The Unlucky Alpha and Her Hard-to-Please Omega - Chapter 3

“Sister Chen, this looks like a script for a TV drama?” Song Yi sat across from Chen Nian, flipping through a few pages before looking up with a hint of doubt.

“It is a TV drama. Do you have a problem with that?” Chen Nian countered.

Song Yi wouldn’t go so far as to say she was unwilling, but she had played in the “Big Screen” leagues since her debut. Being suddenly demoted to television felt like a blow to her professional pride.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Chen Nian said. “You feel like doing TV is beneath you. You think it lacks the ‘prestige’ of film, don’t you?”

Song Yi: “…Yes. So, if I may be so bold, is this a sign of the company’s current attitude toward me?”

Chen Nian let out a laugh. “You think because you didn’t win the award again, the company is pulling your resources?”

“My darling, how do you even come up with these ideas? Is our company so legendary that Best Actress nominations are just lying on the ground for anyone to pick up? Stop putting so much pressure on yourself.”

“Furthermore, in my view, acting in a drama isn’t a compromise. You’re a classically trained actress from the Academy, but TV actors aren’t all just coasting either. It’s just a different medium of performance. Experience is never a bad thing.”

“Besides, look at the script. I would never hand you trash just to keep you busy. Since I’m asking you to take it, The Mist has its merits. I’ve never doubted your acting, but right now, you lack a certain ‘market appeal.’ This role can take you to the next level.”

As Chen Nian analyzed the choice, she kept a close eye on Song Yi’s reaction. She knew this particular artist of hers was prone to overthinking—especially regarding her wins and losses. Song Yi acted as if she were perpetually charging forward, never allowing herself to step back or even stand still. Only when Chen Nian saw Song Yi’s tense expression soften as she began reading the script with genuine interest did she drop the real news.

“According to reliable sources, the Female General project has resumed preparation. It’ll likely start filming next year, right after you finish this drama.”

Song Yi’s head snapped up. The sudden spark in her eyes almost dazzled Chen Nian.

“Which Female General?” Song Yi asked breathlessly.

“How many are there? The Female General,” Chen Nian smiled.

Female General was a remake of a classic. The original told the story of a pivotal figure in the Alliance’s founding war, a female Omega general who rose from the slums to lead the Allied forces to a come-from-behind victory. Three years ago, when the project was first announced, Song Yi had auditioned for a small supporting role. She was still a student then, with no experience and no portfolio, yet her audition tape had caught the director’s eye, earning her a personal interview with the legendary Director Han Qingshan.

Later, for reasons unknown, the director suddenly announced a halt to preparations without a restart date. Rumors suggested the project hit political resistance and was forcibly shut down. Song Yi’s interview led nowhere.

It had been a lingering regret for her, though life is full of such things, and she never saw the point in dwelling on them. She had never even mentioned it to Sister Chen.

Yet, Chen Nian understood her.

“Don’t get too excited yet. Director Han isn’t easy to impress. And besides, are you really satisfied with just playing a small supporting role?” Chen Nian asked.

“Of course not. You know me, Sister Chen. I’ve always wanted to play…”

“It won’t be a theatrical release,” Chen Nian interrupted. “The investors changed, and the script underwent major revisions while keeping the core plot. It will be released as a web series.”

Song Yi stood frozen, stunned. “How could that be?”

The answer was obvious. Changes to the script and the move to a web format were the results of compromise. Director Han couldn’t film this story on sheer passion without capital; to preserve the soul of the story, he had to swallow his pride and change the packaging.

“Even so, do you still want to play that role? To endure Han Qingshan’s notoriously picky torture for a project that has zero chance of winning an award?” Chen Nian challenged.

“Yes,” Song Yi answered without hesitation.

“Then you understand why I need you to learn how to move the market,” Chen Nian said, arching an eyebrow.

Chen Nian wanted Song Yi to sharpen herself in this upcoming drama first. Then, she would have enough leverage to demand the lead role in Female General from Han Qingshan.

Song Yi finally realized the depth of Chen Nian’s planning. From the bottom of her heart, she said, “Sister Chen, it’s truly my blessing to have met you.”

*****

Across the city, on the second floor of a 24-hour mahjong parlor’s tea house, Shen Yu let out a laugh of pure exasperation. “Sister An, it’s truly my blessing to have met you!”

Rewind thirty minutes: Shen Yu had accurately located this specific parlor among hundreds of entertainment venues and caught her manager, An Jiahe, red-handed with dark circles under her eyes. The latter had the nerve to claim, “This is a necessary social activity for work!”

Shen Yu had dragged An Jiahe up to the tea house. Now, they sat in a bamboo pavilion overlooking the river, staring each other down.

“You’re saying you got… ‘serviced’ by someone last night?” An Jiahe asked, shocked.

Shen Yu gritted her teeth. “Could you put that a bit more delicately, please?!”

An Jiahe felt a momentary pang of guilt. She had received the call from Tang Di. She had intended to pick up Shen Yu, but as fate would have it, the “Five of Bamboo” tile she’d been waiting for all night was finally discarded by the player before her. If she hadn’t stayed to complete that high-scoring hand, she wouldn’t be human!

Luck in mahjong is a fickle thing; if you walk away when the momentum is high, you ruin your future luck. So, she had stayed for “just a few more rounds.”

“Just a few?” Shen Yu challenged.

An Jiahe gave a sheepish smile. She knew she was in the wrong, but then she pivoted. “Look, isn’t it just a bit of fun? Think of it as a romantic escapade. Who knows, maybe this is your destined match.”

“Bullsh*t,” Shen Yu summarized.

“And what do you mean ‘romantic escapade’? I’ve never even…” Shen Yu stopped mid-sentence as An Jiahe gave her a suspicious look. She stiffened and nodded. “Right. You’re right. It’s just a bit of fun. No big deal.”

She could be unfiltered with Tang Di because they’d known each other for over a decade; Tang Di had seen her at her most embarrassing. Tang Di also knew perfectly well that despite Shen Yu’s bombshell exterior, she was a total novice in the bedroom. But with An Jiahe, Shen Yu felt the need to maintain her “cool Alpha” persona—sexy, free-spirited, and worldly.

“Don’t worry. Given your years of tireless effort to act like a lunatic, even if those kinds of photos leaked, your fans would just think, ‘Yep, that sounds like her,'” An Jiahe patted Shen Yu’s shoulder comfortingly.

Shen Yu was truly the most low-maintenance artist she’d ever managed. An Jiahe used to be a high-strung manager specializing in crisis PR, but Shen Yu’s repeated public antics had taught her a lesson: as long as an artist is consistently and authentically “unhinged,” the core fanbase, who have already survived the greatest storms, will never leave.

After all, the weak-willed fans had already jumped ship years ago when Shen Yu dressed up as a “domineering female CEO” for a physical challenge show, only to face-plant and fail on the second obstacle.

As a competent manager, An Jiahe believed in giving her artist freedom, which meant never interfering in her choice of variety shows or her late-night activities.

An Jiahe was an expert at killing her own guilt. She was now comfortably scrolling through her phone in front of Shen Yu, claiming to be “monitoring the latest trends.” Then, her artist made her vision go dark once again.

“Darling, what exactly is this?” An Jiahe turned her screen around to show Shen Yu a short video.

The person filming was clearly an amateur. The low-angle shot was atrocious, looking up at the second floor with a shaky, vibrating lens. The audio was filled with high-pitched screaming.

“Omg omg omg I just ran into Shen Yu!! Love you!!” An Jiahe read the video title in the most monotone voice possible.

In the video, Shen Yu was wearing the exact same shirt she had on now, unbuttoned down to the third button. She was leaning over a second-floor railing with reckless abandon, throwing handfuls of cash into the air.

“SHEN YU!!!” The uploader’s voice hit a glass-shattering volume. The real-life Shen Yu winced and leaned back.

In the video, Shen Yu noticed her little fans. She leaned down, pressed a kiss with her “Bluesy Red” lipstick onto a banknote, slowly folded it into a paper airplane, blew a puff of air onto it, and launched it toward the camera.

The video cut off there.

Shen Yu: “…”

I did that? Why don’t I remember any of that?

“In conclusion,” An Jiahe said, “I believe your accusation that my failure to pick you up led to you waking up in a strange bed is baseless. I’m finding you at least 100% responsible for your own fate.”

An Jiahe started scrolling through the comments for her.

[Hhhh my wifey is so sexy, kiss me too!]

[T_T Wifey’s shirt is wrinkled, let’s change into a new one. Come on, take this one off first~]

[The ‘Make My Pants Disappear’ magic trick!]

[Wifey, stop drinking outside, the kids are waiting for a bedtime story at home~]

Shen Yu closed her eyes. Yes, these were her fans: passionate, cheerful, and of deeply concerning mental stability.

“I need to go into seclusion. I have suffered a great psychological trauma,” Shen Yu protested.

“Not a chance. Allowing you to pick one flop movie a year and one trashy variety show every six months is my limit. Given your recent performance, I suspect that if I let you stay on vacation, you’ll eventually end up in jail. So, I regret to inform you: you’re joining a new set next month. I’ll send you the script later,” An Jiahe declared.

Shen Yu was shocked. “I just finished a project!”

“The person you named as your rival when you entered the industry? She was this close to being Best Actress this year,” An Jiahe said coldly.

Predictably, the moment Song Yi was mentioned, the loud-mouthed Shen Yu fell silent. It seemed her entire professional drive was centered on that one woman.

“I’m sure you saw it too. Song Yi’s performance in The Feast was perfect. According to my sources, she was originally a lock for the win,” An Jiahe said.

“Then why didn’t she get it?” Shen Yu sat up straight, her expression uncharacteristically serious.

“There was a very influential producer on the advisory board. She doesn’t like Song Yi.”

Shen Yu frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair? Maybe not. But the market has proven that woman’s instincts are never wrong. There’s a quality about Song Yi that makes her uncomfortable, so they struck her name at the last minute.”

“But this also proves that Song Yi’s acting has reached a point where it’s beyond reproach. They want a ‘perfect’ Song Yi, and she’s only one step away from that. The moment she realizes what the problem is, she will truly take flight.”

Shen Yu remained silent. She knew An Jiahe was right. Her manager might be addicted to mahjong, but on important matters, she was incredibly well-informed.

“There is so much you need to learn from Song Yi,” An Jiahe sighed.

Shen Yu nodded instinctively, then paused. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“Your next project is a collaboration with Song Yi. I fought for a long time to get you this. Don’t thank me.”

“Good luck. Learn well!” An Jiahe cheered.

Shen Yu: “LIKE HELL I WILL!!!”

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