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Betrayal and a Bold Proposal
Rising star model Nancy Thompson faces an industry ban, but her devoted boyfriend stays by her side. To repay his support, she helps him rise to success—only to catch him cheating with her best friend right before their wedding. Heartbroken but determined, she turns around and marries entertainment mogul Thomas Manson, ready to take back what’s hers.
EP 1: Nancy discovers her boyfriend Joe and best friend Yuna's betrayal the day before their supposed wedding, leading her to make an unexpected marriage proposal to entertainment mogul Thomas Manson.Will Thomas accept Nancy's impulsive marriage proposal?
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Ep Review
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A Modern Drama with a Powerful Female Lead
This drama is a perfect blend of romance, betrayal, and empowerment. Nancy's story is both relatable and inspiring. The plot twists are unexpected, making it a thrilling watch. The NetShort app experience was seamless, and I can't wait for more content like this! 💖
A Gripping Tale of Love, Loss, and Redemption
"Sorry, Female Alpha's Here" is a gripping story that beautifully captures the complexities of relationships. Nancy's character development is phenomenal, and her journey is both heart-wrenching and empowering. The drama is well-paced, and the NetShort app's quality streaming made it even better!
Empowerment and Revenge Never Looked So Good
This short drama is a must-watch! Nancy's transformation from a jilted lover to a powerful woman is absolutely captivating. Her story is a testament to resilience. The plot is packed with drama and surprises that kept me on the edge of my seat. And the NetShort app's interface is top-notch!
An Emotional Rollercoaster of Love and Betrayal
Wow, "Sorry, Female Alpha's Here" took me on a wild ride! Nancy's journey from heartbreak to empowerment is so inspiring. I couldn't look away! The twists kept me hooked, and the ending was so satisfying. Plus, the NetShort app made it super easy to binge-watch. Loved it! 🌟
Sorry, Female Alpha's Here: When the Door Opens and the World Ends
There’s a specific kind of horror that doesn’t involve ghosts or knives—it involves a hallway, a bouquet, and a door that swings open too easily. Tang Ning walks toward that door like she’s walking into a dream. Her coat sways with each step, her white sneakers whispering against the glossy floor, her reflection stretched and distorted in the tiles below. She’s holding hope in one hand and bureaucracy in the other: yellow lilies, pink roses, and a red Household Register stamped with the emblem of the People’s Republic. This isn’t just a visit. It’s a ritual. A sacrament. She’s not just bringing flowers—she’s bringing proof that she showed up. That she waited. That she believed. The camera loves her in these opening seconds. Low angles. Soft focus on her face. The way her lips curve—not a wide grin, but a quiet, confident upturn, the kind you wear when you know you’ve done everything right. She checks the register, flips it open just enough to see the gold lettering: *Household Register*. Not *Marriage Certificate*. Not yet. But soon. Very soon. She’s been rehearsing this moment in her head for weeks. Maybe months. She imagines Joseph Hanks opening the door, pulling her in, kissing her forehead, saying, *You’re late—I was worried.* She imagines Yuna Hallie—her friend, her colleague, the woman she once shared backstage tea with—smiling warmly from the kitchen, handing her a cup of jasmine. She imagines laughter. Warmth. A shared future, documented, sealed, official. But the universe has other plans. The door opens. Not with a bang, but with a sigh—the soft click of a smart lock disengaging. And then—chaos. Not loud chaos. Quiet chaos. The kind that lives in the details: a silk tie coiled on the floor like a sleeping snake. A pair of black leather loafers abandoned near the wall, one slightly askew. A brown scarf bunched up beside them, as if tossed aside in haste. The camera lingers on these objects like forensic evidence. Each item tells a story: *He took his jacket off first. She was already undressed. They didn’t care about neatness. They were too busy being wanted.* Then—the bed. Through the doorway, partially obscured by the frame, we see Yuna Hallie reclining, draped in a white satin robe that slips just enough to reveal the curve of her shoulder. Her hair is messy in the best way—like she’s been touched, cherished, *used*. Joseph Hanks looms over her, one hand braced on the mattress, the other tracing the line of her jaw. His mouth is near her ear. His eyes are closed. He’s not speaking. He’s *breathing* her in. And she—Yuna—tilts her head, lets out a sound that isn’t quite a moan, not quite a sigh, but something far more dangerous: satisfaction. She’s not resisting. She’s *receiving*. And in that moment, Tang Ning’s entire worldview fractures. What’s remarkable isn’t her reaction—it’s her *lack* of reaction. No gasp. No stumble. No dropping of the bouquet (not yet). She just… stops. Her feet root to the floor. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t inhale sharply. She holds it. Like a diver sinking into cold water. Her eyes don’t dart around. They lock onto the scene, absorbing every detail: the way Joseph’s cufflink glints in the daylight, the way Yuna’s necklace—a delicate gold chain with a tiny heart—catches the light as she moves, the way his thumb presses just below her earlobe, a spot so intimate it feels like a violation just to witness it. The editing here is surgical. Quick cuts between Tang Ning’s face and the couple on the bed. Her pupils dilate. Her lips press together, not in anger, but in refusal—to cry, to scream, to let this break her. She’s not processing betrayal. She’s processing *irrelevance*. Because this isn’t just about infidelity. It’s about erasure. Yuna isn’t just sleeping with Joseph. She’s occupying the space Tang Ning thought was hers. The bed. The silence. The future. And Joseph? He’s not cheating. He’s *choosing*. Deliberately. Publicly (to her, at least). He knows she’s there. He *wants* her to see. Because in his world, power isn’t hidden—it’s displayed. Like a trophy. And Yuna? She’s not the mistress. She’s the co-CEO of his emotional empire. Then—the bouquet drops. Not violently. Not dramatically. Just… gravity wins. The kraft paper tears slightly as it hits the floor. Lilies spill outward, their golden throats open, vulnerable, exposed. A single pink rose rolls toward the door, stopping at Tang Ning’s sneaker. She doesn’t pick it up. She doesn’t look down. Her gaze remains fixed on the bed, where Joseph has now shifted, pulling Yuna closer, his mouth finding hers again—slow, deep, unhurried. He’s not rushing. He’s savoring. Because he knows: the audience is watching. And the audience is *her*. The walk away is the most powerful part. No music. No slow-mo. Just her footsteps, measured, precise, each one a rejection of the life she thought she had. The hallway stretches endlessly, doors lining both sides like judges. She passes a fire extinguisher, a notice board, a potted plant—ordinary objects that now feel like relics of a dead world. Her coat flaps slightly with each step, but her posture remains upright. She doesn’t slump. She doesn’t hunch. She carries herself like someone who’s just received bad news—and decided to file it under ‘Data Correction’, not ‘Crisis’. Cut to the Marriage Registration Office. Same woman. New energy. She’s wearing a cream blazer, a striped shirt, dark trousers—outfit of someone who’s done with whimsy and ready for war. She sits in the waiting area, back straight, hands folded in her lap. Around her, couples beam, hold hands, whisper secrets. One man kneels—not dramatically, but sincerely—and presents a ring. The woman cries, nods, hugs him. Tang Ning watches. Not with envy. With analysis. She’s studying their body language, their micro-expressions, their *certainty*. And she realizes: love isn’t the problem. *Assumption* is. She assumed Joseph loved her because he smiled at her. Because he remembered her coffee order. Because he held her hand in meetings. She never questioned whether he loved her—or whether he simply found her convenient. When she finally approaches the counter, she places the red book down with deliberate care. The clerk—a young woman with tired eyes and a polite smile—looks up. Tang Ning doesn’t speak. She just nods toward the book. The clerk understands. She types. Prints. Slides the form across. Tang Ning signs. No hesitation. Her signature is clean, sharp, decisive. She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t look back at the counter, at the red sign that reads *Marriage Registration*, at the irony of it all. She turns—and that’s when she sees him. Mo Ling. CEO of Hyray Entertainment. Not Tyanni. Not her world. *His* world. He steps out of the Maybach like he’s descending from a throne—black suit, brown shirt, gold chains at his collar, eyes sharp as scalpels. His entourage moves like shadows behind him, silent, efficient, terrifying in their uniformity. He doesn’t scan the room. He walks straight toward the counter—*her* counter. And when he stops, he doesn’t look at the clerk. He looks at *her*. Their eye contact lasts three seconds. In those three seconds, a thousand things happen: recognition, assessment, calculation. He knows who she is. He’s heard the whispers. But he doesn’t pity her. He *respects* her. Because she’s not crumbling. She’s recalibrating. And in that moment, Tang Ning understands something fundamental: betrayal isn’t the end of power. It’s the beginning of leverage. Joseph thought he was winning by choosing Yuna. But he forgot—Tang Ning wasn’t just his girlfriend. She was his *asset*. And assets don’t beg. They renegotiate. Mo Ling says something quiet. The camera doesn’t give us the audio. It doesn’t need to. We see Tang Ning’s expression shift—not to hope, not to fear, but to *interest*. Her eyebrows lift, just slightly. Her lips part. Not in surprise. In invitation. Because Mo Ling isn’t offering comfort. He’s offering a new equation: *What if your value isn’t tied to his approval? What if you’re the variable he miscalculated?* The final sequence is pure visual poetry. Tang Ning walks toward the exit—not fleeing, but advancing. The camera follows her from behind, low angle, the Marriage Registration sign glowing red in the background, now looking less like a destination and more like a tombstone for a version of herself that no longer exists. Outside, the sky is overcast. Rain slicks the pavement. A black Maybach idles at the curb. The rear door opens. She doesn’t hesitate. She steps in. The door closes. The car pulls away. And somewhere, in a penthouse apartment, Joseph Hanks finally looks up from Yuna’s neck. He frowns. He glances at the door. Then he shrugs, kisses Yuna again, and murmurs, *She’ll get over it.* He doesn’t know. Tang Ning isn’t *getting over it*. She’s building something better. Sorry, Female Alpha's Here—and she doesn’t need a bouquet to prove she’s arrived. She just needs a door, a red book, and the courage to walk through the wreckage toward what’s next. This isn’t a tragedy. It’s a takeover. And the most dangerous thing about Tang Ning? She’s not angry. She’s *awake*. And awake women don’t beg for seats at the table. They build their own. The lilies may be on the floor, but her roots are unshakable. And this time? She’s writing the script. Not as the loyal girlfriend. Not as the betrayed fiancée. As the woman who walked into hell, picked up the pieces, and used them to forge a crown. Sorry, Female Alpha's Here—and the world just got quieter, because everyone’s listening.