Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 7
Chapter 7
The Song family’s villa was an old estate, staffed by dozens of servants who maintained and cared for it meticulously. It was renovated on a fixed schedule every few years. Despite its age, the villa didn’t feel old—it exuded a sense of profound, quiet elegance.
Yet Song Yanrong felt inexplicably suffocated the moment she stepped through the door.
Perhaps it was inherited from the original host of this body.
The original Song Yanrong’s mother had been the second wife in the household. Though Song was once beloved as a child, she had also suffered slander from Song Hanshuang, her stepmother, and even the servants. After her car accident, her twisted personality grew to detest this place.
Song Yanrong wondered: was it these memories that were affecting her too?
Suppressing those thoughts, she followed Sun Jia into the elevator.
“You just now…” Sun Jia began hesitantly beside her.
“Hmm?” Song Yanrong responded.
“Did you hold my hand just for show?” Sun Jia asked.
Song Yanrong was momentarily stunned—she hadn’t expected this question.
Was that even considered holding hands?
She’d simply thought: if you’re going to act, commit fully. And when she turned to glance at Sun Jia, her hand had been hanging at her side—Song Yanrong had instinctively reached for it.
“Did I scare you?” she asked.
The elevator doors opened, and Sun Jia pushed her out.
Under the brighter light, just as Song Yanrong was about to turn her head, Sun Jia bent down.
For a moment, the distance between them vanished.
Something soft like a rose petal brushed against her face, and Song Yanrong reflexively leaned back slightly. Looking into those smiling peach blossom eyes, Sun Jia asked:
“Why do you always think I’ll be frightened?”
This time, Song Yanrong noticed something different about Sun Jia.
Still gentle—but something else was mixed in.
Playfulness? Vitality? Neither word felt quite right.
Before she could respond, Sun Jia leaned closer as if whispering between lovers.
“If there are outsiders around… can I stay a little closer to you?”
Then she straightened up.
With the sunlight streaming through the window behind Song Yanrong, she could now see Sun Jia more clearly—especially those faintly pink earlobes.
Song Yanrong gathered her thoughts and nodded.
“Of course you can.”
Sun Jia gave a small smile and continued pushing her toward the room.
She hadn’t originally planned to say that—but Song Yanrong’s slight withdrawal amused her.
She trusted her intuition.
Her risk had been worth it.
Song Yanrong was not at all like the rumors—and definitely not like Song Hanshuang.
Sun Jia’s old room was the last one on the second floor. The wheelchair glided silently over the carpet.
Before they reached the corner, faint voices drifted down the hallway.
Because the first sentence began with “Song Yanrong,” Sun Jia immediately froze.
“That cripple brought Sun Jia back with her. Things are going to blow up in the house today.”
“No kidding. How dare she? If my family had a third daughter like that, I’d die from shame. The engagement was almost set—can you believe this?”
“Exactly. These things are tied to fate, you know? She’s probably cursed. Her parents died after she was born, and now she’s disabled…”
Song Yanrong let out a quiet, cold laugh.
Stealing someone—yes, that sin belonged to her, not the original body. She would own it.
But the rest? That was foul.
Sun Jia remained expressionless, fingers tightening slightly around the wheelchair’s handles.
The gossipers had no idea that the “cripple” and “that girl” they were discussing were just around the corner—listening to every word.
“It takes two to tango. Someone said in the group chat that Sun Jia’s already been marked. The way those two cling to each other, she doesn’t look unwilling at all.”
“Right? I said before—Sun Jia looks like a little seductress. She’s got that cheap look. Hooking one heiress wasn’t enough—now she’s after a cripple? Real slutty.”
“So what? Being crippled doesn’t stop someone from doing it. Maybe Third Miss is even better in bed?”
The two women snorted with low, ugly laughter.
“Shh—what if someone hears us?”
“Relax. Didn’t they say in the chat to wait in the living room for the old lady—”
The sentence was cut off with a gasp as one of them caught sight of something around the corner.
Their heads snapped around just in time to see Song Yanrong, face icy, her cold gaze cutting like lightning.
“The Song family pays you to be this kind of trash?”
They froze in place, trembling. Everyone knew Song Yanrong’s reputation—and feared being remembered for vengeance.
The woman who’d spoken last stammered, “S-sorry, Third Miss. We were just joking—just…”
But she was so nervous that her words tangled into silence.
Song Yanrong swept her gaze over them. She had no patience for apologies.
“Get your severance and take your gossip home.”
She didn’t wait to see their panicked faces. Tilting her head slightly, her voice cooled but softened.
“Let’s go.”
Sun Jia pushed her past the two servants.
One of them noticed that those previously soft and beautiful peach blossom eyes now carried a chilling sharpness—making her spine tingle.
…
“I’m sorry… it’s all because of me,” Sun Jia murmured.
Song Yanrong fingered the sandalwood bracelet on her right wrist, deep in thought.
Her reply came quickly, solemn and sincere:
“It’s not your fault. Besides, I get insulted all the time.”
Sun Jia: “…” That was… brutally honest.
What really unsettled Song Yanrong wasn’t the insults toward her—it was the part about Sun Jia.
Whether it was the original body or her own actions—taking Sun Jia away was controversial, yes.
But those cruel, shameless remarks blamed the victim entirely.
Sun Jia said nothing behind her, and Song Yanrong didn’t want to turn to see her face.
So she only said, softly:
“Don’t dwell on it. People like that aren’t worth your energy.”
Sun Jia paused for a second, then smiled faintly.
“Okay.”
When they reached the door to Sun Jia’s old room, Song Yanrong didn’t stay long—there might be personal things Sun Jia didn’t want her to see.
She made her way, using scattered memories of the original body, to her former room.
Third floor. She opened the door.
Immediately, a sense of heaviness hit her—just like when she’d first entered the villa. Even though the room faced south and was filled with light, the weight remained.
She looked around. Likely due to someone maintaining it, the room had everything she needed, though few signs of use.
She wheeled herself to the desk. On it were several books and a fountain pen.
Her gaze fell on the center drawer.
She pulled it open.
Inside were cigarettes, a lighter, some car keys—and a blue UV-printed business card.
Song Yanrong picked it up.
Tan Qi, lawyer.
She searched her memory but found nothing about this person. After thinking it over, she kept the card on her.
She made a slow lap of the room and ended up at the balcony.
The view was excellent—lush greenery surrounded the estate, the scenery wide and serene.
Looking down, she realized Sun Jia’s room was offset by one room. From here, she could see her balcony clearly.
What she didn’t know was—Sun Jia wasn’t in the room at all.
…
The back stairs from the second floor led to the rear courtyard—usually only used by staff.
Two servants—one of them the very woman who’d spoken most harshly earlier—sat on the steps. The older one was crying.
“Now that I’ve lost this job, how will I feed my kids? I’ve worked here so long—and just because that cripple said so…”
The younger one tried to comfort her. “Shh—keep your voice down. Getting fired is one thing, but if she hears and comes after us, it’ll be worse. We’ll just find another job.”
“But where else pays like the Song family?”
They both went silent.
A cold laugh shattered the air.
The sound of high heels clicked on the stone floor—sharp and clear in the stairwell. Sun Jia slowly descended from the second floor.
“You eat with someone’s bowl and curse their mother?” she said lazily, hand resting on the banister. “How amusing.”
The women jumped to their feet. Seeing her, they first panicked—thinking it was Song Yanrong—but when they recognized Sun Jia, they relaxed slightly.
Still, with her relationship to Song Yanrong, they didn’t dare speak rashly.
The older one said, “Miss Sun, we used to take care of you when you lived here… surely you won’t take it out on us lowly folks?”
Sun Jia said nothing—just stared straight at her, until the woman squirmed under her gaze.
She stepped down until only four steps separated them—and then suddenly, without warning, slapped the woman hard across the face.
The woman screamed, clutching her stinging cheek in shock.
“You…”
Was this still the same soft-spoken Sun Jia from before? She’d been pretending all along!
But she didn’t dare retaliate—especially seeing Sun Jia’s expression. She shrank back.
Sun Jia smiled faintly and turned her gaze to the younger servant.
“I—I didn’t say anything!” the woman stammered.
Sun Jia traced the corner of her eye.
“Really? So you didn’t say Song Yanrong is cursed? That she’s trash?”
Before the woman could answer, Sun Jia lifted her foot. The tip of her heel pressed against the woman’s shin—applying slow, cruel pressure.
“Ahh—!”
The woman lost her balance and tumbled down the remaining four steps.
The landing was carpeted, but the thud still echoed louder than the slap.
Sun Jia folded her arms across her chest. Her white dress fluttered in the wind, and she stood tall on the stairs.
With a voice lazy yet lethal, she said:
“Go ahead. Report me.”
The two women stared at her in shocked rage—but neither dared move.
Because Song Yanrong would never let them off.
And Sun Jia knew that well.
She smiled—pure, dazzling, and gentle.
Like an angel.