After Secretly Marrying My Rival Omega - Chapter 5

When the call connected, Chu Wu stood outside the laboratory’s glass door, having just stepped into the hallway to answer. She seemed to have finished her work, yanking off her mask and leaning closer to the camera. “Busy? Took you long enough to pick up.” Chu Wu’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing. “Your face is so red—don’t tell me you’re drinking alone?” Jian Jixing’s tone was brusque. “Get to the point.”

Chu Wu rubbed her nose, baffled. “I just had some free time and wanted to remind you about Saturday’s livestream. They’ll have a host there—do you want to join as a random viewer or use your own account?”

Jian Jixing, “Mine.” Chu Wu pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed in exasperation. The video call remained connected as Jian Jixing casually set her phone on the table, downed a glass of ice water, and then heard Chu Wu say, “When are you two ever going to get along?”

“She tattled to you.” Jian Jixing’s statement was flat, but a ripple of emotion crossed her face as she looked at Chu Wu through the screen. “I’ve never provoked her.” Whenever Sheng Ruxi couldn’t win an argument, she’d run to Chu Wu to complain—a tactic that never failed, as if she believed it would strip Jian Jixing of any romantic standing in Chu Wu’s eyes.

When would she grow out of this childishness? Chu Wu was beyond frustrated. “What nonsense. I see both you and Ruxi as little sisters—didn’t we clear these up ages ago? I just don’t want you two constantly bickering out of spite.”

Chu Wu wasn’t stupid. She had a vague sense that even a book, a kitten, or a cup of milk tea—anything that came between Sheng Ruxi and Jian Jixing during their reckless youth—would become a battleground. She and Jian Jixing were both alphas; there was no possibility of attraction between them. Though Sheng Ruxi was an omega, Chu Wu had made things clear before leaving the country. The three of them had stayed in touch over the years, but Sheng Ruxi was different.

Every time Sheng Ruxi contacted her, it was to complain, with two out of three sentences dripping with irritation about Jian Jixing. If not for knowing the two had been at each other’s throats since childhood, Chu Wu might’ve thought she was just a prop in their little game of romantic tension.

“Who’s doing it out of spite? She does it all for you.” Jian Jixing smirked. “Today, she told me not to cry at your wedding.”

Chu Wu looked horrified, waving her hands dismissively. “Stop joking… You know Ruxi’s temper—how can you take her angry words seriously? I think she’s just mad that someone else got to ride your precious motorcycle.”

What did she mean, someone else rode it? Seeing Jian Jixing’s frown, Chu Wu realized she had no idea. “You didn’t know? I had some free time today and saw photos from yesterday’s awards. A female celebrity posted a picture with your bike. Netizens are saying she looks perfect with it.”

The celebrity, Meng Zhao, had never been particularly famous and was even plagued by rumors of diva behavior. Recently, however, she’d been climbing the ranks with good variety show opportunities, reaching the status of a second-tier star and earning a reputation for being “genuine.” Now, she’d posted a photo leaning against Jian Jixing’s motorcycle, her body pressed close to it, a sweet smile on her face.

Some speculated that Meng Zhao’s backer was Jian Jixing herself—after all, Director Jian was famously protective of her bike and never let anyone ride pillion.

Another fan replied, “What do you mean relying on capital? That’s a genuine relationship! Of course, the wife can ride the motorcycle when others can’t.” As soon as it was posted, combined with Jian Jixing winning the Best New Director award last night, the spotlight was all on her. Amid the trending topics dominated by Jian Jixing and Sheng Ruxi, a new name—Meng Zhao—somehow squeezed its way in.

“Who?”

“…” Chu Wu was momentarily speechless. She knew Jian Jixing wasn’t the type of director who would exploit actresses, but how could she not even remember the names of people in the industry? She mentioned Meng Zhao’s name and briefly explained what she had seen. Jian Jixing simply responded, “Oh, that seat is only for my wife.” She didn’t catch the nuance in her words. “Then why did you let Meng Zhao sit there? It’s strange.”

“Probably just a photo op when the bike was parked during the awards ceremony. She wouldn’t dare actually sit on it,” Jian Jixing said. “Why are you so focused on this? Concentrate on your research, or you’ll end up borrowing money from me to keep your lab running.”

Chu Wu suppressed her frustration. “Just because I’m doing research doesn’t mean I’m dead. If you weren’t so snarky, you might actually have a wife by now!” This time, Jian Jixing stayed silent. The fact that she and Sheng Ruxi were married was known only to their parents and a select few. Both had tacitly agreed not to tell Chu Wu.

Jian Jixing knew Sheng Ruxi genuinely didn’t want Chu Wu to find out. As for herself, she didn’t care either way. Since Sheng Ruxi was so adamant about keeping their relationship under wraps, she patiently played along with this charade.

After hanging up, Jian Jixing searched her name online. The photo of Meng Zhao with her bike had already climbed to third place in trending topics, right below Sheng Ruxi’s name. She scrutinized the image and confirmed that Meng Zhao hadn’t actually sat on the bike, though she had definitely leaned against it.

No wonder Sheng Ruxi didn’t want this bike—now even Jian Jixing found it distasteful. She checked her phone and saw it was just past ten—five minutes past, to be exact. Unless filming night scenes or under special circumstances, Sheng Ruxi strictly adhered to her 10 PM beauty sleep, throwing a tantrum if she was even a minute late. Jian Jixing considered sending a message but instead tapped Sheng Ruxi’s profile picture.

You patted Little Green Bean’s face, gave it a peck, and said, “Please, please!”

Jian Jixing quickly withdrew the action. Moments later, a reply popped up.

Little Green Bean: Image

Little Green Bean: “Absolutely ignoring” someone who patted your face, gave it a peck, and said, “Please, please!”

Jian Jixing deliberately cropped out the “Absolutely ignoring” part and sent it back, adding: Oh? How childish.

Two minutes later, Little Green Bean replied: Suffocate and drop dead!!!

–

Morning, outdoor set. The crew was diligently handling their equipment as the season transitioned from spring to summer. The sun grew increasingly scorching, and everyone hoped to wrap up quickly to escape the heat. The director was nowhere to be seen by the monitor. Upon searching, he was found crouched pitifully beside Sheng Ruxi’s rest chair, holding an umbrella and nodding obsequiously.

“Xiao Sheng, just this one reshoots, please… Meng Zhao felt her emotions weren’t conveyed well after reviewing the footage, so she requested it. I’ll talk to her too and make sure she gets into character quickly. Let’s aim for one take.”

Sheng Ruxi’s expression was indifferent as she let the makeup artist touch up her face. Her skin was so fair and flawless that even the highest-end foundation seemed like a waste on her. Hearing the director’s fawning words, she barely reacted, merely nodding to acknowledge she understood.

Director Zhang inwardly cursed his luck—what a mess he’d stumbled into. Originally, Meng Zhao and Sheng Ruxi had played the female lead and fifth female lead in his drama, with Sheng Ruxi naturally as the main lead. Meng Zhao’s character was the villain, and most of their scenes involved the fifth lead bullying the female lead.

But then Meng Zhao suddenly gained popularity, bringing in more investment and greater influence. She approached the crew, claiming her performance wasn’t vicious enough—that the audience couldn’t feel the emotions. She also argued that Sheng Ruxi’s final glance at the camera lacked the right amount of grievance and demanded a reshoot.

On the surface, she framed it as her own issue, but it was clear she was implying Sheng Ruxi’s acting wasn’t up to par. The scene in question involved Meng Zhao splashing red wine in Sheng Ruxi’s face, after which Sheng Ruxi was supposed to look toward the off-screen direction of her love interest, her stubborn expression finally cracking with a hint of vulnerability.

On top of that, Meng Zhao knew full well she was throwing her weight around today. She made a point of telling the director she had arranged afternoon tea for the entire crew, which would arrive soon. Though Sheng Ruxi agreed, Director Zhang remained uneasy. He knew he was just following the money—but he was terrified Sheng Ruxi might make a scene. After all, she had the clout to do so.

Today, however, Sheng Ruxi seemed disinterested on set, barely engaging with anyone. The more Director Zhang observed, the more he suspected she had been in a bad mood for a while. Several days had passed, and it was already Friday—yet Jian Jixing still hadn’t contacted her.

Just thinking about it made Sheng Ruxi’s stomach churn at the sight of the words “Absolutely Ignore” on her phone. So, what if she changed it? Was she really going to let Jian Jixing’s screenshot dictate her actions? Of course not. Sheng Ruxi scoffed inwardly. That night, she had wanted to find a different nickname for Jian Jixing, but when she searched online, she stumbled upon photos of Meng Zhao riding pillion on Jian Jixing’s motorcycle.

The bike looked familiar—it was the same one Jian Jixing had once offered to give her. Jian Jixing was a germaphobe, and the bike was practically brand new, ridden fewer than three times. There was no way he’d let just anyone ride it unless he was planning to discard it after it got dirty. The more Sheng Ruxi thought about it, the angrier she became, eventually renaming Jian Jixing “The Harpy” in her contacts.

Tuanzi had been trying to get Sheng Ruxi to look up—Meng Zhao had been making a show of herself right in front of her. But Sheng Ruxi’s attention was entirely on her phone, her expressions shifting between a deep frown and a sudden smirk. Whatever she was looking at, her reactions were unusually animated.

Meng Zhao had five people hovering around her, including two makeup artists. In terms of entourage, she even outshone Sheng Ruxi. Yet Sheng Ruxi hadn’t spared her a single glance. Without an audience, Meng Zhao’s little performance lost its appeal.

When filming began, Sheng Ruxi set her phone aside and instantly slipped into character, standing poised by the dining table. Meng Zhao picked up the pre-prepared red wine, swirling her glass at Sheng Ruxi from the opposite end.

Before the cameras even rolled, Meng Zhao met Sheng Ruxi’s gaze with a challenge—only to falter slightly. She had thought she could overshadow Sheng Ruxi, even with two reflector boards at her side. Yet even with all that, her complexion still couldn’t compare to Sheng Ruxi’s flawless skin!

“This glass of wine was supposed to toast your Best Actress win, but who knew it’d end up splashed on your face today.” Meng Zhao adjusted her tone, “Normally my heart melts at the sight of cats and dogs—how could I bear to splash your face? It’s only because I want the film to have better quality.”

“But Ruxi, I’m genuinely surprised you agreed to reshoot. Don’t you have the reputation for nailing scenes in one take?”

“Because you were right—my ‘wronged’ act wasn’t pitiful enough.” Sheng Ruxi casually tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “After all, no one’s ever dared to wrong me before.” Meng Zhao fell silent. Just then, the director signaled action, and Meng Zhao flung the wine toward Sheng Ruxi’s face. She was supposed to look haughty, but Meng Zhao’s face twisted in shock instead: “Ah! Ruxi, I… wait, sorry, let’s do it again.”

The director was displeased: “Meng Zhao, what’s going on? We agreed on one take!” This was a scene involving red wine—while fixing makeup was secondary, the real issue was splashing Sheng Ruxi.

That Sheng Ruxi. Meng Zhao immediately turned apologetic eyes toward the director: “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to, but the moment I saw wine hit Ruxi’s face, I instinctively wanted to apologize.” Sheng Ruxi remained expressionless. By the time “Cut!” was called, staff had already swarmed around her. Calmly, she swept a glance at Meng Zhao: “Again.”

Meng Zhao’s remorseful expression was flawless. When the camera rolled once more, she hurled the wine at Sheng Ruxi’s face—this time with such force that even though Sheng Ruxi shut her eyes in time, the liquid struck like a resounding slap.

Crimson trails dripped slowly as Sheng Ruxi’s lashes trembled. The dishevelment couldn’t diminish her breathtaking beauty. When faint murmurs arose, she suddenly lifted her gaze toward a spot beyond the camera.

Jian Jixing had arrived unnoticed, leaning casually to the side with a raised brow and an inscrutable expression. The director was too stunned to even call “Cut!”—when had this esteemed figure appeared? The next second, Sheng Ruxi’s eyes welled with tears, the faint redness at their corners belying her defiance.

Her portrayal of wounded pride was now vividly poignant, utterly pitiable. With the contrast, Director Zhang realized this take was indeed miles better than before. Had he not seen Jian Jixing outside the frame, he’d have thought it genuine emotion…

What peerless acting. As Sheng Ruxi’s gaze landed on her, Jian Jixing strode forward, pausing briefly at Sheng Ruxi before fixing on Meng Zhao. Director Zhang didn’t dare slack off—the moment Jian Jixing moved, he stopped filming, though he forgot to call the cut.

Meng Zhao shivered, then brightened with exhilaration. Behind Jian Jixing, a truck slowly opened, releasing chilled air as crates of coffee and desserts were unloaded—Jian Jixing had come for a visit. No one else got this kind of grand treatment—an entire truck. Meng Zhao had indeed posted that photo with ulterior motives, but she never expected Jian Jixing to play along. Did this mean she stood a chance as the lead in Jian’s next film?

Heart racing, Meng Zhao leaned in coquettishly—only for Jian Jixing to breeze past her and stop before Sheng Ruxi. Without helping Sheng Ruxi wipe her face, Jian Jixing spoke with an indifferent expression, “Sheng Ruxi, have you never taken acting classes?”

The atmosphere instantly tensed. The rest of the crew on set also stopped moving, the silence so thick you could hear a pin drop. A flash of impatience crossed Sheng Ruxi’s eyes. She was a proper acting graduate, and after deciding to pursue acting, she had undergone rigorous training for a full year—how else would she have won Best Actress out of thin air?

Just moments ago, she had put on a pitiful act, thinking Jian Jixing might say something kind. Clearly, she had hoped for too much. The winding trail of red wine stained her jade-like cheek. Sheng Ruxi scoffed, unwilling to dignify Jian Jixing with a response.

Yet Jian Jixing picked up the bottle of red wine from the table, fetched a glass from the other end, and poured a full cup. “There’s a technique to how you splash wine and how the face should catch it for the best effect. Of course, none of these matters for actors with absolutely authoritative looks. What are you laughing at?”

Jian Jixing’s gaze carried a warning, but Sheng Ruxi understood her intent, and the curve of her lips gradually widened. The sun must be rising from the west—Jian Jixing had actually acknowledged her as an actor with “absolutely authoritative looks.” Sheng Ruxi mused that sometimes, playing the shrew wasn’t so bad after all.

By the time Jian Jixing placed the glass of wine in Sheng Ruxi’s hand and turned to face Meng Zhao, her eyes had already turned icy. “Your co-star here seems clueless about how to splash wine—her performance is painfully artificial. As a trained actor, why haven’t you given her any pointers?”

Jian Jixing chuckled, radiant when she smiled, but the coldness in her voice lingered as she spoke again, “Sheng Ruxi, come here.”

“Teach your co-star how to splash wine properly. Keep at it until she gets it right.” Before Meng Zhao could react, a glass of wine was hurled straight at her, drenching her makeup and hair instantly. Stripped of her polished exterior, she was left in genuine disarray.

The contrast between her and Sheng Ruxi was stark. Meng Zhao stared at her in disbelief, unable to utter a single word. Sheng Ruxi really was as haughty as they came—just as she herself had claimed, no one could make her suffer.

Jian Jixing shook her head regretfully. “No good. The angle at which Meng Zhao catches the wine isn’t flattering.” She waved slightly, signaling the makeup artist who had stepped forward to fix Meng Zhao’s appearance. “Don’t bother. Pour another glass. Again. Adjust the angle.”

Meng Zhao finally snapped out of it—Jian Jixing was implying that her natural features were lacking, unlike Sheng Ruxi’s “authoritative” looks that looked flawless from any angle.

Sheng Ruxi was delighted. She quickly slipped into the role of the malicious fifth female lead, imagining herself at a water-splashing festival. She was someone who never let even the smallest slight go unpunished, and now that Jian Jixing had handed her the opportunity, Sheng Ruxi was more than happy to take it.

But her acting was subtle and natural, and coupled with her striking beauty, even her arrogance carried a charm that made it hard to stay angry. The second and third glasses of wine were splashed. Jian Jixing remained unimpressed.

“This angle still lacks impact.”

“This one isn’t great either.”

“This angle won’t do.”

After repeated adjustments from every possible angle—front, side, high, low—Jian Jixing still found fault. Was there any part of Meng Zhao’s face left worth looking at? Humiliated beyond measure, Meng Zhao realized for the first time just how vicious Jian Jixing’s words could be.

She didn’t dare defy Jian Jixing, so she glared fiercely at the side, silently urging Director Zhang to intervene. The dripping red wine made her look like a terrifying female ghost.

Director Zhang chimed in, “It’s rare to have Director Jian give acting guidance—what a great opportunity! Learn all you can.” Can’t afford to mess with him. Director Zhang didn’t think Jian Jixing was deliberately standing up for Sheng Ruxi—wasn’t it common knowledge these two didn’t get along? Director Jian was just telling the truth.

Besides, if Meng Zhao had nailed the scene in one take, none of this would have happened. Jian Jixing chuckled nonchalantly, “Forget it, this is too challenging. Let’s take a break and have some afternoon tea.” Meng Zhao: “…” What does that mean? What the hell does that mean?? Jian Jixing took the large towel Tuanzi handed him and draped it over Sheng Ruxi’s head, casually ruffling it a couple of times.

“Weren’t you all claws and fangs in front of me?” Jian Jixing lowered his gaze, accurately pinching Sheng Ruxi’s earlobe through the towel. His eyes swept upward before he delivered his verdict. “Turns out you’re just a tough guy at home.”