Scumbag Alpha’s Pheromones Are Toxic - Chapter 8

“Ten years?” Qin Zishu repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. “That long?”

Ji Yao’s expression remained calm and unreadable. “I can handle it. Don’t worry. You won’t be able to break me.”

Qin Zishu laughed softly. “But I’ll get bored, you know. I can’t even promise I’ll want you around for a full year.”

“You’re not allowed to find someone else.” Ji Yao’s tone was sharp, cutting her off mid-sentence. “If I dare to say ten years, then I have the confidence to make it happen. If you do get bored, that means it’s my fault. I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t.”

Qin Zishu looked at her, eyes clouded with emotion. But Ji Yao’s gaze was lowered, missing the trace of sorrow hidden in Qin Zishu’s eyes.

So, this was the right way to make her stay, Qin Zishu thought bitterly.

Ji Yao was immovable—neither soft words nor harsh ones could reach her. In all her past lives, no matter what methods Qin Zishu used, she had never managed to soften Ji Yao’s heart. Even coercion hadn’t worked.

And now, after becoming this version of herself—damaged, twisted, desperate—it was Ji Yao who chose to stay on her own.

Life truly had a cruel sense of irony.

Qin Zishu used to be desperate to leave a good impression in Ji Yao’s heart. She wanted to show her best side, to prove that Ji Yao hadn’t raised her in vain, that she was worthy of pride and expectation.

But Ji Yao’s response had always been silent and merciless—I never expected anything beautiful from you. Now that you’re doing fine, I can simply rest easy.

Oh, you want praise?

Fine. I’ll praise you.

And what then?

Qin Zishu had shed countless tears over her, her hatred etched deep into her bones—yet still powerless to do anything about it.

But this time.

She no longer wanted to prove her worth.

Instead, Qin Zishu deliberately dragged all her flaws into the light, magnifying them mercilessly. She left bloody fingerprints on Ji Yao’s heart, painting a grotesque masterpiece in the name of “responsibility”—forcing Ji Yao to stay.

And it worked.

How ironic.

Looking at Ji Yao’s emotionless face, Qin Zishu’s own heart ached no less than hers.

“All right,” Qin Zishu said at last, steadying her voice. “Let’s go eat.”

She tried to take Ji Yao’s hand, but Ji Yao slipped away, walking toward the window instead.

With a sharp pull, the heavy curtains flew open. Blinding sunlight flooded the room, striking Qin Zishu square in the face. Her pupils constricted—it felt like the sunlight had slapped her.

“If one day you feel yourself turning sick in the head,” Ji Yao said coolly, towering over her, “if you start thinking of doing something extreme or saying something awful—just open the curtains and look at the sun. Sunshine’s good for the brain and for your calcium levels.”

Qin Zishu: “…”

Why did that sound like an insult?

The next second, Ji Yao suddenly switched tones—just like how Qin Zishu often masked her own malice behind a teasing smile. Ji Yao now wore her own “obedient” mask.

She stood sweetly beside Qin Zishu. “Ah, sorry, I suddenly thought of someone from the past. Guess I said something I shouldn’t have. You won’t hold it against me, will you, Qin-jie?”

Qin Zishu: “…”

Ji Yao blinked innocently. “Let’s go eat together.”

Qin Zishu, still sulking, decided to tease her in return. “So what, you’re treating me like a stand-in for your ‘someone from the past’ now?”

Ji Yao refused to admit it. “No way. I wouldn’t dare.”

For the first time, Qin Zishu felt genuinely angry—flustered and furious in equal measure.

After breakfast, Qin Zishu had to leave for her schedule. She told Ji Yao she could go out if she wanted, or stay home until she came back. But she emphasized one thing: Don’t go into the last storage room at the end of the second-floor hallway.

If she hadn’t mentioned it, Ji Yao wouldn’t have cared.

But since she had.

A flicker of curiosity sparked between Ji Yao’s brows. “What’s in there?”

“Don’t get curious about that. It’s not good for you,” Qin Zishu said quickly, toast in her mouth as she hurried out the door. Before leaving, she turned back to add, “Someone will bring you the redrafted contract in an hour. Make sure you sign it.”

Ji Yao methodically cut her fried egg into neat pieces, not even looking up. “Got it.”

Only after hearing the door close did she put down her utensils.

The housekeeper, looking uneasy, wiped her apron. “Was the food not to your liking?”

“Oh, no,” Ji Yao said with a polite smile. “Your cooking’s wonderful. It reminds me a little of the past.” She never took her bad moods out on others. “Let me wash the dishes today. You’ve worked hard enough.”

From her brief observations, Ji Yao could tell the housekeeper didn’t live here full-time. She probably came on schedule—to tidy up, or to cook based on Qin Zishu’s appetite that day.

The housekeeper smiled kindly. “No need, no need. I’ll take care of it—it’s no trouble at all. Just load them into the dishwasher.”

Ji Yao had one of those gentle faces that made strangers instantly comfortable. With Qin Zishu gone, the woman seemed eager to chat.

“My surname’s Zhao, but you can just call me Aunt Zhao,” she said warmly. “I’m from Lancang. Miss Zishu says my cooking reminds her of when she was little. She often calls me over to make a few hometown dishes for her.”

Zishu.

Ji Yao was momentarily taken aback. That form of address—intimate, tender—wasn’t something she expected. For someone as distant as Qin Zishu, there must be real closeness behind it.

Ji Yao had never imagined that the adult Qin Zishu—so cold, so untouchable—would ever come home after work looking forward to a table of familiar dishes, chatting idly with an older woman who called her “Zishu.”

Then again, Lancang wasn’t a big place. Little Qin Zishu had spent her first seven years there; it made sense some habits stuck, even in adulthood—like her tastes in food.

Still, to think she could miss the place that had left her covered in scars.

Ji Yao thought back carefully. Ever since she had brought the seven-year-old Qin Zishu from their hometown to the big city, the girl had never shown the slightest hint of nostalgia. Even when Ji Yao had once suggested taking her back for a visit, Qin Zishu had rejected the idea without hesitation.

At the time, Ji Yao had asked half-jokingly, “You really don’t want to go back? That’s where you grew up. I’m not sending you away—just visiting, so you won’t feel homesick.”

“I don’t want to. I hate that place.” The young Qin Zishu stood behind a closed door, refusing to let Ji Yao in. “That’s not my hometown.”

Leaning against the door, Ji Yao had smiled as though humoring a child’s tantrum. “You can deny many things—even that I’m your sister—but how can you deny your hometown? It’s always there. You can’t run away from where you came from.”

But the more she said, the more it felt like nagging. Ji Yao knew when to stop. After that, she never brought it up again.

And now, it seemed, the child had grown up and learned to feel nostalgic. Otherwise, why would she go out of her way to hire Aunt Zhao—someone from their hometown—to cook for her?

Ji Yao picked up a piece of fried egg, crispy on the edges and soft inside, and sighed as she looked at it. “Ten years, so much has changed.”

After dinner, Ji Yao helped Aunt Zhao tidy up. The woman tried to refuse, flustered, but Ji Yao was persistent, practically snatching the mop from her hands. Resigned, Aunt Zhao took a cloth instead, chatting with Ji Yao as they cleaned together.

“You’re such a good girl,” Aunt Zhao said warmly. “No wonder Zishu’s willing to help you. Even I feel fond of you after just one meeting. Back home, every child I’ve liked at first sight has gone on to do great things.”

Help?

Ji Yao caught that word instantly. Keeping her tone casual, she asked, “Aunt Zhao, the people Zishu used to ‘help’—what kind of people were they?”

Aunt Zhao froze mid-wipe. Then, realizing she’d spoken out of turn, she muttered a soft exclamation in dialect before smiling apologetically.

People from Lancang were generally honest, not the type to hide behind polite formalities. Aunt Zhao clearly wasn’t one to act or lie. Her awkward smile said it all—Zishu doesn’t want me to talk about it. I’m sorry.

Ji Yao didn’t dwell on whether that meant not to say anything at all or not to say anything to her specifically. She wasn’t the type to push others into a corner. With an understanding smile, she changed the topic. “Aunt Zhao, you seem like you’ve got an eye for people. Ever thought about taking up face reading as a side job?”

Aunt Zhao chuckled in relief, clearly touched that Ji Yao was trying to ease her embarrassment.

An hour passed quickly. Before the doorbell rang, Aunt Zhao said her goodbyes and left.

Ji Yao went to open the door herself. She planned to sign the contract, then head out for a quick checkup—just to confirm whether she really was an Omega.

But when she saw who was standing outside, that plan vanished instantly.

“Lou Juan?”

Ji Yao froze completely.

It was her former agent—her ace agent from her previous life.

And now she was working for Qin Zishu.

The woman at the door wore a sharp, tailored suit. Her wine-red hair brushed against her collarbone. Her features hadn’t changed much, but ten years was still ten years. Time had spared the dead version of Ji Yao, but not the living. Lou Juan’s face was thinner now, almost gaunt, the shadows under her cheekbones deep and stark.

For the first time since her rebirth, Ji Yao truly felt the cruelty of time.

Maybe it was because Qin Zishu had changed from a child into a young woman in her prime that Ji Yao hadn’t noticed before. But Lou Juan—already older than her—had aged visibly. The difference struck her like a blow.

“Hello, are you Ms. Ji Yao?” Lou Juan’s voice was clipped, professional, distant. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Once you sign, if there’s nothing else.”

Maybe it was her throat acting up, but Ji Yao noticed the faint tremor in her words, the slight catch between sentences.

Ji Yao wanted to invite her in for a glass of water, but Lou Juan was a woman who did things efficiently. If she said she was in a hurry, then she truly was. Insisting would be meaningless.

The best thing Ji Yao could do now was cooperate and sign.

Just before the pen touched paper, she deliberately changed her handwriting—slower, more restrained—writing each stroke carefully: Ji Yao.

Gone was the carefree, fluid signature of her past life. She couldn’t let Lou Juan recognize her—not as the woman she once managed, but as the “canary” now kept by the very child she had raised.

Ji Yao didn’t dare imagine what Lou Juan’s reaction would be if she found out. It was better to stay silent, to hide the wound, to linger in the shadows with her wayward little rabbit until she set her straight. Until then, she didn’t deserve to face the light.

“You’re Sister Qin’s agent, right? You must be so busy—thank you for making the trip.” Ji Yao put on a polite smile, her tone the perfect balance of submissive and sweet, just as a kept woman should sound. “Please be careful on your way back.”

Lou Juan’s sharp gaze flickered beneath her glasses. She seemed absorbed in checking the paperwork, barely acknowledging Ji Yao before turning to leave.

As the door shut, Ji Yao pressed a hand to her chest and leaned weakly against it. What the hell was that?

If it wasn’t for that damn rabbit, she wouldn’t be too scared to even recognize an old friend.

Honestly, up until she followed Qin Zishu home, Ji Yao hadn’t felt much about being her “canary.” Even after last night, it hadn’t seemed like such a big deal. After all, Qin Zishu didn’t recognize her, and as long as Ji Yao played along, she could guide her back onto the right path. A small sacrifice was worth it.

But now—now she suddenly realized the problem.

Her old friends were still out there, still in the same industry. What if one day she ran into them and they recognized her?

For the first time, Ji Yao truly understood what shame felt like. The thought alone made her want to hide forever.

What she didn’t know was that the “in-a-hurry” woman hadn’t actually left.

Nor did she stop to question why a once top-tier agent like Lou Juan, after ten years, would lower herself to act as Qin Zishu’s messenger.

Was it really just to deliver a single document?