As a Scummy Omega, I Ran Away with the Baby - Chapter 48

Inside the studio, the blinding magnesium lights flashed tirelessly at the photographer’s command.

“Excellent. Chin up a little higher, let your gaze soften, yes, just like that!”

In front of the lens, Gu Yining wore a custom haute couture gown from the latest season, every curve of her body posed with flawless precision. Her eyes locked onto the camera—sometimes cool and distant, sometimes alluring—shifting seamlessly from one expression to another in perfect response to the photographer’s instructions.

Whether it was the photographer himself, the assistants, or the lighting crew, everyone couldn’t help but marvel at her professionalism and efficiency. Only Xiao Li, her assistant who stayed by her side day in and day out, could see past that immaculate façade to the exhaustion and weakness she hid so carefully beneath it.

Xiao Li clenched the thermos in her hands, anxious and heartbroken. But as long as the shoot hadn’t been called to a stop, there was nothing she could say.

“Alright! Great work, Miss Gu. Please go rest for a bit—we’ll call you back once the next setup is ready.” The photographer lowered his camera.

The moment the word “great work” fell, the expression Gu Yining had worn for the camera vanished instantly. She reined in her emotions, nodded politely to the staff around her, then turned and headed for the lounge.

Xiao Li hurried after her. As soon as they entered the lounge, she thoughtfully closed the door, shutting out all the noise from outside.

The superstar who had been dazzling moments ago now sat silently on the sofa, her entire body sinking into the soft cushions, saying nothing at all.

Xiao Li unscrewed the thermos and carefully handed it to her, the straw already in place. Watching Gu Yining accept it mechanically without even lifting her eyelids, Xiao Li finally couldn’t suppress her worry.

“Yining-jie, the company contacted us again about the contract renewal,” she said cautiously, watching Gu Yining’s expression. “And also, those packed schedules you had before—lately, they seem to have dropped off quite a bit. I’m worried it’s because they—”

Gu Yining didn’t look over as she usually would. She stared off into space, clearly not having heard a word Xiao Li had said.

“Yining-jie?” Xiao Li had to repeat softly.

This time, Gu Yining reacted. She lowered her head and bit down on the straw, taking small sips of warm water. The faint warmth slid down her throat, doing little to ease her fatigue.

“Put the renewal on hold,” she said flatly. “It doesn’t matter if there are fewer gigs. It’s a good chance to rest. Don’t worry—I can afford to drag it out.”

Her face remained expressionless. Rather than calm composure, it looked more like numbness.

A numbness that didn’t care, that couldn’t be bothered to care.

Xiao Li could tell Gu Yining was forcing herself to hold on. But in the adult world, some wounds could only be licked in private—too much concern from others only became a burden. Wanting to give her some space, Xiao Li wisely said no more. She took out her tablet, carefully double-checked the upcoming schedule, and after confirming everything was in order, slipped quietly out of the lounge, gently closing the door behind her.

The soft click of the door shutting cut Gu Yining off from the world—and at the same time stripped away all her disguises.

She relaxed back into the sofa and took out her phone, only to realize she’d forgotten to unlock it. The dark screen clearly reflected her face: her makeup was indeed impeccable, yet no amount of foundation could hide the lingering desolation at the corners of her eyes and brows.

Gu Yining shook her head slightly and lit up the screen, intending to scroll through something to distract herself. Instead, her peripheral vision caught the date displayed at the top.

The numbers were glaringly clear.

Of course, it wasn’t a special day—no holiday, no birthday. But she remembered that string of numbers all too well. Five years ago, after she left Bai Qingqiu, it had lodged itself among countless memories, etched into her very being, her heart.

It was Bai Qingqiu’s heat cycle.

Almost immediately, she recalled the phone call she had overheard by chance at Bai Qingqiu’s place.

Bai Qingqiu had told Bei Nanyan, “Let’s end it here. I don’t want to pursue it further,” and had suggested meeting at “the usual place.” Judging by the time, they were probably already meeting now.

Indeed, in recent days, Bei Nanyan had truly stopped shamelessly coming around to provoke her. The world had returned to the quiet it was supposed to have.

She thought she had let go.

In front of Bai Qingqiu, she had been so calm, so resolute—calm enough to deceive even Bai Qingqiu herself. At the very least, there hadn’t been the slightest ripple on that always composed face, let alone any attempt to make her stay.

She accepted this ending. She told herself they were even now.

But it turned out that truly letting go was never easy.

The strong female leads she had portrayed—after betrayal and heartbreak, after reaching the depths of pain—could always let go with grace, rise again, and claim a brilliant life. But what about Gu Yining herself? Clearly battered and broken by that person, wounded beyond recognition, yet she still lingered where she was, pacing back and forth, never able to step out of the prison called “love” that Bai Qingqiu had built for her with her own hands.

She knew full well that beyond it lay endless horizons—she only needed to take one brave step forward.

As if even heaven wanted to test her resolve, a gentle knock sounded on the door.

Gu Yining set her phone on the table, quickly gathered herself, smoothed her expression, and called out evenly, “Come in.”

Xiao Li pushed the door open, her face tinged with apology and hesitation.

“Sorry, Yining-jie, BaiXing just sent over an invitation. They’d like you to attend a reception,” she paused, choosing her words carefully. “They said many top-tier investors and producers will be there. It seems like they want to express their thanks for our cooperation in clarifying that incident earlier.”

Xiao Li didn’t spell it out, but Gu Yining instantly understood the implication.

Her contract with the Big Three still had a year left. Seeing her lack of enthusiasm for renewal, they had already begun tripping her up both openly and covertly. If she chose not to renew and wanted to return to BaiXing instead, this reception was undoubtedly the perfect opportunity to reestablish contact.

Objectively speaking, BaiXing’s influence was second to none in the domestic industry. Especially in recent years, after Bai Qingqiu’s sweeping reforms purged the board of its dead weight, the company had produced multiple hit projects, with stock prices remaining steady. Given Gu Yining’s current popularity, if she was willing to negotiate, she would certainly land a top-tier S+ contract.

But, forget it.

Bai Qingqiu would definitely be there.

She had been willing to step forward to help BaiXing clarify things back then because the matter itself was baseless—and because she didn’t want Bai Xia to live under a cloud of rumors. It had never been about gaining anything in return.

Now that they owed each other nothing, she didn’t want her actions to take on a different meaning, nor did she want any dealings with Bai Qingqiu beyond what was strictly professional.

She didn’t want to be someone who could take but not let go. Even more, she didn’t want to leave the slightest room for misunderstanding.

Let their relationship naturally return to where it should have always been.

Besides, from a career perspective, she wasn’t keen on signing with any agency again. During this period of decreasing exposure, she had been thinking that perhaps she could try not signing with a company at all—maybe open her own studio instead, gaining more autonomy. Even if resources diminished significantly, at least she would have freedom.

She had already passed the stage where constant, high-intensity exposure was necessary. At this point in her career, effective exposure mattered far more than mindlessly showing up across magazines, media, variety shows, and brand deals.

And there was an even more subtle reason—one she had never shared with anyone, not even herself in full—that she no longer yearned for life under the spotlight the way she once had.

She still loved acting, loved experiencing and shaping the lives of different characters.

She was just tired.

Tired of saying the same insincere words to different people. Tired of wearing a flawless mask, playing the version of “Gu Yining” that fans and the market preferred. Tired of carving her life into schedules and itineraries, losing all sense of personal time. Day after day, she played “Gu Yining,” to the point where she almost forgot what Gu Yining’s own life was like—what she herself actually enjoyed.

No company would want to hear any of that.

No agency signs a top actress just to let her sit idle out of charity—not even BaiXing.

Actors are born to work, to perform. If an actor doesn’t even want to perform herself anymore, how can she portray others, or convince an audience to believe in the characters she creates?

With that thought, the last trace of hesitation in Gu Yining’s heart dissipated. She lifted her head, steadied herself, and spoke firmly to Xiao Li, who was waiting for her answer.

“No need. I’m not going.”

She paused. “Tell them my schedule for that evening was set long ago, and I really can’t make it. And pass along my regards.”

Even if the excuse was painfully flimsy—any industry insider would know it was a polite refusal—it was still something that had to be said for courtesy’s sake.

She didn’t plan to sign with BaiXing, but she had no intention of offending people or acting like a diva either.

A flicker of regret crossed Xiao Li’s face, as if she wanted to say something more. But seeing how resolute Gu Yining was, she ultimately nodded, said nothing, and left the room.

The room fell silent once more.

Gu Yining lowered her head bitterly, fiddling with her fingers. Of course she could see Xiao Li’s expectations. Xiao Li was good to her—she knew that. But she had made up her mind. This was her life, and she wanted to be the one to decide how it was lived.

She picked up her phone from the table, no longer looking at the date, and went straight to the call screen, dialing her makeup artist.

“Could you come help me touch up my makeup? We’re getting ready for the next shoot,” she said into the phone.

She lifted her eyes to the mirror. The face was the same, the makeup unchanged—but something in her gaze had shifted.

No matter how difficult or uncertain the road ahead might be, since she had already made her choice, she should keep moving forward.

Life had to go on.