After Mistakenly Marking My Ex’s Older Sister, the Disabled Alpha Stood Up - Chapter 11

Jin Yunxi’s slender fingers absently rubbed against the silver fountain pen, her knuckles glinting like cold jade beneath the lamplight. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight spread thin as gauze, yet it could not penetrate the clouds of doubt gathering in her eyes.

Wife? Ah Yun?

Yan Qingruo’s sudden amnesia was far too convenient. And she was an exceptional actress—what if even the tremble of her lashes, the curve of innocence in her gaze, had all been carefully measured, a flawless performance?

The fifty-million check locked in the safe shimmered with a faint blue glow. Was all this merely to move her, to win her trust and secure that money?

Even if it meant sharing her bed, would Yan Qingruo still stop at nothing?

In this world divided into Alphas, Betas, and Omegas, Betas were immune to Alpha pheromones. Yan Qingruo, being a Beta, was no exception. After marriage, the two of them had lived like parallel lines—never touching, never intersecting. Not even the most casual brush of contact. It was as if she, an Alpha, carried some contagion that might infect her.

A cold, ironic smile tugged at the corner of Jin Yunxi’s lips. All the better—she had no desire to be close to Yan Qingruo anyway.

But she needed to test whether the amnesia was real.

And once she set her mind on a result, Secretary-General Jin Yunxi would do whatever it took to get it. Even sacrificing her own body was not out of the question.

For someone with her compulsive cleanliness, she had never shared a bed with anyone before. Tonight, she would make an exception.

Just sharing a bed—that was all. Nothing else.

Night fell. Jin Yunxi had arranged for a spacious honeymoon suite. The room was perfumed with a gentle warmth, the lighting dimmed to a soft glow.

Her fingers carefully lifted a pillow, hesitating before gently replacing it with another.

The pillow from Yan Qingruo’s room had been quietly “relocated” into her own. Now the two pillows lay side by side, neatly aligned, like an intimate pair.

Tonight she spent five minutes longer in the shower than usual. Meticulously clean, she applied perfume, changed into a silk robe, picked up a magazine, and leaned against the bed to wait…

Half an hour passed. An hour passed.

Where was Yan Qingruo?

Heh. She calls me “wife” sweeter than honey, and yet—this woman’s acting through and through.

Her mouth curved into a frosty sneer as she went to Yan Qingruo’s room. Empty.

Jin Yunxi shut the door behind her, locking it.

Perfect. With her room locked, Yan Qingruo had nowhere else to sleep but here.

Another half-hour passed. She flipped the magazine cover to cover. A minute, two minutes… ten minutes later, she slammed it down, her brows drawn coldly together.

Planting her weight on her single crutch, she rose. The tip of the cane struck the floor in sharp tap, tap, tap—her approach brimming with storm.

The study smelled faintly of absinthe. Jin Yunxi propped one knee against a huanghuali chair, frowning at the sight before her.

Yan Qingruo had fallen asleep at the desk. Her cheek rested against an open medical monograph, loose brown strands framing her face in disheveled elegance, lending her an air of lazy allure.

Books on joint treatments lay spread across the desk, the laptop aglow with the latest international research reports on leg conditions. Her lashes, heavy with sleep, cast wing-like shadows against her cheeks.

When Jin Yunxi leaned closer, a stray lock of hair brushed against her pearl earring—like a silent plea not to leave.

She should carry her back to the bedroom.

Jin Yunxi tried to step forward, but the crutch knocked against the desk edge. Her hand froze mid-air.

Because of her leg, the simple act of lifting someone was as difficult as scaling heaven itself. She thought to rouse Yan Qingruo with a gentle pat on the shoulder, yet hesitated—afraid to disturb her dream.

The warmth in her eyes flickered, eclipsed by shadow.

“Secretary Jin?” Butler Ivy stood by the door, tray in hand, lips parting as if to speak.

“Bring the mobile bed,” Jin Yunxi said curtly. She yanked the cashmere blanket a bit too roughly, but when her fingers brushed against Yan Qingruo’s shoulder, her movements softened instantly—as though handling fragile porcelain.

The edge of the blanket skimmed the gauze bandage at her neck. Suddenly, the sleeping woman gave a soft, kitten-like whimper, startling Jin Yunxi’s hand into a tremor.

She bent closer to listen.

“Ah Yun… you’ll get better. I’ll definitely find a way to cure you.”

That night, Jin Yunxi could not sleep. She pulled open a drawer and took out a photo of Yan Qingmei. That Omega had once been her radiant moonlight, illuminating her bleakest years.

Back when she was abroad, confined to a wheelchair, it was Yan Qingmei who had given her warmth and comfort.

As the memories flowed, the photo slipped soundlessly from her fingers. Cold air seeped through the window, and the familiar ache in her legs throbbed again—reminding her that all beauty was fleeting illusion.

Yan Qingmei had sworn she loved her, but on the eve of their wedding, she had fled. If not for her disability, Jin Yunxi could think of no other reason.

At first it had filled her with rage, sensitivity, bitterness—toward the Jin family, toward fate, and toward Yan Qingruo by association.

From running for Secretary-General, relying on the Jin family’s support, the grand wedding announcement across the entire Yatran Empire, to Yan Qingmei’s sudden escape and Yan Qingruo’s last-minute replacement—she had felt like nothing more than a puppet, a doll in the Jin family’s hands.

Yan Qingruo had been unwilling; she knew.

The Jin family paid Yan Qingruo fifty million. Jin Yunxi herself had matched that sum. Thus, their one-year contract marriage had been hurriedly sealed.

The empire had praised it as the perfect union of an SS-class Alpha and an S-class Omega.
Jin Yunxi laughed bitterly. An “SS-class Alpha”? A crippled woman, gland half-ruined, with no heat cycle, no traits of her designation. She hated those things anyway, but not having them and choosing not to have

them were entirely different.

And the so-called S-class Omega? To the world, Yan Qingruo was nothing but an ordinary Beta.

Their so-called perfect wedding had been nothing more than a one-billion-dollar farce—false and contrived from start to finish.

Even Yan Qingruo calling her “wife” after her amnesia… Jin Yunxi’s heart had jolted, lips twisting into self-mockery. That, too, was fake.

Yan Qingruo had someone she loved. Her true moonlight wasn’t her. And now, mistaking her for that person, she called out wife again and again, driving her restless.

What could be more hollow, more ironic than this?

A sharp ache flared from her half-ruined glands, as if reminding her of the incomplete Alpha she was.

Her long fingers lifted Yan Qingmei’s photo. In her gaze flickered struggle, unwillingness, and resignation. Slowly, she untied her robe…

She tried. For a while. Then exhaled in defeat.

Grimly, she took up the injector, stabbed it into her neck. Icy liquid burned through her glands, draining the color from her cheeks as the ache in her legs worsened. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead.

In the master bedroom, moonlight cascaded like a silver waterfall. Jin Yunxi stared blankly at the syringe in her hand.

She thought of that shameful truth—

An SS-class Alpha with a crippled leg, half-destroyed glands, and yet still, at times, susceptible to heat.

Her private doctor had advised her to handle it herself, to wean off suppressants. Though she loathed the primal desire of Alphas, she had tried—holding Yan Qingmei’s photo, imagining her face…

But she had never succeeded. Not once. Even the faintest physiological response refused to come.

Somewhere along the way, Yan Qingmei’s image blurred. The face that surfaced instead was Yan Qingruo’s.

In that dream—

A blindfolded woman tilted her head, voice soft with uncertainty: “Is it you, Qingmei?”

“Wife, how could you forget me?” The dream-woman’s eyes shimmered with moist grievance as she knelt gently at her knees, tucking a blanket over her legs, then tracing letters one by one onto Jin Yunxi’s palm.

“My name is Yan Qing…”

“Yan Qing—what?” Jin Yunxi, straining in her wheelchair, asked with a voice tight with urgency and a strange, unbidden hope.

The dreamscape blurred. The hem of the woman’s dress floated like a white cloud in endless dark. Jin Yunxi wheeled closer, lunged, and seized the woman’s supple waist, pulling her onto her lap.

“I’ve caught you. Don’t think of leaving—tell me, quickly…”

“You’re so mean~”

A lilting, teasing laugh melted against her chest. Then the woman clasped her damp hand, guided it downward, tilting her head back with a tremor of breath: “Ah Yun… please… be even meaner to me~”

Jin Yunxi jolted awake, drenched in heat, then cooled by the night air. Her head rested in her palm, her glands faintly eased by the suppressant.

She licked her lips. Strangely, she had slept well. In that dream, she had felt… peace. Real, restful sleep.

But the dream was fleeting. As though something beautiful had happened—yet before she could savor it, it had vanished without a trace.

At the riverside square, the face that had once been Yan Qingmei’s blurred, becoming Yan Qingruo’s instead—gentle, radiant, dazzling.

Jin Yunxi let out a dry laugh. Was she really losing her mind over Yan Qingruo calling her “wife”?

Stretching languidly, she suddenly froze. Something felt… off.

Her hand touched the sheets beneath her. Dampness. A small, unmistakable patch of it.

Her pupils widened instantly.