After the Scummy Alpha Marked the Crazy Beautiful Heroine - Chapter 30.2

“It’s fine. We can—”

“I need to use the bathroom,” Pei Jiuyao interrupted, leaving in a hurry.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and looked up at herself in the mirror.

Water clung to her chin and dripped into the sink with a sharp, clean sound.

She looked like someone else entirely.

Like someone who didn’t belong in this world.

Someone who had been yanked from the mirror to play a ridiculous role, severing all ties to what had come before.

Sometimes, Pei Jiuyao wondered—if everything she had once been ceased to exist, then who was she really?

Was she Pei Jiuyao? Or the original soul of this body?

It was absurd.

As absurd as a philosopher obsessed with questions beyond the world, tangled up in the mystical and the supernatural.

She remembered the moment Chi Yang had said Omegas could get pregnant.

For a split second, she’d wondered—if they had a child, would she even want to go back?

I, Pei Jiuyao, after one month in this world, finally admit I have feelings for the heroine—and, for the first time, I don’t want to leave.

Unhinged levels: +10086. Growing at an exponential rate.

No solution in sight. She could only spiral further.

Pei Jiuyao blinked. Her reflection blinked back. A single drop of water slid down her lashes.

Let it all burn.

•

Pei Jiuyao had been in the bathroom so long that Chi Yang finally went to knock on the door.

She had been fully immersed in the scene earlier—but not as Chisong. It felt more like she had been playing Jiang Wang’s lover.

She figured she ought to explain to Pei Jiuyao—those two weren’t lovers, they were master and disciple. No need to—

But that look Pei Jiuyao gave her… It wasn’t any different from how she normally looked at Chi Yang. A little bit of desire, a little bit of panic, a desperate urge to run—but still unable to stay away.

Chi Yang had to admit—in that moment, she had broken character.

Pei Jiuyao was the only scene partner in her entire career who had pulled her out of a role… only to pull her into a new one.

She even made her feel it.

Knock knock knock—

Chi Yang knocked gently. “Pei Jiuyao, are you okay?”

“I’m good.” Pei Jiuyao wiped her face with a towel and came out. “I guess I wasn’t in the right headspace just now.”

“No, you were great. Your emotions were completely on point.”

Pei Jiuyao turned back, placed her palm lightly on top of Chi Yang’s head, and smiled. “Don’t flatter me. I know I didn’t get into character.”

“But you actually did really well,” Chi Yang insisted. “I noticed when I watched you on set before. You may not have the technical training, but you’re a natural. You immerse quickly, and your emotions are so raw.”

Some directors had said Pei Jiuyao was a full method actor—fast to get in, slow to get out, with incredibly intense emotional expression.

Many good untrained actors had this trait. To put it bluntly, they were burning through their lifespans.

Maybe that was why, when she first arrived in this world, the pheromone imbalance hit her so hard.

“You really want me to join Shan Hai that badly?” Pei Jiuyao sat on the couch and picked up the script again.

Chi Yang stood before her, eyes lowered. “It’s such a good script. So many people would kill for a chance. Don’t you want it too?”

“Why do you make it sound like you’re forcing me?”

Chi Yang shot her a sideways glance, lips pouting ever so slightly before quickly relaxing again. Her eyes remained cool and distant.

Why was this little fox always radiating charm—no matter the time or place?

And the most fatal part? She only showed this side of herself when she was with Pei Jiuyao.

It was like back then—when Pei Jiuyao had said, “Rely on me a little more”—and she had actually taken it to heart.

That feeling of being the only one made Pei Jiuyao absolutely mad.

Ever since they started living together, something unspoken had crept between them.

Pei Jiuyao couldn’t help but rest her hand on Chi Yang’s waist.

The entire mental rundown she’d just done—vanished in an instant.

Maybe it wasn’t just their pheromones that were a 100% match. Deep down, she was just a hopeless romantic who fell in love at first sight, someone whose IQ plummeted the moment she met Chi Yang. An idiot who couldn’t think straight.

Who knew?

After all, Pei Jiuyao had never been in love before.

So what if it all went up in flames? She would take it one step at a time.

It wasn’t like she owed 7023 anything anyway. She was already miserable enough.

“How about we run through that scene again?”

Pei Jiuyao looked up, her gaze burning into Chi Yang’s, making her slightly flustered.

Wherever Pei Jiuyao’s palm had touched her waist, it felt like fire—spreading along her waistline in every direction.

Chi Yang grabbed her fingers and moved them away—but almost didn’t want to let go.

Such beautiful hands, she thought, heart scattering.

And as she moved Pei Jiuyao’s hand, she sneakily brushed against it again—only to blush at her own boldness and irritably pinch her ear.

“I think we hit the climax too fast just now—you didn’t have time to really sink into the role. Let’s start from the scene before that. Feel your way into it,” she said softly, half her face hidden behind the script.

“Alright.” Pei Jiuyao leaned into the couch, noticing the flush at the tips of Chi Yang’s ears. Teasingly, she said, “But if you’re holding the script, what am I supposed to look at? I haven’t memorized my lines yet.”

Chi Yang shoved the script into her hands with a little grumble. “Should’ve asked Ye Ci to send two copies.”

In truth, Chi Yang had long since memorized her lines—not just her own, but all the major characters’ as well.

So even though “Jiang Wang” was Sheng Xia’s character, Chi Yang could easily rehearse it with Pei Jiuyao.

Still, she’d just been daydreaming a little about Pei Jiuyao’s fingers. Even if the dirty thoughts stayed in her head, she still felt a little embarrassed.

All the fault of that damn suppressant injection.

She cleared her throat, adjusted her expression, and began the earlier scene with Pei Jiuyao.

As they eased into the roles, Pei Jiuyao entered the scene much more comfortably than earlier. It was smoother, more natural, without the abrupt emotional punch from seeing Chi Yang’s expression before.

Their strategic tension, the subtle clash of wills—it was all there, back and forth.

But when Chi Yang said the line, “An illusion, nothing more,” something stirred in Pei Jiuyao.

She slipped and said the wrong name.

“Chi Yang, if I didn’t care about you, why would I have stayed all these years?”

Chi Yang flinched subtly, immediately noticing the mistaken name. But Pei Jiuyao was still immersed in the role, and she didn’t want to interrupt her.

So she kept going.

But then Pei Jiuyao set down the script, and her lines began to go… off.

Suddenly, Chi Yang heard her say:

“Jiang Wang, what if I asked you to come with me—to my world?”

She had called “Jiang Wang” by the right name—but said nothing from the actual script.

Chi Yang’s pupils flickered, searching her expression, but she didn’t interrupt.

And after a long pause, her mind a storm of thoughts, she finally said, very softly:

“…I could.”

Now it was Pei Jiuyao who was stunned.

She’d noticed earlier that this particular line was one with emotional weight—easy to twist, easy to probe.

Chi Yang hadn’t reacted when she first slipped up with the wrong name.

So Pei Jiuyao had deliberately changed the line again—and Chi Yang still hadn’t stopped her.

Bit by bit, she tested the waters.

And got a “could.”

Did Chi Yang understand what she was really asking?

Or rather—did she understand what “could” meant?

Pei Jiuyao didn’t dare keep pushing.

After a brief silence, she asked, “Did I say the wrong line?”

Chi Yang blinked back like she was returning from an out-of-body daze, snatched the script, and muttered, “Seems like it.”

When she had been fully in character earlier, there had been a droplet of moisture on her lashes. It fell with a flick—landing right on her bottom lip.

Pure. Innocent.

Her lashes trembled for a while before she finally looked up and asked, “Do we keep going?”

And just then, Pei Jiuyao heard the cold, robotic voice of 7023 echo in her head:

【Congratulations, host—’Acting Talent’ acquired.】

Pei Jiuyao’s eyes widened slightly.

So… did Chi Yang know what “could” meant?

Her lips parted—but the question stayed unspoken.

“How about we finish the last part?” she asked instead.

“Okay.” Chi Yang looked down.

She needed something—anything—to pull herself out of the haze that scene had left her in.

Everything was a mess.

She didn’t know why she had said “could,” or what she had been so tangled up over just now.

It felt like surviving a war—only to find she’d killed a version of herself.

“Then stick to the script this time, okay? Don’t…”

Don’t make me forget what’s real and what’s not.

—

This time, they fell into their roles quickly.

Line for line, beat for beat—they matched each other blow for blow. Chi Yang felt like she was sparring with Pei Jiuyao’s soul.

She even found herself swept away in moments, their back-and-forth charged with unspoken tension.

By the end of the scene, Chi Yang was still unsatisfied—and pulled Pei Jiuyao in for one more run.

Since entering the industry, Chi Yang had spent years acting either to prove herself or to spite Chi Qing.

But tonight, in these scenes with Pei Jiuyao, she finally remembered why she started acting in the first place—because she truly loved it.

After night fell, the two of them spent hours immersed in discussion. Chi Yang was floored by the transformation she saw in Pei Jiuyao.

“You… suddenly figured it all out?”

Was Pei Jiuyao secretly a once-in-a-generation acting genius?

Chi Yang placed both hands over her chest.

To think she’d turned a rookie into a scene partner worthy of the big screen—in just two sessions. The shock was beyond words.

Pei Jiuyao feigned surprise. “Did I? Was I that good just now?”

“You…” Chi Yang hadn’t had such an electrifying scene in years.

Friends who clicked were rare. But rivals who challenged you? Addictive.

Tonight, Chi Yang felt like Pei Jiuyao was the only actress in her age group who could go toe-to-toe with her.

And she had been the one to bring that out.

It felt ten thousand times more gratifying than winning Best Actress.

Chi Yang’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Pei Jiuyao, am I actually a genius?! Like, I have this power where anyone who acts with me instantly levels up!”

Pei Jiuyao didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble. She played along: “I think you’re right. I should start calling you Teacher Chi.”

“Well, you better pay tuition,” Chi Yang sniffed proudly.

“Of course. Cooking dinner count?”

Chi Yang smiled, eyes twinkling. “Not even close.”

Pei Jiuyao laughed. “Then what else do you want?”

Chi Yang tilted her head, thinking hard. “Hmm… Let me think. I’ll tell you when I decide.”

Pei Jiuyao stood and stretched. “Take your time. I’m off to cook.”

Then she turned and gave her a playful wink. “Utterly breathtaking.”