Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 43
Chapter 43
“Why is your contact note for me named 0.01?”
Su Jia’s expression paused briefly, then she smiled:
“Because you’re my 0.01. Among the millions of alphas in this world, you’re my special 0.01.”
That note had been set when she first added Song Yanrong on WeChat and had never changed since.
Back then, she simply thought the note fit the meaning of Song Yanrong’s presence. But now, faced with Song Yanrong’s question, she inexplicably felt a twinge of fear—though, thinking carefully, the meaning of “0.01” had long since changed.
Hearing this sweet, almost love-like explanation, Song Yanrong was subtly moved.
If she had been a little more rational at this moment, she might have asked: why not “the only one,” why “0.01”?
The number seemed symbolic, like something from mathematical quadrants or higher math theories.
But she didn’t ask.
After forwarding the message, she habitually exited the chat window—when something caught her eye: a notification of a new email on Su Jia’s WeChat screen.
A faint scent lingered. Su Jia’s hand quickly covered the screen. She hadn’t seen it clearly.
Su Jia said, “I want to change something.”
Song Yanrong asked, “Change what?”
Su Jia replied, “The contact note.”
Song Yanrong paused and looked up: “Change it to what?”
She had a good memory. Even though she only glanced briefly earlier, she’d caught the beginning of the email’s subject line—“AO Special Clinic Test,” and “to: Special Case Report…”
Other than the last time she had taken Su Jia for a medical exam, she only recalled two minor incidents afterward, both seemingly harmless. So what was this test about?
“Special case.” The words themselves were ominous.
Song Yanrong was now thinking, and her tone turned distracted.
Su Jia didn’t notice and assumed she was contemplating the contract. She softly said, “Guess.”
But Song Yanrong remained focused on the health matter.
She said, “Have you been unwell lately? I just saw an email from the hospital.”
Su Jia hadn’t expected her to notice. She’d only grabbed her phone quickly, not fast enough to hide the email. The VIP report should only be visible to the doctor and the patient.
Usually, she would read and immediately delete them. But these past days, her mind had been entirely on Song Yanrong, and she’d slipped.
She should’ve brushed it off without hesitation. But now that Song Yanrong asked, she felt an unexpected resistance in her heart.
When she finally spoke, it was after an internal struggle.
She remembered clearly the consequences of lying to Song Yanrong last time. If this ever came to light…
But even if she told the truth now, there was too much to explain. Being honest might ruin everything. If Song Yanrong found out how many times her intimacy had been driven by dependency disorder—wouldn’t she be even more furious?
Then today’s rare moment of peace would be over again.
She didn’t want that—no more cold wars, no more fights. She couldn’t bear seeing Song Yanrong’s cold face again.
It’s easy to go from frugality to luxury, but hard to go back.
She had gotten used to Song Yanrong treating her well. She could no longer accept her indifference.
A trace of madness flickered in Su Jia’s eyes.
As long as Song Lu didn’t speak, and she didn’t speak, no one else would ever know.
But if she told the truth now—could Song Yanrong understand, forgive, and still treat her the same?
Her thoughts circled endlessly. She rarely had such indecision. But in the end, her heart hardened, like a rock weathered by time.
She couldn’t place all her hope in someone else, not when her safety wasn’t yet assured, not after she’d already failed once.
She believed in Song Yanrong—but her reaction last time had been terrifying.
If she knew everything, she would only run further.
Three seconds passed before Su Jia answered.
“Nothing serious. I caught a cold a few days ago and just got a follow-up at the hospital. It was just the report. Nothing major.”
Song Yanrong asked about a few indicators. Su Jia answered fluently. Though a faint suspicion lingered in her heart, she didn’t press further.
Soon, Song Yanrong sent the revised contract to Su Jia.
Su Jia stood on the unlit balcony. When she turned back, she saw Song Yanrong looking at her phone, lost in thought. She asked, “What are you thinking about?”
Song Yanrong closed her phone.
“Suddenly thought of Song Lu.”
“I’ve never seen Song Lu so angry before.”
Su Jia stood on the balcony, the curtains blocking out the night completely. She stood between them, tilted her head, and smiled:
“How could this be the first time? When Song Qi got married, wasn’t Song Lu even more furious?”
Song Yanrong paused. The original body’s memories were mostly vague and negative—not all were retained.
She said, “It’s truly the first time I’ve seen it. What if I told you… the Song Yanrong back then wasn’t me. Would you believe it?”
Su Jia’s smile froze slightly. She stared at Song Yanrong for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed—her body and the curtains shaking:
“Mm, I believe you.”
But Song Yanrong knew—Su Jia didn’t believe her.
No one would. Even Zhao Wen, who’d visited her a few times, laughed more the more seriously she spoke.
Zhao Wen even teased her, asking if she had brain damage from that car accident years ago. Maybe it had messed with her mind.
Later, she kept joking about it.
“If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” Su Jia asked with a smile.
Song Yanrong answered casually, “Another person.”
“And the current you?”
Su Jia’s tone was playful, thinking she was joking. Song Yanrong paused, then said:
“I don’t belong to this world.”
The balcony was still dimly lit, and the indoor light didn’t reach fully. So she didn’t notice Su Jia’s momentary reaction.
Su Jia laughed, joking:
“Don’t tell me you’re some kind of awakened being on Earth?”
She said it in a whimsical way, clearly a joke, but also a probe.
If she could awaken—could someone else?
She always sensed something in Song Yanrong, but this was her first time voicing it.
Song Yanrong shook her head and chuckled. She found Su Jia’s imagination quite entertaining—it lightened the mood.
So she said, “Just take it as me forgetting. I didn’t pay much attention to Song Lu’s affairs.”
Su Jia felt a flicker of disappointment. Song Yanrong wasn’t like her.
But that smile quickly masked the emotion.
Their relationship had only just improved. She wasn’t going to waste the moment. Su Jia leaned slightly, peeking at the courtyard below.
She said:
“No matter how angry Song Lu is, Song Qi’s aunt will calm her down.”
Then she looked back at Song Yanrong.
No need for direct eye contact—just that glance made Song Yanrong’s eyelid twitch.
Su Jia asked:
“You really didn’t know?”
Of course Song Yanrong didn’t. She was still stunned that Song Lu and Song Qi were aunt and niece.
Her mouth felt dry. She instinctively licked her lips.
That action, combined with her tongue, hit a soft spot in Su Jia’s heart—like floodwater breaking through a dam, the pressure building.
In a hoarse voice, Su Jia said:
“Kiss me, and I’ll tell you, okay?”
Song Yanrong stared at her. Her soft pink lips were the most tempting shade.
But she refused to give in to such tactics. Her fingers pressed lightly against Su Jia’s lips.
Su Jia said, “Then I’ll kiss you.”
She leaned in.
It had been too long since she tasted the scent of her pheromones. She missed it.
Before coming, she’d messaged Song Lu, asking why her gland was acting up. Song Lu said it was still her dependency disorder—after spending so much time with Song Yanrong, being marked repeatedly, her body had developed a physical reliance.
Because it hadn’t been satisfied lately, the symptoms were flaring.
Though, really, it hadn’t been that long. They were together often—four times a week at minimum, sometimes twice in one night.
But to Su Jia—it felt long.
Song Yanrong’s gland, untouched for days, now swelled and ached under Su Jia’s mouth and tongue, forming a small bulge.
Saliva moistened the entrance of the alpha gland.
Just as the heat built, Song Yanrong’s fingers moved—and that soft warmth retreated. Emptiness surged inside her.
Su demon.
She cursed inwardly.
In front of her, Su Jia licked her upper lip, making her red lips even more luscious.
“Yanrong, it’s so sweet…”
Yes.
The gland was sweet. When the tongue touched its entrance, she could taste a trace of pheromone—and it left her craving more, until the gland swelled and reddened under her lips.
Song Yanrong had tasted it before.
She knew Su Jia was seducing her.
But Song Yanrong wouldn’t give in that easily, even as her own desires burned.
Su Jia looked quite pleased. She moved behind Song Yanrong. Without a word, she turned off the light and, under the dim glow, naturally pushed her wheelchair out to the balcony.
Then, through the curtains, Song Yanrong looked down.
Su Jia’s voice drifted from above:
“Everyone says Song Qi’s aunt adores you the most. I assumed you knew. But it turns out—I’m the only outsider who knows the truth: Song Qi and Song Lu used to be together.”
…
In the garden below.
Song Qi sat by the pond, wearing a simple light-colored summer linen outfit. The hot wind blew through the garden, scattering the smoke from the cigarette in her hand.
It didn’t suit her image.
She seemed to hear light footsteps. She turned, eyes narrowing.
Instinctively, she hid the cigarette behind her back.
Song Lu approached, eyes cold. She glanced at the smoke and sneered:
“Hiding it?”
Song Qi stood. Surprise flickered in her eyes, then faded at Song Lu’s icy tone. Still, she kept her voice soft:
“I was just trying it.”
She put out the cigarette. She wasn’t a smoker—just overwhelmed, with no one to confide in. Even returning home made her feel worse.
Even more painful.
Song Lu said nothing. She walked a few steps forward and stopped.
They were still two meters apart. Song Qi wanted to move closer but didn’t.
She broke the silence:
“I thought you left.”
Song Lu:
“Auntie had something to say earlier, right?”
Her tone was distant, businesslike—like she remembered something and came back just to ask.
The scent of the pond water moistened Song Qi’s eyes. She looked away:
“…Not anymore.”
She tried to sound natural, and forced a painful blessing:
“Ah Lu, congratulations.”
Song Lu clenched her fist.
“Save the congratulations for my wedding day. Like I did when you got married.”
The memory sliced through the air. Tears welled in Song Qi’s eyes. She looked down, hiding them in the dim light:
“I’m sorry.”
Song Lu laughed bitterly.
Enough. She’d had enough.
“Song Qi, I was just someone you could throw away. So why come back now? Divorce makes you think you can return to me—is that it?”
Song Qi flinched, stunned:
“No! Never!”
Tears streamed down her face.
“Song Lu, I never thought that—I…”
She tried to explain, but was cut off:
“You left me, and now what? Contacting me again? I’m not coming back here. Whether you return or not—don’t contact me again.”
Song Lu breathed in painfully, her eyes shadowed:
“If you’re going to be my aunt, then be a good aunt for life.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait!” Song Qi panicked and stepped on a small rock, falling into the pond.
Instantly, Song Lu turned back and pulled her out.
Her soaked clothes clung to her mature figure like fire against Song Lu’s skin. She froze.
Those soft, wet hands held her waist. She cried in her arms, calling softly:
“Ah Lu… Ah Lu…”
Song Lu suddenly remembered that time—Song Qi had waved to her from the second floor:
“Ah Lu, come up.”
And behind everyone’s back, on that princess bed, a night of indulgence—
Song Qi had called her just like that.
“Ah Lu… Ah Lu…”