A Heartless Omega Regrets It When I’m Dying - Chapter 24

After submitting the divorce application, Lin Wantang opened the system every day to check the status bar next to her submission.

It took three days to change from “In Queue” to “Under Review.” After that, every time Lin Wantang clicked in, the “Under Review” status seemed to stagnate; the same line of text appeared day after day, lasting for several days in a row.

It wasn’t until the date of her hospitalization approached that she clicked in to check as usual.

The status bar had finally updated.

It was the words “Approved” in a green font.

She and Wen Zhiqing finally had no further relationship. Like two rivers finally flowing into their respective seas, there would be no more convergence.

Lin Wantang had kept Wen Zhiqing’s contact information without deleting it.

It wasn’t because she was reluctant to let go, but rather because she was worried that some unexpected turn of events after submitting the divorce application might require them to provide supplementary materials and resubmit.

Now, that concern was gone.

She opened the chat box with Wen Zhiqing once more; their chat history still stopped at the time they had agreed upon to sign the divorce agreement. After the signing, neither had sent the other a message.

She clicked into Wen Zhiqing’s profile page, slid to the very bottom, and without hesitation, pressed “Delete Contact.”

After the contact list refreshed, the name belonging to Wen Zhiqing was gone.

Lin Wantang smiled softly and pulled open the heavy hotel curtains. The weather that day was excellent; sunlight filtered down from the edges of the clouds, falling upon the unmelted snow outside the window, plating the vast stretches of white with a faint golden rim.

The moment the sunlight flooded in, she squinted her eyes slightly, feeling a sense of unprecedented relaxation.

It was as if she had slowly floated up from the bottom of very dark, very deep water, truly touching the air for the first time.

Those gifts she had once meticulously selected for another person had been sold off one by one from her hands during this period, turning into increasing numbers in her account, which then pooled into a thin hospital payment slip.

She was to be hospitalized for observation tomorrow. But as Lin Wantang sat by the window, watching the sunlight spread across the ground after the snow had stopped, she suddenly didn’t know what to do next.

Actually, she had always wanted to go see the sea—not the kind of sea by Golden Sands Beach that was crowded with beach umbrellas, but the sea of Penglai. When she was a child, she would read books alone in her bedroom and read that the sea in Penglai was very still, so still that one could cross it just by riding a gourd; she had believed that for a long time back then.

She really wanted to go see it.

She had just always been too busy—busy with school, busy with filming, busy with loving someone—always thinking there would be time later. But now she truly had leisure, yet her physical condition left her with no way to travel so far to see it for herself.

She didn’t know if there would be a chance to go in the future.

But the sea of Penglai is always there; if the surgery is successful, she must go see it.

Lin Wantang pulled the curtains closed again. The hotel room was cramped and quiet. She stared blankly at her suitcase, but her heart kept beating very fast.

In truth, she was very afraid of the upcoming surgery.

She didn’t even know where her body would be buried if the surgery failed. If no one claimed it, the government would probably take care of it, right?

Or perhaps she could sign an organ donation agreement before the surgery; after becoming a “silent teacher,” she could still make a contribution to medical development.

The phone vibrated at that moment. Lin Wantang lowered her head to unlock the screen and checked the message.

It was from Qi Yishu.

[Junior, what do you think of this script?]

A few seconds later, Lin Wantang received a compressed file. She hesitated for a moment and did not click to decompress it.

She was somewhat unsure if Qi Yishu had sent it to the wrong person.

[Did Senior send this to the wrong person?]

If Qi Yishu had sent it to the wrong person, she could explain to her first that she hadn’t viewed the contents of the compressed package.

[No]

Qi Yishu then sent another message: [Junior can read through it first]

Lin Wantang was a bit stunned. Looking at those few messages, she couldn’t quite process it. She wasn’t sure what Qi Yishu’s reason for having her read the script was, nor was she even sure which production crew the script belonged to.

But most likely… it was Qi Yishu’s own script.

If it were a script from another production, circulating it externally like this would be a violation of professional ethics; she felt Qi Yishu wouldn’t do that.

Lin Wantang hesitated for another moment, then decompressed the entire file anyway.

There were many files in the compressed package. Besides the script, there were also character biographies for the leads, background settings, and a scene-by-scene outline.

It was as if everything was already prepared and ready, just waiting for the investment to be in place to immediately set up and start filming.

Before clicking into the script, Lin Wantang guessed that this movie would be the type of literary film Qi Yishu usually excelled at—one that film critics loved and that was suited to sweep major awards during the film festival cycle.

But after reading the outline, Lin Wantang found she was wrong.

This script told a story similar to that of a person with a split personality. The protagonist is a manga artist who, after becoming successful, re-reads their old work only to find that the ending is inconsistent with their own memory.

This wasn’t the typical literary film Qi Yishu directed, but rather one that layered romance and suspense.

However, this also meant the requirements for acting were extremely high. If the leads’ performance reached a sufficient level, it was conservatively estimated to be something to look forward to.

It was already dark outside the window. Lin Wantang read the script once more from beginning to end and opened the chat box with Qi Yishu.

[It feels very good.]

Qi Yishu replied quickly: [Are there any parts of the script Junior feels unsatisfied with?]

Lin Wantang felt Qi Yishu’s reply was a bit strange, as if she were already the female lead for this project still in preparation.

But she wasn’t even in this industry anymore.

Lin Wantang hesitated for a while and replied cautiously: [No, the script is really good.]

[That’s good then. Rest early, Junior. (Goodnight)]

After Qi Yishu sent the message, she leaned back slowly against the chair. A cigarette was held between her lips; she took a puff and slowly exhaled a smoke ring.

The thin mist escaped from her lips and quickly dissipated into the air.

She knew Lin Wantang was going to be hospitalized tomorrow, but Lin Wantang had never mentioned it to her, so she hadn’t asked.

She had already contacted several top international doctors specializing in gland treatment; they were currently preparing the surgical plan and contingency plans for Lin Wantang in advance.

One of them was the most prized disciple of the founder of modern treatment for pheromone dysfunctional atrophy.

But Qi Yishu didn’t tell Lin Wantang any of this; she was worried it would place a burden on her.

Qi Yishu looked at her chat box with Lin Wantang again. She had spent a long time polishing this script, but she hadn’t told Lin Wantang that she had already chosen her as the female lead.

Because if the surgery wasn’t successful, there would be no need to use this script.

The night was deep. Wen Zhiqing had her eyes closed, her eyelashes fluttering slightly; she wasn’t the least bit sleepy.

She and Lin Wantang were truly divorced now.

Wen Zhiqing felt a bit dazed. During the day, all her time was occupied by work, so she didn’t have to think deeply. But once night fell, the silence spread from all directions to fill the entire room, and those thoughts began to grow wildly in her mind.

She didn’t contact Lin Wantang, and Lin Wantang didn’t take the initiative to contact her.

During this time, she would occasionally click into Lin Wantang’s profile to browse her Moments, but today, she could no longer see anything—there was only a gray horizontal line.

This liar had actually blocked her!

Thinking of this, Wen Zhiqing turned over resentfully and opened her eyes in the darkness.

At night, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking of Lin Wantang. Every time she thought of her, her heart would tighten, aching faintly.

She also couldn’t stop herself from thinking of that used painkiller vial. Appearing in her mind alongside it were Lin Wantang’s tears—that was the first time in three years she had seen Lin Wantang cry.

Was it really because she was too excited?

Wen Zhiqing couldn’t figure out the answer. For a moment, she even suspected she might be pitying the liar, but the thought was too absurd; it appeared in her mind for only a moment before she snuffed it out.

This night was destined for insomnia again. Wen Zhiqing got up and went to the study, deciding she might as well handle tomorrow’s work in advance.

She first printed out the itinerary sent by her personal assistant. The papers slid out of the printer one by one, still holding the machine’s warmth. As she held them and her gaze fell upon them, she suddenly froze for a moment.

She still remembered the morning after she woke up from being drunk—Lin Wantang had, without warning, produced a divorce agreement and handed it to her.

This area was a high-end villa district; it was impossible for Lin Wantang to have specifically gone out to find a print shop. Therefore, the most likely machine used for that divorce agreement was this printer in the study.

Wen Zhiqing first glanced at the calendar on the screen, then pulled up the printer’s history for that day.

Her heart pounded very fast, as if urgently seeking an answer.

Finally, she found that print record—it was at 4:39 AM.

What exactly had happened that day? Why would Lin Wantang suddenly print a divorce agreement at that time?

She had been too drunk then and couldn’t remember a thing.

She even thought of pulling the villa’s surveillance footage to see what had happened after she got drunk that day, but with the thin sheets of the printed schedule still in her hand, she ultimately chose to prioritize work.

Thus, during the meeting the next morning, President Wen’s subordinates discovered that the already thorough acquisition plan had been re-calculated yet again; the logic was clearer and the targets more precise.

However, when they looked up at President Wen, they saw a face even gloomier than usual. A layer of something that wouldn’t dissipate weighed upon Wen Zhiqing’s features; she seemed listless.

But fortunately, the meeting ended smoothly. Just as everyone was packing up to leave, they suddenly saw Wen Zhiqing reopen her laptop with a forceful motion, her fingertips pressing the trackpad with a rapid, dense sound.

Mistakenly thinking there was some flaw in the meeting, everyone stopped what they were doing.

But actually, what happened had nothing to do with the acquisition plan.

Before the meeting, the private investigator had contacted Wen Zhiqing again to report the target’s whereabouts to this generous client.

Lin Wantang was hospitalized.

She had sent all the recent investigation results to Wen Zhiqing at the same time, but Wen Zhiqing stopped after reading just that one line.

Pheromone Dysfunctional Atrophy. How could Lin Wantang possibly have contracted such a disease?

She had been absent-minded throughout the entire meeting; it was only because she knew this acquisition plan like the back of her hand that the meeting had proceeded smoothly.

While a subordinate was speaking, Wen Zhiqing had sent someone to contact the private investigator to ask about the hospital Lin Wantang often visited. As the meeting drew to a close, the detailed test results finally arrived on her computer.

After verifying from multiple sources, she arrived at the most absurd and impossible result—but it was true.

Wen Zhiqing looked up. Everyone was looking at her, and she didn’t quite understand. Was there a problem with the acquisition plan? Why hadn’t the attendees left?

She couldn’t see her own face, which had instantly drained of all color.

Wen Zhiqing was still trying to think if there were any flaws in the meeting, but everything before her began to blur. All the figures turned to black and white, finally lapsing into chaos, becoming a boundless expanse of gray.

Many voices seemed to come from nearby and far away, as if through the sound of water; she couldn’t hear clearly.

In the moment her body lost its balance and tilted backward, Wen Zhiqing thought sluggishly—it must be her hypoglycemia acting up again.