My Queen, My Rules - 47

The Show Began

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After Ji Mingshu fired off her accusation, she watched Cen Sen’s chat window status flicker between “typing…” and “recording audio…” for what felt like an eternity. In the end, all he sent was a long string of ellipses.

Ji Mingshu took this as a silent admission of guilt.

She pocketed her phone and got out of the car. Zhou Jiaheng, the dutiful informant, swiftly followed, his demeanor even more obsequious than when he was around Cen Sen himself. He rushed to carry her bag and heels, leading the way to see her upstairs.

Before she entered the apartment, he added, "Madam, whenever you wish to return home, just give me a call. I'm at your service, twenty-four seven."

Ji Mingshu offered a thin, insincere smile, gave a dismissive wave, and mercilessly shut the door in his face.

Zhou Jiaheng closed his eyes for a second, then rubbed his nose in defeat.

At this hour, Gu Kaiyang was still slaving away at her sweatshop of a magazine.

Ji Mingshu changed into slippers at the entrance, humming a tune as she limped toward the bathroom, her mood inexplicably buoyant.

At the mental image of Cen Sen, exposed for his transparent guilt-tripping and left speechless, her mood improved even more.

But as she squeezed cleansing oil onto a cotton pad, something occurred to her. She looked up, her eyes fixing on her reflection in the mirror.

Weird.

Had Gu Kaiyang's lipstick expired?

Why had it faded so quickly today?

The thought was fleeting, and she didn't dwell on it, soon resuming her humming as she finished removing her makeup.

Over the next few days, Ji Mingshu’s foot hadn’t fully healed, and moving around was still a bit of a hassle. But her mood remained buoyant, and her productivity was high.

Working from home, she revised the audience seating plan for the show based on Cen Sen's suggestions. She also made daily trips to the hotel to monitor the physical setup of the venue.

She was all smiles with everyone, radiating a newfound approachability. Even when Jiang Chun was caught red-handed fibbing about her latest weight in their group chat, Ji Mingshu responded with gentle understanding.

Ji Mingshu: [If Tang Zhizhou doesn't mind, then it’s fine to indulge once in a while. A girl who’s nothing but skin and bones isn’t attractive either.]

Jiang Chun: …?

Jiang Chun vividly remembered Ji Mingshu’s past pearl of wisdom: “When he likes you, you’re a treasure. When he’s done with you, you’re just a stinky little fatty.” She absolutely did not believe this ‘occasional indulgence theory’ was coming from a place of genuine feeling.

In Jiang Chun's mind, these gentle words were some new, sophisticated reverse-psychology tactic designed to spur her on.

Her heart quivered with fear. She immediately adopted a posture of utmost surrender.

Jiang Chun: [I was wrong! I unconditionally confess my sins to the organization, tvt! Please forgive this lowly one, Your Highness! Waaa!!]

Jiang Chun: [When the Chris Chou show happens, I'll stuff my Hermès bag full of cash and smuggle it out to support our esteemed Princess! Your Highness has suffered!!!]

Ji Mingshu: [No need.]

After sending the reply, she rested her chin in her hand, a smile playing on her lips as she glanced at the row of orange boxes Zhou Jiaheng had delivered. Her fingers tapped lightly against her cheek.

---

Two weeks later, the Chris Chou Early Spring show commenced on schedule at the Junyi Huazhang Hotel on Huating Road.

On show day, the hotel entrance was a whirl of celebrities and socialites, with a fleet of luxury cars coming and going. Paparazzi staked out the area, their camera flashes popping incessantly.

Ji Mingshu had been present for the full dress rehearsal the day before, making final tweaks to the runway based on the models' pacing and Chris Chou's feedback. Exhausted by the late night, she'd even joined the crew for a late supper, sharing experiences and laughs.

Truth be told, Chris Chou's Milan debut two years ago had also been her design. But back then, his shows weren't on this grand a scale, and he wasn't established enough to have Ji Mingshu oversee the entire set construction process. If memory served, she'd just visited the venue once, provided the designs, and left it at that.

Honestly, the feeling of conjuring designs out of thin air two years ago was completely different from being hands-on throughout the entire process, watching the space materialize from her vision.

She used to operate from on high, only needing to imagine, never considering how others would bring her visions to life.

Over the past two years, many had praised both Chris Chou's Milan debut collection and the runway design. She'd accepted the compliments as her due, believing the stunning visuals on screen were solely the result of Chris's work and her own genius.

But now, having been part of the process, she understood just how many people, and how much meticulous, often uncredited effort, were behind the success of a single show.

Before the show started, there was a forty-minute social period. Socialites, celebrities, editors, buyers, and fashion influencers arrived in succession, stopping at the media wall to sign autographs, pose for photos, and give interviews.

With five minutes to go, a bilingual announcement in Chinese and English politely requested that guests take their seats.

Ji Mingshu shared a quick “give me five” with Chris Chou, then grabbed her clutch and hurried from backstage to her seat.

She always sat in the front row for shows. But this time, having designed the space herself, she’d specifically asked the PR team to place her in a corner several rows back. She wanted to gauge the experience from a different perspective.

Jiang Chun was in the same row, but several seats separated them. Just as Ji Mingshu was about to wave hello, a tall figure blocked her line of sight.

She paused, looking up—

It was Cen Sen.

Cen Sen adjusted his lapels as he sat down, the picture of gentlemanly refinement. He somehow managed to make this back-row corner seat feel like a goddamn throne.

Ji Mingshu couldn't help but ask, "What are you doing here?"

"It's my hotel. Is there a problem with me taking a look?"

"…"

Well, no. Obviously not.

But could this relic from the last century, who probably conducted business via carrier pigeon, even understand fashion shows? What was he doing here, crashing the party?

The funniest part was he'd seriously worn a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He must have come straight over without even finishing the paperwork on his desk.

Her eyes swept over him from head to toe, naturally landing on his hand.

Wait a minute… it’s been two weeks, and it's still bandaged?

Was he really planning to milk this “sympathy” card forever? Even a broken bone would've healed by now!

Just as Ji Mingshu was about to say something, the show’s final ten-second countdown began. “Ten, nine, eight…”

As the count hit “one,” music swelled on cue. The immersive projection installations shifted into flowing, gilded light. Tiny golden figures danced and leaped overhead, eventually morphing into a small golden airplane that soared across the LED screen. Its contrail sketched out the chrischou logo in cursive script at the center, while a crisp, American female voice announced, “Welcome to chrischou.”

Fashion shows were different from galas or TV programs. There were no hosts, no opening speeches.

After the logo displayed, it dissolved into specks of gold, fading from the center of the screen. Then came driving drumbeats and an increasingly upbeat rhythm.

Amidst the shifting music, a spotlight found the opening model, a renowned Chinese face. Expressionless, she descended a set of piano-key stairs and began her walk.

—Not bad, even from the back rows.

Ji Mingshu gave a mental thumbs-up, the tension she’d carried for days finally easing.

Cen Sen chose that moment to offer a comment. "Not bad."

Ji Mingshu shot him a sidelong glance.

Not bad? What does he know?

As it turned out, Cen Sen actually did know a thing or two. He continued leisurely, "Your stage design and this designer’s collection remind me of an abstract expressionist painting that sold for nearly ten million in the nineties. It was titled ‘Decadent Splendor.’ The composition was quite simple, primarily using lines and color to…”

"…"

"Did you look that up?"

Ji Mingshu couldn't resist interrupting in a hushed tone.

Cen Sen gave her a faint glance. The light reflected off his lenses, obscuring his expression. His tone was breezy. “Within my scope of knowledge, this qualifies as common knowledge.”

Common knowledge.

Ji Mingshu choked on her retort, left speechless for a moment.

But she quickly remembered they were supposed to be in a cold war. Getting too chummy was inappropriate. Resolving not to speak to him again, she focused quietly on the show.

Cen Sen, however, occasionally offered a quiet comment from the side. "This piece is nice." "This one isn't bad either."

In reality, after months of preparation, the actual show time was just one hour.

After all the looks had been presented, Chris Chou himself took to the stage, wearing a T-shirt from his new collection. He gave a speech in halting, grammatically chaotic Chinese.

He roughly reflected on his feelings since founding the brand, the special meaning of incorporating Chinese elements into this season’s work, and thanked everyone for their ongoing support.

With that, the show could be considered a complete success. Ji Mingshu, caught up in the moment, applauded enthusiastically with the crowd.

But no one expected that Chris Chou's bow and pause didn't signal the end of his speech. Gripping the microphone, he suddenly shifted focus, looking directly toward Ji Mingshu. He referred to her as “Shu,” gave her the title of interior designer, and spent a full two minutes thanking her for all the effort she’d poured into creating today’s venue.

The front-row socialites wondered if they were hearing things. They'd heard Ji Mingshu designed his Milan debut, but back then, Chris Chou was far from his current fame. Very few had seen that show in person, and many suspected the story had been embellished.

But for Chris Chou to personally thank her at the climax of his show… Did that mean this intricate, sophisticated runway, a perfect blend of modern chic and the decadent splendor of old Shanghai, was actually Ji Mingshu's work?

The young socialites who had been privately feasting on the ‘Cen–Ji divorce’ rumors were thrown for a loop, struggling to believe this shopaholic socialite actually had the substance to produce such work.

An after-party followed the show, and the showroom was open to guests. Anyone interested in the pieces could place orders.

Ji Mingshu headed toward the showroom with Jiang Chun.

Cen Sen remained in his seat, flipping through the lookbook and giving Zhou Jiaheng instructions. He glanced up just in time to see Ji Mingshu accidentally bump into a young man.

Ji Mingshu, distracted, nodded an apology. “I’m so sorry.”

“No problem,” the man replied with a gentle smile. As they passed each other, he seemed to recall something. Hesitantly, he asked, "Are you… Mingshu?”

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