After the Scummy Alpha Marked the Crazy Beautiful Heroine - Chapter 32

*Hospital*

After leaving the monitoring room, Chi Yang stood in the isolated ward next door, holding a pouch of nutrient solution as she waited for the results.

Ying Ning arrived with a report in hand.

“Pei Jiuyao’s pheromones are effective.”

Chi Yang sat on the hospital bed, straw still between her lips, lifting her eyes slightly. “I can feel it. When she’s around during my manic episodes, it’s easier to breathe. Lately, I haven’t been as anxious either, and the submission period has improved a lot.”

“But you were injected with an induction agent before, and you’ve had some cognitive disturbances. Pheromone regulation can only happen gradually.”

Closing the report, Ying Ning leaned against the table. “I thought someone as self-controlled as you wouldn’t let Pei Jiuyao mark you so casually, especially since you’re still in the submission period.”

Then she added, “Don’t forget—too many temporary marks can also create dependency.”

Chi Yang set the nutrient pouch aside, her tone cool. “It’s fine. I like her.”

Ying Ning froze.

The way Chi Yang said it was as matter-of-fact as saying, I’m hungry. No heartbeat-quickening sweetness, no joy, none of the flustered confusion or shy warmth that usually came with confessing affection.

It was too calm.

And that calmness somehow shocked Ying Ning to the core.

Hearing Chi Yang utter the word “like” in her lifetime…

Terrifying.

“What kind of ‘like’ are you talking about?” Ying Ning asked cautiously, fingers tightening around the report.

Though Chi Yang had never been diagnosed with any psychological disorder, ever since her mother’s death when she was eight, she had been…

…a little unhinged.

On the surface, she was cold, dazzling, untouchable—sometimes even obedient and well-behaved.

But Ying Ning always felt that her “obedience” hid a constant undercurrent of testing boundaries, tinged with an indescribable twist.

Chi Yang was a complicated patient—on every possible level.

Sometimes, Ying Ning thought, If she really did have a mental illness, it wouldn’t be depression or bipolar disorder.

It would be schizophrenia.

Chi Yang thought for a moment, expression unchanging. “Well, it can’t be the same kind of ‘like’ you have for kittens or puppies, can it?”

“Probably the kind you’re imagining,” she added.

Ying Ning fell silent for a beat before asking, “And does she like you?”

“I don’t know,” Chi Yang replied simply. “But she probably has some fondness for me—she’s very obedient.”

There was something about this answer that made Ying Ning uneasy. She asked, “What if she doesn’t like you? Or what if it’s only because your pheromones match perfectly that she feels something for you—what if she falls for someone else later?”

“Then… I’ll tie her up?” Chi Yang looked up, her face pale from too much blood loss, her eyes glistening like clear water, an almost innocent look in them.

Every time she wore a hospital gown, Ying Ning thought she looked fragile and cold.

Except right now.

“Tying someone up… that’s illegal, you know?” Ying Ning said seriously.

“Just kidding.”

Seeing Ying Ning’s hesitant expression, as if afraid she really would commit some “heinous crime,” Chi Yang couldn’t help but laugh softly.

A moment later, she said, “Since I’m sure I like her, of course she can only be mine.”

Ying Ning didn’t dare ask how exactly she intended to ensure that, so she changed the subject. “Why didn’t Pei Jiuyao come with you today?”

“She?” Chi Yang’s lips curved. “She’s at an audition.”

________________________________________

“Pei Jiuyao? She’s here to audition?”

“You’re kidding. With her acting? Director Lin invited her?”

“Honestly, she’s barely convincing enough to play a background extra.”

There was a ripple of mocking laughter from the crowd. Someone lowered her voice, speaking as if sharing a secret: “Heard she’s been cozying up to some big sponsor lately. She even had a guest spot in Director Zheng Qiuhua’s crew.”

“That show wrapped in just a few days, and they still gave her a guest role. Who’d believe it wasn’t forced in?”

“Heh. Could it be Mo Tian? Word is Mo Tian only plays with Alphas.”

“Well, if it was Mo Tian, that’d explain the resources. I heard Mo Tian likes—”

…

Pei Jiuyao sat in a chair with her eyes closed, hands in her jacket pockets, quietly running through her lines and steadying her mood.

Being labeled “scum” meant there was always someone ready to serve as a live commentary track on her life.

If 7023 had chosen anyone else, they probably would’ve ended up as a soft-rice cannon fodder, crying to their sugar daddy after being gossiped about, only for said sugar daddy to wave a hand and say in true domineering CEO fashion, “Winter’s here—time to bankrupt the Wang family.”

Unfortunately for them, she was Pei Jiuyao.

When her name was called, she opened her eyes, crossed the hallway toward the audition room, and glanced at the knot of people.

Her lips curved slightly, and she gave them a low chuckle—using that world-class, top-Alpha face that could enchant a million Omegas.

There was a hint of cool detachment, a touch of lazy nonchalance… and a full dose of predatory wolfish testing.

The performance was a little over the top, and she had to suppress the urge to gag as she pulled her lips into that smile.

Over the top or not, with that face, the effect was instant—several actors blushed to their ears, eyes glued to her like naïve little rabbits caught in a snare.

Adorable? Sure.

Annoying? Absolutely.

As for “waiting until winter to ruin the Wangs”—

No need to wait for winter.

________________________________________

Meanwhile, Ying Ning finally asked the question that had been weighing on her: “What is it exactly that you like about her?”

“She’s actually really pure. Straightforward. The way she talks sometimes leaves me defenseless. And sometimes she’s a bit silly—she believes everything I say.”

Ying Ning stayed silent.

“She’s also very obedient, with a strong protective streak. Even when she has nothing, she still wants to protect others. She’s… very strong inside.”

The silence was deafening.

After a pause, Chi Yang added, “At the very least, she’s good-looking, right?”

Ying Ning was quiet for a long moment before finally nodding in reluctant agreement.

Grand, sweeping emotions, when performed well, can certainly move an audience.

Viewers are often stunned by hysteria on screen, and may even judge an actor’s skill solely by the intensity of such outbursts.

But in truth, it is restrained emotion that is harder to master.

Conveying feeling through micro-expressions comes down to one key word—precision.

Too much, and it becomes deranged; too little, and it’s wooden.

The ability to layer emotion through subtle expressions and glances, gradually letting the audience sense the character’s inner state—and even relate to them with startling clarity—is something great actors relentlessly hone and pursue.

Pei Jiuyao possessed intense empathy, though her technique was lacking; she had never been professionally trained.

Still, in her own mind, her greatest strength was her ability to take empathy to its limits.

Any scene that required transmitting emotion—whether explosive or tightly restrained—she could immerse herself in instantly.

As long as the scene wasn’t about building a persona but about conveying feeling, she could deliver steadily.

And by chance, Lin Leyi’s audition for her was exactly that—a scene of extreme repression pushed to the point of eruption.

The fact that Lin Leyi came in person to oversee casting spoke volumes about how much she valued Akamatsu.

When Pei entered, she overheard several casting directors whispering in surprise:

“Isn’t that Pei Jiuyao?”

“Director Lin personally asked her to come?”

Lin Leyi flipped through the actors’ profiles, then lifted her head slightly.

Pei Jiuyao met her gaze, sweeping her eyes briefly over the casting directors in front of her.

What a pity—word was that the earlier casting sessions had all been handled by Chi Yang.

She had watched countless people audition, yet she wouldn’t get to see hers.

No matter. There would be other chances.

Still, there was that tiny pang of regret.

Pei caught hold of that regret and folded it into the character, slipping into Akamatsu’s skin.

Akamatsu was a powerful deity—viewed from a human perspective, a higher-dimensional “villain.”

But to herself, she had always been fighting for her own beliefs.

She was both a master strategist and a warrior strong enough to crush all opposition.

So she would never wear the crude “mask” of a worldly antagonist.

On the contrary, she believed herself innocent.

The downfall of mortals was the fate of ants, and her existence was a salvation.

In this salvation, she had poured her deepest tenderness into two people—her human lover, and the child she had raised, Jiang Wang.

Yet both had, in turn, “betrayed” her, solidifying her conviction that humanity was a species doomed to destruction.

Pei knew she wasn’t playing a villain—she was portraying a living, breathing soul.

A soul like a newborn, step by step exploring the world, only to find that every return was malice. From incomprehension, to heartbreak, to rage—until it erupted into sheer devastation.

In Pei Jiuyao’s mouth, the lines seemed to breathe.

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, lips trembling—first bewilderment, then a flood of sorrow drowning her like a tide.

Struggle. Regret. Yearning. Madness.

And after the madness, Akamatsu’s divinity emerged in full.

“This place, these ants, were never worth soiling her hands.”

Yet she thought, Who would have imagined that a being as high as I am would be defeated, time and again, by ants?

At that moment, the war between gods and humans ceased to be an “experiment” or a game—it became vengeance.

One casting director leaned toward Lin Leyi, whispering in shock:

“This is the best we’ve seen so far, isn’t it?”

Lin Leyi nodded slightly.

“No trace of that mechanical stiffness you get from drama-school actors.”

The director blinked, stunned, savoring the words as if they needed time to sink in.

From anyone else, Lin Leyi might have criticized her as “technically weak” or “too self-indulgent.”

But for Pei Jiuyao, the same qualities became “free of that drama-school mechanical stiffness.”

Good heavens—what a thunderclap of praise!

In her whole career, this casting director had almost never heard Lin Leyi praise anyone.

The last time might have been Chi Yang—back then she’d only said “closest to the role,” and the media had made it sound like divine anointment.

The world was upside-down now—famous “vase” actress Pei Jiuyao was actually in the running.

Some top star, despite being the daughter of a major investor and bringing tens of millions to the set, had only landed a walk-on extra role.

And here Lin Leyi was, going even further:

“Her grasp and understanding of the character are exceptional, and her handling and transitions of emotional detail—perfect.”

Perfect?

What was perfect?!

Hearing that word from Director Lin was like a once-in-a-lifetime lightning strike.

________________________________________

After leaving, Pei was still steeped in Akamatsu’s emotions, unable to shake them off.

Back in the lounge, she leaned back in a chair to steady herself.

Jiang Tian handed her a tissue, and Pei dabbed at her face and reddened eyes.

She knew her own weakness—an actor who relied entirely on empathy was dependent on inspiration. In certain moments, that could ignite astonishing energy.

But in others, if the emotional key didn’t click, nothing would work.

Lin Leyi was famously strict. Pei had simply thought herself better than most here, but hadn’t expected to truly win her favor.

She never imagined that Lin Leyi would praise her right after she finished performing.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but everyone had heard it.

Given how rare such praise was, who knew how quickly the news would spread.

Pei was still slouched in her chair when another auditioning actor approached, holding out a bottle of mineral water.

“Ms. Pei, would you like some water?”

Pei opened her eyes, voice hoarse:

“No, thank you.”

Jiang Tian hurried over, offering Pei her own bottle.

“Here, sis—have some.”

Pei took it.

Jiang Tian turned to the young actor.

“Sorry, but Jiuyao doesn’t drink water from strangers.”

“Oh… my apologies, that was my fault.”

The young actor’s expression froze in embarrassment, her posture stiff as she straightened up.

Pei handed the bottle back to Jiang Tian.

“Was there something else?”

“Your performance just now was amazing… I was wondering, if we could add each other on WeChat, maybe work together someday—”

Pei let out a soft laugh.

“Weren’t you the one saying I was ‘kept by Mo Tian’? I’m pretty sure I heard you right.”

The young actor’s face went pale, then flushed red. She stammered:

“Ms. Pei, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Who told you to say that?” Pei’s voice was cool.

From the look of her, she didn’t seem the type to stir trouble on her own.

“It was…”

“Yang Ling!”

The young actor jumped, startled, and quickly turned around.

Pei Jiuyao also turned her head to glance over.

“Well, if it isn’t Pei Jiuyao. Long time no see.”

Pei Jiuyao stayed seated, only swiveling her chair slightly while she subconsciously searched her memory for this flamboyant, strutting peacock.

Ah—so it was Qiao Lu, a top-tier celebrity who had bought her way into the production for a small role.

She had thrown so much money around that while the official investment was only a few dozen million, she’d later reimbursed the crew for all sorts of random expenses.

She was practically the project’s half-mother.

Any other crew would’ve worshipped her like a patron saint.

But this was Lin Leyi’s production—so at most, they let her parade around the audition room for show.

Still, that wasn’t the real point.

The point was—Qiao Lu was her rival.

The kind of rival you’d like to strangle on sight.

They had once starred together in an artsy romance about two women splitting the bill—an absolute black mark in both their careers. Just looking at each other was nauseating.

After playing the role of a strutting peacock, Qiao Lu now “fluttered” right in front of Pei Jiuyao like a moth, letting out an exaggerated snicker as she lowered her head.

“Yang Ling, what are you doing here, playing maid for Sister Pei? Can’t you see she doesn’t even want to acknowledge you?”

Pei Jiuyao stood up. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going.”

This was the original owner’s feud, not hers—no point wasting time.

Jiang Tian, quick on the uptake, stepped forward with Pei’s clothes, only to be stopped by Qiao Lu.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Qiao Lu looked Pei Jiuyao up and down several times, making her scalp prickle.

“What, do you have a crush on me?” Pei Jiuyao raised an eyebrow.

Qiao Lu’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy?!”

Pei slid her hands into her pockets, expression flat. “Maybe I am a little crazy lately. Better stay away from me.”

“Heh,” Qiao Lu ignored the warning, “you really think you can land a role in Director Lin’s film? Pei Jiuyao, ever heard of self-awareness? Your acting is absolute garbage.”

She was practically spitting in her face by now.

Pei Jiuyao frowned and took a step back. “Crude. Mind your image.”

Then she added, “Besides, didn’t you hear Director Lin just praise me? Even if you don’t understand acting, you can understand words, right?”

“She only praised you because you’ve got a good sugar mommy backing you—showing you a little face.”

Qiao Lu sneered. “If you’re so capable, why don’t you get your sugar mommy to throw some money in and see if she’d put you in? Bet she wouldn’t.”

A sudden thought flashed through Pei Jiuyao’s mind. “So it was you who started that rumor.”

Her gaze turned icy, enough to make Qiao Lu instinctively flinch.

“If you’ve got time to pull childish stunts, you’d be better off improving your acting. I don’t have time to play house with you.” Pei took the clothes from Jiang Tian and walked around her.

Qiao Lu froze. For a split second, she’d actually felt like she was being scolded by her own mother.

Furious, she snapped back, “Worry about your own acting! It’s awful—you’ve got no right to judge me!”

Just then, Pei’s phone chimed.

It was a message: she’d passed the audition.

Not that she was surprised.

Still, she couldn’t help the little smile tugging at her lips.

The Akamatsu role had plenty of screen time, and she’d get to work alongside Chi Yang—maybe even wrap filming together.

Another string of “firsts.”

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Qiao Lu tugged at her sleeve. “What are you smiling at?”

Pei held up her phone. “Take a good look.”

“This… impossible.” Qiao Lu’s eyes went wide, fists clenching.

Pei chuckled, put away her phone, and left the lounge with Jiang Tian.

Outside, they ran into Lin Leyi. After greeting the director, Pei was surprised when Lin Leyi came straight over.

“Pei, dinner with the crew tonight. Don’t forget. And join the group chat while you’re at it.”

Pei nodded, then got into the nanny van once Lin left.

The first thing she did was call Chi Yang.

The call connected quickly; there was background noise, then the sound of a door closing as Chi Yang stepped into a quiet space.

“It’s late. You’re still at the hospital?” Pei asked gently. “Is anyone with you?”

There was a pause before Chi Yang replied, “Yeah. Just finished a check-up. Ye Ci and Qin Hao are here.”

Qin Hao was Chi Yang’s manager.

Pei leaned back in her seat. “So… is there anything wrong?” she asked softly.

Chi Yang let out a light laugh. “No. Ying Ning says your pheromones really do help—I’ve been feeling pretty good lately.”

Pei exhaled in relief. “Good.”

“What about your audition? Any news?” Chi Yang’s tone was light and teasing.

Pei couldn’t help smiling, but quickly pressed her lips together. “Guess.”

“I guess you didn’t get it.” Chi Yang answered.

“What? Why?” Pei asked.

So little faith in her?

They’d rehearsed for hours that night, and Chi Yang had even praised her acting.

“Just kidding,” Chi Yang chuckled. “Director Lin told me earlier. Congratulations—you passed.”

Pei laughed outright. “You sly fox.” “So, when are you coming over?”

“I’ll be there tomorrow for the script read-through. I bought a ticket for tomorrow.” Chi Yang said.

“Oh… I’ve got dinner tonight,” Pei said, sounding a little regretful.

If Chi Yang had bought a ticket for tonight, she might’ve made it in time.

But… she was still in the hospital—it’d be too exhausting.

“Alright. Just get along well with the director,” Chi Yang said, lowering her voice as someone knocked on her door. “I have to go.”

“Mm.”

The line went dead, and outside, Ye Ci’s voice came through: “Sis, time to board.”