Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 45
Chapter 45
The sound of cicadas seemed even more stifling within the deep courtyard.
Song Yanrong sat at her desk. Her gaze drifted from the book in her hand and swept past the open bedroom. Inside, Su Jia was showering in the bathroom.
Su Jia had briefly explained what happened tonight—how Zhou Yuan had tried to lure her away, but Song Hanshuang noticed and took her away. As for where Su Jia went afterward, she hadn’t been too clear.
Song Yanrong didn’t care much about Zhou Yuan anymore. Evil would meet its end—Zhou’s family was nearly finished.
When the time came, justice would be served, and grudges settled.
What concerned her more now was Su Jia’s heaviness—something burdened her deeply.
That woman seemed to carry so many things in her heart—things Song Yanrong didn’t understand, didn’t know. Sometimes, Su Jia felt incredibly close to her, so close that it seemed like they were the only two people in the world. But at other times, she couldn’t see through her thoughts at all.
It was like they were in the same space, yet a thick wall divided them.
She closed the book and turned to place it on the bookshelf.
By coincidence, she spotted a copy of The Montmartre Testament—the same book she had seen at the Nanping Bay residence. This copy had clearly been read more often. The original owner must have really liked it.
So much so that every home she lived in had a copy.
She casually flipped to a dog-eared page. The dog-ears were the original owner’s habit, and on that page, a paragraph had been marked in red:
“My wish is no longer to build an ideal love within life, but to simply live well. To stop getting hurt, and to stop hurting others. I dislike that there is so much harm in this world.”
“The wish for ideal love is no longer important. What matters is to live a life where no one can hurt me again.”
In that paragraph, both instances of the word love had been crossed out with a black pen.
Song Yanrong guessed: the original owner had never harbored any yearning for romantic love. That’s why the concept of love failed to resonate.
What she truly resonated with—and liked—was the pain and sentiment beneath those words.
And it wasn’t just that passage. Many similarly oppressive sections had all mentions of love removed. The original owner simply loved the raw, brutal honesty of the words.
The last time Song Yanrong had read part of it, her heart felt a heavy, suffocating ache.
It was hard to believe someone with the original owner’s temperament would be drawn to this kind of writing.
Suddenly, that familiar weight returned and pressed upon her, just like when she first entered the Song family and this room. She looked around; earlier, with Su Jia present, she hadn’t noticed it so intensely. But now, sitting at the desk, it was like her soul was spinning inside her body…
She felt immersed in the world the original owner once lived in.
Depression. Destruction. Collapse. Ruin. Death.
Desires screamed in her bloodstream like wild beasts tearing at her will.
The lights were all off. She was hiding in this room—falling in love with this book.
Then she wrote something down.
Snapping out of the suffocating sensation, Song Yanrong took a deep breath. She lowered her eyes and flipped to the last page. There, in chaotic handwriting, the original owner had scrawled:
“Sexual desire,” “love desire,” “death drive”—at their peak, all three feel the same.
201x.02.03
After the car accident, the original owner had thought of suicide.
That was the conclusion Song Yanrong came to almost immediately.
Then suddenly, she remembered the first time she came into this room and found a lawyer’s business card in a drawer.
She had wondered at the time—what did the original owner need a lawyer for? Her life hadn’t seemed like one that needed legal services.
Now the pieces clicked.
Song Yanrong narrowed her eyes, deep in thought…
Just then, the sound of the bathroom door opening interrupted her.
She turned her head and saw Su Jia walk out, wrapped in a dark green semi-fitted camisole, a towel wrapped around her wet hair.
Su Jia asked, “Want to dry your hair?”
Song Yanrong replied, “No need, it’s almost dry.”
Su Jia stood there and insisted gently, “Just a little. What if you catch a cold?”
Su Jia could be stubborn sometimes.
And sometimes, Song Yanrong could really feel that Su Jia liked her.
Inside the bathroom, the buzzing of the hairdryer sounded like nervous static. The scent of their bodies mingled—two soft perfumes intertwining.
Su Jia insisted that Song Yanrong use the dryer first. Song Yanrong stood in front, Su Jia behind, watching her face through the mirror.
Her gaze was too direct. After two minutes, Song Yanrong turned off the dryer, looked back, and set it down on the counter.
She said softly, “It’s fine now.”
Then she turned—and heard Su Jia ask:
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
It felt like an anesthetist’s needle entering the heart. Song Yanrong was slowly being numbed.
…
The two lay side by side on the bed—two empty shells, void of soul. Song Yanrong turned on her side.
After a long silence, she heard movement—Su Jia rolled over and hugged her from behind.
Su Jia always liked to hug her this way—as if doing so avoided having to face Song Yanrong’s eyes, which could see right through her.
In the middle of the night, the silence broke like wind chimes brushing against red dust.
She asked, “Song Yanrong, do your promises still count?”
Song Yanrong asked, “Which one?”
Su Jia said, “You said you’d protect me… until I didn’t need you anymore. Does that still count?”
“And if I always need you—will you always stay with me?”
Song Yanrong didn’t answer immediately. After a pause, she asked,
“What are you really trying to say?”
“Huh?” Su Jia didn’t immediately catch the deeper meaning.
Song Yanrong felt the hand wrapped tightly around her stomach—the soft, mature body pressing against her back. Her breath quieted as she said:
“I meant what I said—most of it. Like when I told you that you don’t need to tiptoe around me. You don’t need to hide yourself from me. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Do you really understand?”
Su Jia fell silent.
But Song Yanrong didn’t press the issue. After a few seconds, her cool voice softened with sincerity. Her words slowed, as if trying to lay her heart bare—red, raw, and still beating.
“Su Jia, I’ve been betrayed by so many people—publicly, secretly, by those close and distant… I’ve felt it all. So I really don’t want to go through it again—with you.”
“I understand your fears, your worries, your fragility. But I want you to understand—I’m a woman too. I have fragile moments. I’m not that generous. And I’m not as forgiving as you think.”
Song Yanrong said:
“There are things you can tell me—trust me. Or you can choose not to tell me—trust yourself. But don’t ever manipulate me. Don’t betray me.”
Just that one underlined line from the book earlier had struck her deeply.
She never wanted to experience the pain of betrayal or manipulation again.
Song Yanrong opened her eyes, looking at the unfamiliar room around her. She knew nothing of this place. In a way, in this Song family, in this world—Su Jia was the person she had been closest to, spent the most time with.
“Su Jia, please… please remember what I said.”
…
She felt Su Jia tremble behind her. But she didn’t ask for a reply.
Instead, she reached for Su Jia’s hand at her waist. That hand felt strangely cold—like it had held snow.
She pulled her into her arms, lowered her head, and kissed her softly.
Her cheek brushed against Su Jia’s tear.
Su Jia didn’t know where the tears came from—only that her chest felt hot, swollen, aching.
In the many nights to come, she would feel this emotion even more deeply—and learn its name:
Heartache.
But as for what that heartache was for—she didn’t dare think too deeply.
For now, all she could do was desperately hold onto Song Yanrong’s possessiveness.
From the clouds to the abyss, she was addicted to holding onto that woman—like she was clinging to the last rope this world offered her.
“Yanrong, I really like you.”
“This is what I truly feel.”
…
The Next Morning
Funny how just last night the dinner table was full of noise and bustle, yet by breakfast, only three people remained.
The servants said that Ying Junmei had gone out early, Zhou Yuan hadn’t returned since last night, Song Lü had left in the middle of the night… and as for Song Qi, she was sick.
Song Yanrong glanced across the table.
Song Hanshuang also coldly met her gaze before shifting her eyes to Su Jia. She took a sip of milk, wiped her lips, set the napkin down, and stood up with a mocking smile:
“I must say, sister-in-law, you’re quite composed. No wonder your relationship with my sister is so loving after marriage. I imagine time will reveal even more things about you that’ll leave us impressed.”
Her words dripped with implication.
Su Jia responded with a calm, faint smile:
“Thanks for your kind words, Sister Song.”
Song Hanshuang: “……”
She narrowed her eyes. Last night’s humiliation from Su Jia still stung. She’d originally wanted to storm into Song Yanrong’s room afterward, but Su Jia had been right—there was no evidence. Any accusation would just make it seem like she was bullying Su Jia. Plus, her luring Su Jia away had ties to Zhou Yuan, and in Song Yanrong’s eyes, that implicated her as well.
She recalled Ying Junmei’s warning: Song Yanrong had finally settled down—don’t provoke her for now.
So she’d swallowed the bitter pill last night.
But she hadn’t expected Su Jia to be so completely different from before. Last night, that single needle prick had been brutally precise.
There was something unnerving about Su Jia’s smile—both beautiful and pure, yet carrying a chilling undertone.
Song Hanshuang could still feel the sting in her neck. She muttered:
“The more beautiful something is, the more poisonous it tends to be. Looks can be deceiving—you never know what’s lurking underneath.”
Song Yanrong chuckled lightly:
“Rumor has it you and your wife are also quite the affectionate couple. But you seem to have lost some weight lately—why not ask your darling to nourish you properly?”
The thing Song Hanshuang hated most now was anyone mentioning her marriage to Zhou Yuan.
She shoved her chair back and stood:
“Let’s see how long your little victory lasts.”
Though Su Jia had acted like she didn’t care about the past involving the Su family, it was clear to Song Hanshuang—at some point last night, Su Jia had wavered.
Song Yanrong gave her a dispassionate glance.
The little drama didn’t faze her. Turning to Su Jia, she asked when her shoot started today and whether she wanted to have little K drive her ahead of time.
Su Jia shook her head with a smile: she’d go with her.
She was in a good mood. It had been a long time since she’d woken up to see Song Yanrong beside her.
Sunlight streamed through the curtain gap, and when she opened her eyes, she was in Song Yanrong’s arms. That fullness—hard to describe—filled her chest.
Both of them knew: Song Qi wasn’t physically sick. It was all in her heart.
They knocked on Song Qi’s door. Her room had a warm color scheme. The moment you entered, a sense of calm enveloped you.
On the wall hung a pale blue oil painting. Two women held hands beneath a blue sky with white clouds. The wind lifted the skirt of one; the other wore casual white clothes—if you looked closely.
Song Qi looked terrible. Her eyes were red and swollen. She claimed it was just a cold.
No one called her out on the lie.
Even so, she remembered to pour Song Yanrong a glass of soda water and asked:
“Did you not sleep well last night? You look a little pale.”
Song Yanrong smiled:
“Been away too long—can’t sleep in unfamiliar beds.”
Song Qi nodded seriously:
“That makes sense…”
But her eyes betrayed the sadness and deep struggle within her.
She thought about how, back when she was abroad, it was rare for her to sleep soundly. Yet upon returning home, she’d slept like a baby—except last night.
Since Song Yanrong had come back, few people truly cared about her. Aside from Su Jia, there was only Zhao Wen and Song Qi. Naturally, she felt the urge to check on Song Qi.
But watching her force a smile, trying to maintain everyone else’s mood—it was heartbreaking. Maybe it was better to give her some space.
Just before leaving, Song Yanrong said:
“Why don’t you stay another day and rest?”
She still didn’t know what exactly had happened between Song Lü and Song Qi all those years ago, but clearly, neither of them had moved on.
Song Qi shook her head with a gentle smile:
“My ticket’s already booked. I’m fine, really. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself, so I won’t have to worry.”
Song Yanrong didn’t press further.
Unexpectedly, just as they were leaving, Song Qi called out to Su Jia:
“I’ve been talking to her the whole time—I didn’t get to say much to you. Why don’t you stay a bit? I want to spend some time with my dear niece-in-law.”
That last part was said to Song Yanrong.
Song Yanrong: “…Alright.”
She felt puzzled, but then remembered that Song Qi had always been fond of Su Jia’s original self. Although they weren’t far apart in age, the original Su Jia had been the youngest in the family, and her bond with Song Qi had been more like that of sisters.
So it made sense to show concern.
After Song Yanrong left, Song Qi gave Su Jia an apologetic smile:
“Sorry—I actually wanted to ask you for a favor.”
Though Su Jia wasn’t as emotionally attached to Song Qi as Song Yanrong was, because Song Qi treated Yanrong well—and because of Song Lü—she regarded her kindly:
“What is it? You can tell me.”
Song Qi pursed her lips:
“I want to ask you to visit her for me.”
There was no need for clarification. Su Jia instantly knew who “her” was.
Song Qi clearly knew what Su Jia knew—likely from Song Lü. She wasn’t surprised.
Looking at Song Qi’s swollen eyes, her tenderness shrouded in exhaustion, Su Jia said:
“You’re like this, and you’re still thinking about her?”
“I owe her. A debt I can never repay.” Song Qi said.
Su Jia was silent for a few seconds before saying:
“But you’re in pain, and she’s hurting too. I don’t get it.”
Song Qi: “Some wounds can’t be healed. Her heart is still tied in knots. How could I be so selfish as to get close again and hurt her more? I just can’t.”
Tears streamed down her pale face, her skin flushing red with emotion.
Su Jia listened. She felt like she understood… but not quite.
Why choose to suffer like this, instead of finding Song Lü? Then she noticed the faint hickey on Song Qi’s neck.
“Do you still love her?”
“Love… I do,” Song Qi said, breaking down into sobs.
Su Jia fell silent again.
What is love, then? she wondered.
Is it this kind of soul-crushing agony?
She asked herself—and Song Qi.
But Song Qi just shook her head.
Finally, after a long while, her tears stopped. Her voice, soft and rhythmic like a clock’s pendulum, rang out:
She whispered something to Su Jia.
But Su Jia didn’t fully understand it—not until one day, when that same kind of all-consuming pain came for her.
…
Su Jia had to be at set by 9:30. After leaving Song Qi’s room, she and Song Yanrong headed out. At the front gate, a bright red Bentley was parked directly across from their car.
Song Yanrong shot it a cold, dangerous glance. Zhou Yuan sat lazily in the back seat, staring at her through a haze of cigarette smoke. She blew a smoke ring in her direction.
Song Yanrong looked away, ice in her eyes:
“Let’s go.”
Su Jia responded quietly and ignored the woman completely.
Since Song Yanrong had told her to wait, that meant there was a plan. She would wait.
Zhou Yuan watched the black car disappear into the distance, then took a deep drag of her cigarette and exhaled slowly. She asked emotionlessly:
“Ask them—how long until those useless people find her?”
The driver in front replied in a low voice:
“Word is she ran to Beicheng. We’re asking around—it shouldn’t be long now.”
Zhou Yuan stared in the direction where the car had vanished, and finished the cigarette in one long inhale.
She leaned back and said:
“No matter the cost, no matter the price—we have to find that person.”
Because once they did, and got the recording in that person’s possession, they could finally prove—
On the wedding day, in the dressing room…
That cup of tea—Su Jia drank it herself.