while other children her age read picture books, she read Das Kapital, The Wealth of Nations, and Principles of Economics.

While others played Ludo or Monopoly, or spent weekends at amusement parks, she played chess, Go, took math Olympiad classes, and accompanied her parents to social events, flying all over the world.

She had almost no friends, no real hobbies. At most, she ran for exercise in her spare time.

When she got a bit older, she followed her mother’s example and went to temples to listen to monks chant sutras. It was like running—her heart could temporarily escape its “poverty.”

If time allowed, she could sit and listen all afternoon. As she grew older, when the monk’s eyesight worsened, he occasionally asked her to write down interpretations for incense-offering guests.

After taking over the Song Corporation on her own, she no longer had time for that. Even if she went, it was just squeezing it into an already full schedule—never relaxing.

Back in the city, her phone was constantly filled with work, appointments, and social obligations.

Her battlefield was never at peace.

But home—home was quiet.

It had always been an apartment like this, though a bit smaller than the current one. When she opened the door, it always smelled like home-cooked food—prepared in advance by the housekeeper.

She was used to taking a shower and then reheating the dishes.

The house was bright, and the city outside shimmered like a rainbow. She sat alone at the dining table, enjoying dinner.

Song Yanrong put down the book, grabbed a bottle of red wine from the rack, and poured herself a glass.

Ever since moving here—leaving the company, and spending day after day with Su Jia—she had felt a warmth she hadn’t felt in years. As if she were living a normal life again, no longer surrounded by deceit and scheming.

Her world had begun to feel real.

And because she had such confidence in understanding Su Jia, even if she was wary at first, her guard had gradually come down.

When Song Yanrong realized she cared about Su Jia, she asked herself: You know she’s the female lead. There will likely be many future twists—why do you still fall for her?

She didn’t deny she was enchanted by her beauty. Living with a gorgeous woman day in and day out—setting aside all other factors—that alone was enough to weaken most people’s resolve.

Reality isn’t a novel. There’s no need for extreme reasoning or perfect plotlines.

Does one need to go through dramatic life-saving events to fall in love?

She fell for her without needing all those reasons.

She had simply tasted the sweetness of emotion and desire—and nearly lost control.

That’s how Song Yanrong justified it to herself. And now, if you asked whether she regretted getting close—or regretted falling in love—

She would still say no. She didn’t regret it. She also didn’t deny that she really liked Su Jia.

This impulsive emotion, she believed, came from the long-term suppression of her feelings finally being released.

She had been cautious for so long, she had almost no defenses left when it came to this.

It was like coming home after a long day of work, entering a favorite game, immersing yourself—your joys and sorrows temporarily trapped inside.

You almost believe this is life.

Then someone suddenly calls time out—and you wake up.

The tension, the wariness, and all the calculation from the real world crawl back up like spiderwebs.

Song Yanrong took a sip of wine. Rain had fallen, and the night wind wasn’t so hot anymore—in fact, it carried a trace of long-missing coolness.

She felt… sober again.

…

Half an hour later, the front door opened.

The wine had already been put away. Su Jia changed her shoes and walked over.

Song Yanrong’s wheelchair was at the living room balcony. The two locked eyes.

She had come back early not to avoid confrontation, but to leave enough time for Su Jia.

So if the words that followed weren’t the truth—it no longer mattered.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you. That woman’s name is Han Yiwen. Before her family went bankrupt, we were close. I was young then. My mom even considered betrothing us once we came of age… Later, I moved to the Song family, and she went abroad in her sophomore year. We lost contact after that.”

Su Jia sat down on the opposite sofa. She couldn’t read Song Yanrong’s expression. She lowered her voice and continued: “I told you—there are many things from the past I don’t want to revisit. I didn’t want to engage. And today, I only found out she’s the producer of the film I auditioned for. You asked me right when I ran into her—I didn’t know how to introduce her. It didn’t seem important, so…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hide it.”

Her heart pounded furiously again. She heard its echo reverberating.

She had stayed downstairs for a long time. She didn’t want Song Yanrong to see Han Yiwen again. These words were part-truth, part-lie—but they weren’t the whole reason.

After much thought, this was the most reasonable explanation she could give.

Song Yanrong inhaled slowly. It was a perfect explanation.

Unfortunately—

“I forgot to mention—I saw Han Yiwen at the hospital,” she said casually, not seeming to notice Su Jia’s frozen expression. “More than once.”

Once when she brought roses.

Once when she caught a whiff of her perfume.

If not for those two encounters, Su Jia’s excuse would have been quite convincing.

But given those, Su Jia and Han Yiwen wouldn’t have needed to hide anything—Su Jia could have just told her the truth earlier.

Of course, Song Yanrong didn’t believe Su Jia and Han Yiwen had that kind of relationship. Su Jia wouldn’t.

But the fact remained: she had lied. Even now, after being confronted.

Su Jia’s spine stiffened. This was her blind spot—she didn’t know Song Yanrong had met Han Yiwen, and Han Yiwen had never mentioned it.

Su Jia’s face paled. Unlike before, Song Yanrong now exuded a chilling, coldly decisive energy that made Su Jia deeply uneasy.

Su Jia opened her mouth, but no words came out.

She could’ve said something—but faced with Song Yanrong’s gaze, all those soft, ready words suddenly stuck in her throat.

Then Song Yanrong smiled and said, “I guess… I was just being greedy.”

The AC seemed too cold. Su Jia wore a dress, and the exposed skin on her calves rose in goosebumps. The cold seemed to awaken her heartbeat—frantic and almost desperate.

Up to this point, Song Yanrong’s tone was still rather casual.

Three seconds passed. Then she finally spoke again:

“From the beginning, we had a cooperative relationship. But when people get a taste of something sweet, they lose themselves. I forgot my place and crossed the line. But given our original agreement, you never owed me an explanation. It was my own delusion that you should explain yourself to me.”

“It’s better we keep things… pure.”

Su Jia froze and whispered, “Song Yanrong…”

There was a trace of confusion in her eyes—like a battle horn had sounded before she was ready for war.

But Song Yanrong’s eyes were clear and calm, her voice scattering across the vast living room:
“I thought a lot on the way home. I still haven’t figured out why you had to lie—especially when you still won’t tell me the truth.”

Only now did Su Jia realize just how serious this was in Song Yanrong’s eyes.

She hadn’t learned to recognize that. Or perhaps she’d forgotten that aside from self-preservation, she also had the ability to empathize.

What she did feel, however, was a deep panic like never before. She instinctively took two steps forward.

Watching her, Song Yanrong remained composed—just like the first time they met, when she’d calmly offered her a warm blanket.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “This isn’t an interrogation. I had my reasons too, from the start. So you don’t need to dwell on today—nor on anything going forward.”

Su Jia stood a few steps away. Song Yanrong was in a black loungewear set, her pale complexion even more striking under the white light.

Su Jia stepped closer, her voice rising: “What do you mean? Be clear.”

Song Yanrong’s wheelchair moved, turning away toward the floor-to-ceiling window—as if looking back from the edge of a cliff.

“Miss Su, I liked you. But this is where it ends.”