After Being Coaxed And Seduced By A Yandere Omega Heartthrob - Chapter 8

Ilota, the capital of the Connaught Federation, sat in the middle of a river valley surrounded by mountains. The entire city was built against the slopes and along the water, with towers rising high above it—a very typical vertically stratified city.

The Upper District occupied the city’s high ground, where every inch of land was worth a fortune. Old aristocratic families had lived there for generations, while newly wealthy business elites fought tooth and nail just to secure a place of their own.

The Central District, also known as the Citizens’ District, lay across the flatlands surrounding the main city center. It covered roughly the same area as the Upper District, yet its population density was more than ten times greater.

It was crowded, but also bustling and prosperous. Class divisions were severe. Those who belonged to the middle class but could climb no higher, as well as those who were poor but could at least afford basic food and shelter, all lived here.

It had only been a few years since Song Zhao and her family finally saved enough money to move into the Central District.

The aging, run-down apartment they bought sat right against the border of the Lower District. Just one line away, and the scenery became completely different.

The low-lying areas and the land beyond the city walls were collectively known as the Industrial District.

It handled seventy percent of the federation’s production, yet it was also the infamous “no-man’s-land” where no one bothered to govern properly.

Muddy and chaotic, it was filled with displaced people, beggars, and criminals wherever you looked.

If Song Zhao remembered correctly, later in the story, Sylvia would end up there by coincidence and reach out to save a foreign aristocrat who had fallen into destitution.

After that person regained her status, however, she would repay Sylvia by forcibly claiming her for herself.

Privately, Song Zhao called this behavior “repaying kindness with betrayal.”

And right now, that same kindhearted, softhearted, good-tempered young lady was narrowing her eyes at Song Zhao as though she wouldn’t look away until she received a satisfactory answer.

Song Zhao gave an awkward smile and hurriedly lowered her head to follow Sylvia back.

The account page she had abandoned immediately after registering was completely bare.

After this little operation, however, the once-empty following and follower counts finally each sprouted a tiny blade of grass, standing tall and proud at 1 and 1.

She instinctively opened her follower list.

There was only one person inside.

Sylvia Winters.

San enforced real-name registration. Only posts made in the forum switched users into anonymous mode.

Song Zhao noticed that Sylvia’s profile picture was a white-background ID photo rather than the cartoon calico cat she used on WeChat.

Curious, she asked, “Does the school have rules about profile pictures?”

Sylvia’s expression turned serious as she lightly tapped a knuckle against her phone case.

“It’s better to use your own photo.”

Song Zhao nodded thoughtfully.

She was just about to go back and replace the default avatar when the page refreshed automatically.

Countless users suddenly poured into her follower list one after another.

Because she had forgotten to mute notifications, her phone started clanging nonstop through the quiet car like someone beating pots and pans together.

Panicked, Song Zhao hurriedly switched it to silent mode.

What was going on?

Did aristocratic-school social media apps buy fake followers too?

Song Zhao hurriedly switched to the inbox.

The “New Followers” count in the upper-left corner was climbing at a terrifying speed.

The little blood-red notification dot eventually stopped at:

112

And along with it came an overwhelming flood of private messages.

Before Song Zhao formally replied, unfamiliar users were only allowed to send her one introductory message.

She scanned them rapidly, reading ten lines at a glance.

Most were friendly greetings accompanied by tactful curiosity about her identity.

But some directly asked what relationship she had with Sylvia.

Others clearly knew a little more about the situation and had come specifically to “remind” her not to forget her place.

A simple question mark practically appeared over Song Zhao’s head.

What relationship did they have?

Was that really so important?

Song Zhao wrinkled her nose.

She genuinely didn’t understand why those people had so much free time that they would even inspect Sylvia’s mutual-follow list.

Then again, this world itself revolved around its protagonists.

The closer someone got to them, the easier it became to enter the core storyline and become part of the “rules.”

And Sylvia, as the universally adored heartthrob, was practically the center of everyone’s attention at Saint Drian.

People adored her.

Discussed her.

Followed her.

A hairstyle she wore would become the academy’s newest trend.

A dessert she tasted would immediately sell out as everyone rushed to try it.

Naturally, the newest person she followed on San would also become an object of curiosity—and even resentful jealousy.

“Uh… Syl?”

Song Zhao noticed that Sylvia had a five-digit follower count.

Her following list, however, contained only a little over a hundred people.

Probably classmates, student council colleagues, and people like that.

Sylvia turned her gaze away from the window and toward her.

Song Zhao continued,

“I followed you already. How about you unfollow me first?”

“Why would I unfollow you?”

Sylvia sounded genuinely confused.

Song Zhao really wanted to explain the situation properly to this duke’s daughter who treated everyone equally and had little understanding of such things.

But she worried that being too blunt might corrupt Sylvia’s perfectly upright worldview.

Her arm hovered awkwardly in the air for a long time as she gestured vaguely, trying to give her flimsy answer more substance.

“It’s just… it might not look very good for you.”

Companion students, maids, specially admitted scholarship students—

in a setting like an “aristocratic academy,” people like them were usually the ones getting bullied.

If Song Zhao were the heroine, perhaps she could have secured the classic poor-but-pure little white-flower storyline, eventually turning the tables through her own ability and becoming an unattainable first love in everyone’s eyes.

Unfortunately, she was merely an NPC among NPCs, someone mentioned in passing in the original novel.

If the system hadn’t placed her here, “Song Zhao” would have died at eight years old because her family couldn’t afford treatment.

But Sylvia looked seriously into her eyes.

Her voice was clear as moonlight sinking through the window lattice at midnight, soft yet carrying a steady weight that pressed Song Zhao’s anxious, drifting soul firmly back into her body.

“But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it.”

“Zhaozhao, you know that no matter what happens, you’re very important to me.”

Every word the Omega spoke drifted clearly into Song Zhao’s ears.

Her mind went blank for half a second.

Then came a strange, weightless flutter.

They were only two simple sentences, yet it felt as though someone had reached out with a warm fingertip and gently poked the softest place in her heart.

Numb.

Soft.

When Song Zhao finally recovered, she drew out a long,

“Ohhh—”

The tips of her ears quietly turned red, hidden desperately beneath the loose strands of hair beside them.

Were heartthrob protagonists always this lethal?

Even the air around them seemed to heat up.

Song Zhao’s breathing unconsciously softened.

It wasn’t until the driver smoothly stopped the car at Saint Drian Academy’s main entrance and opened the door for them with a white-gloved hand that fresh air rushed inside and Song Zhao finally felt a little better.

According to Ilotan etiquette, as the servant, she had to get out before Sylvia.

Almost the instant the soles of her shoes touched the ground, the surrounding chatter came rushing toward her on the wind.

Song Zhao could vaguely distinguish Sylvia’s name among the noise.

The stacked private messages on San suddenly seemed to take physical form.

Passing students deliberately slowed their steps, curiously sizing her up and wondering whether she was that person named “Song Zhao.”

Song Zhao pretended not to hear them.

She simply stood beside the car door, bent slightly at the waist, and respectfully extended a hand toward Sylvia so the young lady could hold it while getting out.

The moment she made that gesture, most of the onlookers guessed her identity.

There were two forms of etiquette for helping someone out of a car in Ilota.

One was a gesture of respect: you gave a slight nod and allowed the other person to take your hand as they stepped out.

There was no need to bend at the waist.

If someone could ride in the same car as Sylvia but then had to bow and serve as a “handrail” once they arrived, there were only two possibilities.

Either she was a lover willingly lowering herself—

or a servant working for a fixed salary.

The whispers continued.

The gazes directed at Song Zhao gradually shifted from envy to arrogance.

But very soon, those people could no longer smile.

After stepping out of the car, Sylvia did not release Song Zhao’s hand.

Instead, she naturally linked her arm through Song Zhao’s.

As though treating her as an equal and an intimate friend, Sylvia lifted her chin, ignored the stunned gazes around them, and strode forward with her head held high.

Song Zhao’s eyes widened involuntarily.

Equally surprised, she turned her head to look at Sylvia.