I Heard I Was the Scumbag Alpha of a Top-Tier Celebrity (GL) - Chapter 3

Late at night, Gu Xin, who had showered and changed clothes, was lying in bed scrolling through Weibo.

Thanks to the trending topics, Gu Xin clicked in and immediately saw the retirement statement posted by “Yan Shuangshuang’s” official account, followed by exposé posts from marketing accounts.

Differentiation identification reports, secret marriage, abortion, frequenting improper venues, and affairs with multiple Betas…

The posts claimed to have pictures and proof, but they were mostly sensationalized and fabricated. Apart from the differentiation identification report being genuine, the rest was basically puffed-up food—blown out of proportion.

Gu Xin opened the retirement statement. The gist was an apology to the audience and fans, and a decision to retire. It was very official language, but the comments section was already a bloodbath:

[Seriously? There are still people fanning an artist who deceives the audience? You ‘Snowflakes’ (Yan Shuangshuang’s fan name) should get a life! Hiding her gender, abortion, sleeping with fans, maybe even drug use. There’s nothing you can’t think of, nothing she hasn’t done. YSS, you literally make me cry with disappointment. I haven’t seen an artist with such ironclad proof of being completely wicked in a long time. Don’t come here to defend her, Snowflakes; I’ll delete every one of you.]

[I never thought the first big scandal of the year would be YSS’s house collapsing… What’s wrong with being an Omega? Why pretend to be an Alpha! I hate people who take gender advantage the most. Good riddance, good riddance. An O trying to pretend to be an A deserves to retire!]

[LOL, a bunch of fans are still trying to defend her. The differentiation identification report is absolutely not fake. Your peerless Alpha has turned into a delicate O!]

[Pic, Pic, Pic

Is this you? Don’t just post a retirement statement and play dead! I’ve been a fan since your debut, thought you were professional and didn’t sleep with fans, but you’re playing these games behind the scenes? Refund, refund, refund!!!]

[Tsk tsk tsk, YSS clearly knows how to stab her fans in the back. The money and the fights her Blood Fans got into for her have all become water in their brains. You treat your idol like a wife, and your ‘wife’ uses your money to go fishing~ Blood Fans must be crying all night tonight~]

Ninety percent were malicious comments. Of the remaining ten percent, half were remaining fans who refused to believe and hoped Yan Shuangshuang would return, and the other half were pure audience members regretting Yan Shuangshuang’s acting skills.

In short, a rising star fell tonight.

Before she became famous, Yan Shuangshuang played countless small roles, relying on her sweat and effort to get where she was today. She wasn’t just a pretty face with no substance.

But now, everything was ruined.

Gu Xin scrolled through the malicious comments one by one. The exaggerated, horrifying outpouring of malice assaulted her. It seemed like everyone had been waiting for Yan Shuangshuang’s downfall, and the grand carnival of the bystanders was currently underway.

For some reason, a scene flashed through Gu Xin’s mind: she was cutting a sample for an experiment, placing it under a microscope, constantly magnifying it, searching with all her might for its imperfections.

Then, focusing.

Shredding.

An unbearable wave of nausea hit. Gu Xin rushed into the bathroom and threw up violently into the toilet until she was dry heaving bile.

Finally, with trembling hands, she tore off a wet wipe to clean the filth from her face. After confirming that the urge to vomit had passed, Gu Xin returned to bed, weak and shaky.

A burning sensation in her stomach made her curl up, hoping it would bring some comfort.

Physical discomfort did not affect the operation of Gu Xin’s brain. She calmly opened her notepad and recorded items one by one.

The divorce agreement, the tycoon-style decoration, Yan Shuangshuang’s strange attitude, her own abnormalities in the hospital—everything pointed to her past.

Gu Xin remembered everything since waking up. She was like a director, sitting in front of a camera named “Gu Xin.” If she wanted, she could instantly rewind any frame of memory.

But fate had played a cruel joke on her.

She couldn’t recall where she came from, nor how she had acquired her “common sense.”

It was as if some malicious deity had hit the delete button on the fundamentals of who she was, leaving only an empty surface.

Gu Xin rested one hand under her head and extended the other. Moonlight from outside affectionately licked her fingertips. Her gaze fell on them.

Smooth, pale, without a single callus, like a pampered lady who never lifted a finger, born only to enjoy life.

Something deep in her mind was stirred. A slight sense of incongruity leaked out.

Gu Xin felt like everything was fake.

Her “home” was fake, her memories were fake, and her body was fake. She felt out of place here.

“Gu Xin” should be a slacker, but not that much of a slacker. “Gu Xin” should have a job, not be some pampered lady. “Gu Xin” should have someone she was proud of and loved, not… not this loneliness.

Someone should have always been with her.

No matter where she was or what she wanted to do, that person was always by her side.

… Yan Shuangshuang.

A name surfaced naturally, as naturally as the fact that she never added milk or sugar to her coffee.

The bubble containing this name was suspended before Gu Xin’s eyes. Gu Xin watched it for a long time and reached out to grab the bubble, but it dissolved the moment she touched it.

It was an illusion.

Gu Xin rubbed her face, trying to perk up. She opened her social apps to figure out who “Gu Xin” was.

The pinned contacts on WeChat were several luxury goods personal shoppers. Clicking into them, every single one was chasing payment. Gu Xin remembered the rows of famous watches and bags in the closet—none of them were her taste, yet she hadn’t even paid for them.

Scrolling down further, there were quite a few unread messages.

Gu Xin had OCD; she couldn’t stand the red dots, but she couldn’t find the ‘mark all as read’ option, so she had to click into them one by one to clear them.

The content of every chat box was utterly meaningless. Apart from letting “Gu Xin” know she was a frequent bar-goer, there was no other useful information.

Until she clicked into the chat box of a person in the middle named “Pokémon.” The latest record was 11 PM last night. Previous chats were about drinking and introducing drinking buddies, but last night the person on the other end said they knew a traditional Chinese medicine doctor who was very effective and asked if Gu Xin was interested. “Gu Xin” hadn’t replied until today.

After pondering for a long time, Gu Xin typed: That effective? You’re not lying to me, are you?

The person on the other end seemed to have been waiting for her reply and sent a flurry of messages.

[Several of my friends were treated there. Absolutely no problem, guaranteed to cure you. Don’t worry, Boss Gu, I didn’t tell anyone it was you going. But please don’t be afraid to seek medical help. Pheromone deficiency is a big deal. The sooner you cure it, the sooner you’ll feel at ease.]

… Pheromone deficiency?

Gu Xin absentmindedly touched the back of her neck, then tentatively released a little bit of her pheromones.

A thick floral scent instantly permeated the air.

To be safe, Gu Xin experimented a few more times. The room was quickly full of floral scent, forcing Gu Xin to turn on the air purifier.

Whether releasing or suppressing, her pheromone operation was completely fine.

Why would she have a “pheromone deficiency”?

Tapping her fingertips, Gu Xin searched Yan Shuangshuang’s name on WeChat. Clicking into it, their chat interface was blank—not a single record, giving Gu Xin no opportunity to flip through the memories she was looking for.

After hesitating for a long time, Gu Xin finally decided not to ask Yan Shuangshuang about her pheromones.

Their current relationship was complicated. Yan Shuangshuang probably didn’t want to see her soon-to-be ex-wife asking about pheromones in the middle of a chaotic night, and Gu Xin didn’t want to leave the undignified impression that she was a perverted soon-to-be ex-wife who sexually harassed her.

Suppressing an unknown bitterness in her heart, she returned to the “Pokémon” interface, replied with a few casual words, then simply blocked all the so-called friends and deleted the chat boxes.

Step by step, she was left with only eleven people on her WeChat, one of whom was Yan Shuangshuang, six unpaid personal shoppers pinned at the top, and the remaining four were “Teacher,” “Senior Brother,” “Unimportant 01,” and “Junior Sister.” Clicking into the records of these people, the chats were uniformly blank.

Gu Xin didn’t rashly disturb them.

She turned to her contacts. The address book was also dominated by unreliable acquaintances, which she was able to delete entirely.

QQ (Tencent’s instant messaging service), other than Yan Shuangshuang, no one was left.

Gu Xin then scrolled through all the apps on her phone, barely piecing together her past life.

She liked luxury goods, especially designer clothes and bags; one cabinet in her walk-in closet was full of them. She liked hooking up with good-looking Betas, and her Weibo follows were all full of them. She liked traditional Chinese medicine remedies for health, and she was constantly taking medicine. Most importantly, she loved going to bars and clubs, and taking pictures with various beautiful men and women.

Gu Xin looked at the motley collection of beautiful people in her photo album. Next to all of them was a person with the exact same features as herself.

Who was this?

This was Gu Xin?

Finally, Gu Xin opened Alipay and searched for social security and housing provident fund records.

Her ID card showed her date of birth. Calculating it, she was 25 years old this year. If following a normal person’s trajectory, graduating from university at 22, she should have worked for at least two years.

The results showed that she had indeed paid social security, but only from age 16 to 20, at the Capital Communications Research Institute.

After the age of 20, Gu Xin had never paid social security again. In other words, she most likely hadn’t worked since then.

Her life seemed to have been cut off for a full five years.

*

It was almost Qingming Festival (Tomb Sweeping Day). On her way back to the Dongwu Villa area, Yan Shuangshuang saw a funeral supply store still open. She got out of the car and bought some paper money and ingots, along with three bouquets of chrysanthemums.

As she closed the car door, her phone chimed—a bank deduction notification, reminding her that this month’s mortgage payment would be debited tomorrow.

Yan Shuangshuang was still for a moment, then opened her bank balance. She was practically penniless after paying the liquidated damages. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, and while driving, she made a call to a real estate agent.

“Hello? Is this Miss Li? Sorry to bother you so late.”

“Yes, I want to sell a house—the one at Liuquan Mountain Villa. It’s a bit urgent.”

“Alright. Thank you for your trouble. The lowest I can accept is 70% of the market price. Please help me negotiate.”

“Thank you.”

After hanging up, Yan Shuangshuang thought quietly: once Gu Xin signed the divorce agreement, and she sold the marital home at Liuquan Mountain Villa, they should be even, right?