Scumbag Alpha’s Pheromones Are Toxic - Chapter 9

Lou Juan’s fingers lingered on the signature at the bottom of the agreement. It took several deep breaths before she could suppress the trembling in her hands.

It was real. What they said was true.

She had come back.

A sudden ringtone snapped her out of her daze. Seeing the caller’s name, Lou Juan composed herself and answered coolly, “Yes, I’m still at home.”

The person on the other end said something indistinct, and Lou Juan frowned. “I didn’t go in,” she explained evenly. “We only met briefly. If you’re so worried, why don’t you stay by her side yourself?”

A soft laugh came through the receiver, followed by a detached voice: “I know her far better than you do. This time, I won’t push her too hard.”

Lou Juan’s brows furrowed, and she lowered her voice sharply. “That’s exactly what you’re doing—pushing her.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman replied lazily. “As long as I get what I want, no method is beneath me.”

It was Qin Zishu—supposedly “busy with her schedule”—who spoke with unhurried amusement. “Alright, your time’s up. You’ve seen her, so leave now.”

Lou Juan’s hand trembled as she ended the call. She gave the closed door behind her one last restrained glance before turning away, head lowered, and left.

Inside, Ji Yao sat down and took a few sips of water.

“System.” She slumped bonelessly into the sofa, one slipper already kicked off while the other dangled precariously from her toes. She looked every bit the picture of a lazy salted fish. “You there?”

The system quickly responded, “I’m here.”

“Can you help me check something?” Ji Yao asked, sounding listless.

“That depends,” said the system.

“Oh,” Ji Yao murmured. “Then check what’s going on with this body—has it differentiated yet? And if not, what will it become?”

“Unable to access that data,” the system replied bluntly.

Ji Yao hadn’t really expected it to know, so she switched topics. “Fine. Then find out what Qin Zishu is doing right now.”

“No idea,” the system said simply.

Ji Yao: “…”

“But,” it added, “I can estimate based on her schedule for the day. We systems are quite accurate when it comes to probability calculations.”

Ji Yao gave a lazy “Mm,” just about to praise it when she heard the system declare in a serious, mechanical tone: “She’s thinking about you—with an eighty percent probability.”

Ji Yao blinked, startled by the answer, then naturally asked, “And the remaining twenty percent?”

“She’s regretting,” came the reply.

Ji Yao hadn’t expected that. Regretting? Did that mean Qin Zishu was finally feeling remorseful? Deciding to turn over a new leaf? “Can you tell what exactly she’s regretting?”

“Based on event probability,” the system said in a calm, robotic voice, “it’s most likely that she regrets not succeeding last night. She’s probably writhing with frustration.”

Ji Yao: “…”

She really shouldn’t have asked.

It was only after the system powered down that Ji Yao realized something odd—wait, she’d asked what Qin Zishu was doing, not what she was feeling. Why was the system reporting her emotions instead?

Besides, Qin Zishu should be busy today. Her schedule was packed—how did she even have time for so much emotional activity?

Ji Yao held her cup thoughtfully for a long while before arriving at an absurd conclusion: could Qin Zishu be a love brain?

The kind who’s simultaneously scummy and passionate—genuinely affectionate toward every canary she keeps, yet still as unfaithful and covetous as ever.

Tsk, what a messed-up way to love.

Ji Yao wasn’t sure what to do with herself next. She didn’t feel like going out, though she was a little relieved that Qin Zishu was busy and wouldn’t come pestering her. Facing that familiar face, she truly couldn’t handle the woman’s unfiltered desire and teasing.

That was a child she had raised herself.

If Qin Zishu hadn’t chosen that crooked path—and if not for that damned system—Ji Yao never would have gotten involved with her in the first place.

She hated being restrained, whether by people or by feelings. For some reason, she had always longed for freedom. If not for certain circumstances, she might have liked to wander like a vagabond, drifting from city to city without a fixed home.

Smiling faintly, she murmured to the sleeping system, “If it wasn’t for Qin Zishu, I wouldn’t bother doing your stupid missions. So, what if I die again? I hate being threatened the most.”

The system stayed silent.

But when she thought of Qin Zishu again, Ji Yao sighed.

“Yesterday, just seeing that infuriating face of hers—I got so worked up I practically offered myself to her.” Ji Yao rubbed her temples in frustration. “Looking back now, if something really had happened between us.”

The system cut in, “Would you not have been able to accept it? Because you watched her grow up, so you can’t cross that line?”

“Not exactly,” Ji Yao replied.

“If that’s the issue, I can make things easier for you,” the system offered helpfully. “I could, for example, erase your memory of the event the next day—or knock you out beforehand.”

Ji Yao couldn’t help laughing. “Isn’t that just lying to myself? It’s not about morals—I’m not that virtuous. Doing it with her or anyone else makes no real difference. It’s just, it feels weird, that’s all.”

For once, the system didn’t respond.

After a pause, Ji Yao went on, “Right, can you check what happened to her over the past ten years? After I died—how she survived on her own, and why she decided to walk the same road I once did?”

The system replied quietly, “You never asked before. I thought you didn’t care about her.”

“I’m only trying to complete your task as quickly as possible—die early, reincarnate early,” Ji Yao said flatly. “It’s not like I actually care about her. It was just an adoption arrangement. And look how that turned out—she’s not even properly raised, and I didn’t gain anything from it either. The girl doesn’t even remember who I am.”

System: “Sigh.”

Ji Yao sighed too. “Honestly, if I’d known it’d turn out like this, I wouldn’t have chosen her in the first place. Can’t even rest in peace after death, still stuck cleaning up her mess.”

Inside the dressing room, Qin Zishu’s expression darkened without warning.

The makeup artist startled, brush pausing midair, and glanced nervously at Xu Xiyan for help.

Xu Xiyan offered an apologetic smile that said: Don’t panic. Stay calm, even though I’m panicking too.

“You can stop,” Qin Zishu said abruptly. “I have something to deal with. I need to go home.”

“Qin-jie, but we still have the screen test today!” her assistant Xu Xiyan was nearly in tears. “Director Huo’s waiting for you!”

Qin Zishu didn’t seem to care. “Then tell him I’m not coming.”

Xu Xiyan almost dropped to her knees. Oh, ancestor above, what is this again?

Everyone knew Director Huo had a terrible temper—he hated being kept waiting! And this was already the third time Qin Zishu had stood him up. Once or twice was tolerable, but three times? This would definitely land her on his blacklist!

Wait—she said she’s going home? Ji Yao was still there! She must be rushing back to see her!

If Xu Xiyan could just get Ji Yao to send a message saying she wasn’t home, this whole thing would blow over.

She secretly pulled out her phone to contact Ji Yao, only to realize—Qin-jie had told her so much about the woman, but she didn’t actually have Ji Yao’s contact info.

Xu Xiyan: “…”

“Where are you going?” A woman with wine-red hair appeared at the door—it was Lou Juan, who had hurried over after hearing the commotion. She cast a sharp glance at Xu Xiyan and finished the sentence for her: “This is the third time, you can’t cancel again.”

Through the mirror, Qin Zishu looked up with a cold, unfriendly gaze. “You know I don’t have the heart for this right now.”

“Whether or not you have the heart, you still have to keep moving forward,” Lou Juan said coolly, gesturing for the makeup artist to continue. “This is your career, Zishu. You’re in your prime. Don’t you want her to see how good you’ve become? Then show her.”

Qin Zishu laughed—a sharp, brittle laugh that belonged to someone teetering on the edge. “She doesn’t care in the slightest.”

Lou Juan reminded her softly, “Did you forget? The one auditioning with you today—the one competing for the lead—is Jiang Jiaran.”

That made Qin Zishu pause. She turned to the others and motioned for them to step outside for a moment.

Lou Juan took the chance to continue, “You can’t keep hiding Ji Yao away at home. If some paparazzi catches wind of it, Jiang Jiaran will find out sooner or later. Think about it—given her current connections, do you really think she wouldn’t try to steal her away from you?”

“And what does that have to do with me going to this audition?” Qin Zishu asked evenly.

“Director Huo’s new film will be a guaranteed hit, no matter who plays the lead. If you don’t go, that chance falls to Jiang Jiaran,” Lou Juan said. “In every past lifetime, she never dared get close to Ji Yao because she wasn’t good enough.

But if she lands this role—if she wins a major award—she’ll finally have something over you. You think she won’t go running to Ji Yao for praise?”

Qin Zishu fell silent.

Lou Juan had joined this reincarnation loop only a few cycles ago. Both of them carried their memories across lives—each burdened with regrets, entangled in a complicated bond that was part rivalry, part reluctant alliance.

They understood each other too well—each accumulating pain in their own way.

Lou Juan was always the rational one. If she took the trouble to stop Qin Zishu, it was worth considering.

“Jiang Jiaran’s like a leech,” Qin Zishu muttered. “Every time, I find her insufferable.”

Lou Juan: “…”

Wasn’t that the truth?

Back then, when Ji Yao decided to adopt a child from the orphanage, every kid there had prayed to be the chosen one—especially Jiang Jiaran. She’d been adorable and well-behaved, a natural talker. Ji Yao had liked her a lot—might’ve even adopted her—if not for that sudden incident with little Qin Zishu.

If not for that, it would’ve been Jiang Jiaran who went home with Ji Yao.

Now, Qin Zishu’s voice carried a bitter edge. “I almost wish she had taken Jiang Jiaran instead. Things would’ve been easier that way.”

If Ji Yao had adopted Jiang Jiaran, she wouldn’t have developed these feelings for her.

Wouldn’t have spent her teenage years rebelling against her.

Wouldn’t have grown up chained to this longing that only hurt more with every life.

That might’ve been a mercy—better than reliving the same pain again and again through endless reincarnations.

“Jiang Jiaran has always worshipped Ji Yao,” Lou Juan sighed. “Be glad Ji Yao isn’t one of those endlessly kind-hearted saints. If she was, she would’ve adopted both of you.”

“This is the only way I can keep her,” Qin Zishu murmured, lifting her eyes. Beneath her lashes, her smile turned razor-sharp. “She can’t stand imperfection. As long as I keep failing her expectations, she’ll stay—just to fix me.”

She exhaled slowly and stared into the mirror. Her reflection looked pale and empty—rebellion, pretense, everything about her had been shaped by that one woman.

Lou Juan lowered her gaze. “I know.”

Qin Zishu raised a hand to cover the reflection’s eyes. “She’s tormenting me to death, and I’m pathetic enough to keep chasing after her anyway.”

“Ah.”

At home, Ji Yao flinched, accidentally spilling water over herself as she watered her plants. The porcelain watering can slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.

Water splashed across her dress.

She crouched to pick up the shards and felt something hard beneath the hem of her skirt—a small, rigid bump.

A bug. A recorder, maybe. It didn’t matter which.

Either way, it was soaked through now—and she had every reason to throw it away.

Author’s Note:

P.S. The characters in this story don’t always tell the truth. What they say, do, or think might not be real. What the main POV perceives might not be real either.

Who’s lying? Who’s crazy? And who’s just a silly little dog? 🐶