My Queen, My Rules - 47
The Show Begins
At Ji Mingshu's accusation of him playing the pity card, the status above Cen Sen's chat window flickered back and forth between "Typing..." and "Recording voice message...". It went on like that for quite a while, yet in the end, all he sent was a long string of ellipses.
Ji Mingshu took it as an admission of guilt. He had nothing left to say.
She put away her phone and got out of the car. As expected of Cen Sen's most reliable informer, Zhou Jiaheng immediately hurried after her. He was even more attentive than he ever was in front of Cen Sen, insisting on carrying both her handbag and heels while politely leading the way upstairs.
Before she stepped inside, Zhou Jiaheng added, "Madam, whenever you wish to return home, just give me a call. I'm on standby twenty-four hours a day."
With a smile that never reached her eyes, Ji Mingshu gave a dismissive wave, and mercilessly shut the door in his face.
Zhou Jiaheng closed his eyes for a moment, then rubbed his nose awkwardly.
At this hour, Gu Kaiyang was still working overtime at that heartless sweatshop she called 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 being left speechless after his little act had been exposed, her mood improved even more.
But as she squeezed cleansing oil onto a cotton pad, something suddenly occurred to her. She looked up and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Weird.
Had Gu Kaiyang's lipstick expired?
Why had it faded so quickly today?
The thought was fleeting. She didn't dwell on it and soon resumed humming as she removed her makeup.
Over the following few days, although her ankle had yet to recover and walking remained inconvenient, Ji Mingshu stayed in exceptionally good spirits. Her work efficiency also soared.
At home, she revised the audience seating layout based on Cen Sen's suggestions. Every day after that, she made her way to the hotel to keep track of the venue's construction progress.
She smiled at everyone she met over those few days and treated everyone with unusual warmth. Even when Jiang Chun was caught lying about her latest weight in their group chat, Ji Mingshu responded with nothing but understanding.
Ji Mingshu: [If Tang Zhizhou doesn't mind, it's fine if you indulge yourself once in a while. Girls don't look good when they're all skin and bones either.]
Jiang Chun: ...?
Jiang Chun still 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 chubby little gremlin." She absolutely did not believe this sudden speech about moderation came from a place of genuine feeling.
After several twists and turns inside Jiang Chun's mind, those gentle words somehow transformed into an entirely new form of psychological warfare.
Shivering, she immediately threw herself into a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degree display of sincere repentance.
Jiang Chun: [I was wrong! I unconditionally confess my crimes to the organization, tvt! Please forgive this lowly one, Your Royal Highness! Wuuu!]
Jiang Chun: [At Chris Chou's runway show, I'll stuff my Hermès bag full of cash and smuggle it out to support our esteemed princess! Our princess has suffered far too much!!!]
Ji Mingshu: [No need.]
After sending the reply, she rested her chin on one hand and smiled at the neat row of orange gift boxes Zhou Jiaheng had delivered. Her fingertips tapped lightly against her cheek almost unconsciously.
***
Half a month later, Chris Chou's Early Spring runway show was held as scheduled at Junyi Huazhang Hotel on Huating Road in the capital.
On the day of the show, celebrities and socialites streamed through the hotel's entrance while luxury cars lined the street. Reporters crowded outside as flashes burst nonstop and camera shutters clicked without pause.
During yesterday's rehearsal, Ji Mingshu had remained on-site from beginning to end, making final adjustments to the venue according to the models' walk patterns and Chris Chou's feedback. By the time everything was finished late that night, she was exhausted. She even joined the staff for a late-night meal, chatting with everyone and exchanging ideas.
In fact, Ji Mingshu had also designed Chris Chou's Milan debut two years earlier. At the time, neither the show nor Chris Chou himself had reached today's level of prestige, and he certainly hadn't been influential enough to invite her to oversee the venue throughout the entire process.
As she remembered it, she'd simply visited the venue once, handed over the design plans, and left the rest to others.
To be honest, the feeling of simply producing a wildly imaginative design two years ago was completely different from personally seeing every stage of a venue come to life.
Back then, she had always viewed things from above. She only needed to imagine the result, never considering how others would actually transform those ideas into reality.
Over the past two years, countless people had praised Chris Chou's Milan debut, complimenting both the collection and the venue design. She had naturally accepted those compliments, believing everything beautiful on the screen was the achievement of only herself and Chris Chou.
It was only after taking part in the entire process that she truly understood just how many people's painstaking work and quiet dedication lay behind the success of a single runway show.
About forty minutes before the show began was reserved for socializing. Socialites, celebrities, magazine editors, buyers, and fashion influencers gradually arrived, signing their names, posing for photographs, and giving interviews in the media area.
Five minutes before showtime, a bilingual announcement in Chinese and English reminded all guests to take their seats.
After exchanging a quick “give me five” with Chris Chou, Ji Mingshu grabbed her clutch and hurried out from backstage toward her assigned seat.
She had always sat in the front row during fashion shows. This time, however, having personally designed the venue herself, she had specifically requested a seat in a corner several rows back. She wanted to experience the show from the audience's perspective.
Jiang Chun was seated in the same row, though several seats separated them. Just as Ji Mingshu was about to wave hello, a tall figure stepped between them, blocking her view.
She paused and looked up.
It was Cen Sen.
Cen Sen adjusted his lapels as he took his seat with effortless elegance. Somehow, even an ordinary corner seat in the back row looked as though it belonged to the heir of an empire.
Unable to help herself, Ji Mingshu asked, "Why are you here?"
"It's my hotel. I came to see whether there are any problems."
"..."
Of course, there won't be any!
Besides, could a relic from the last century who still refused to be online even appreciate a fashion show? What was he doing here?
The funniest part was that he'd shown up wearing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Judging by the look of him, he'd probably came straight over before finishing the documents he'd been reviewing at the office.
Ji Mingshu looked him over from head to toe, her gaze naturally settled on his hand.
Wait a minute… it’s been two weeks, and it's still bandaged?
Was he really planning to milk this pity card forever? Even a fracture should've healed by now!
Just as Ji Mingshu was about to say something, the final countdown echoed through the venue.
"Ten... nine... eight..."
As the countdown reached "one," music swelled on cue. The immersive projection system burst to life in a cascade of flowing gold. Tiny golden figures danced above the audience before transforming into a miniature golden airplane that flew across the enormous LED screen. Its vapor trail gradually formed Chris Chou's English logo in the center while a clear American female voice echoed through the surround sound.
"Welcome to Chrischou."
Fashion shows weren't like televised galas. There was no host, no opening speech.
Once the logo dissolved into shimmering flecks of gold, the rhythmic drumbeats surged forward, followed by increasingly energetic music.
Under the changing lights, the spotlight settled on the internationally renowned Chinese supermodel opening the show. Expressionless, she descended the piano staircase with steady, measured steps.
The view from the back actually is this good!
Ji Mingshu secretly cheered to herself, the nervous anticipation she’d carried for days finally easing.
Right on cue, Cen Sen commented quietly, "Not bad."
Ji Mingshu shot him a sideways glance.
Not bad? Do you even understand what you're looking at?
As it turned out, Cen Sen actually did know a thing or two. He continued leisurely. "Your stage design, together with this designer's collection, reminds me of an abstract expressionist painting from the 1990s that sold for nearly ten million. The painting was called ‘Golden Splendor.’ The composition itself was very simple, relying primarily on lines and color..."
"..."
"Did you look that up?"
Ji Mingshu interrupted 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 nearly choked. For several long seconds, she couldn't think of a single thing to say.
Fortunately, she quickly remembered they were technically still in the middle of a cold war. Deciding it would be inappropriate to become too friendly, she resolved not to speak to him again and quietly focused on the show.
Cen Sen, however, occasionally offered another calm remark from beside her.
"This one's good."
"This one is, too."
Months of preparation ultimately resulted in only an hour of showtime.
Once every design had been presented, Chris Chou stepped onto the runway wearing one of the season's new T-shirts. In slightly awkward, grammatically chaotic Chinese, he delivered his closing remarks.
He roughly reflected on the journey of building his brand over the past few years, what incorporating Chinese elements into this collection meant to him personally, and thanked everyone for supporting him all this time.
With that, the show could be considered a complete success. Ji Mingshu found herself applauding along with everyone else.
But no one expected that Chris Chou's bow and brief pause weren't actually the end of his speech.
Holding the microphone, he suddenly changed direction and looked straight toward Ji Mingshu. He addressed her simply as "Shu," introduced her as the interior designer for the venue, and spent a full two minutes thanking her for everything she had contributed to making the show possible.
The socialites in the front row nearly wondered whether they'd misheard.
They had heard rumors that Ji Mingshu designed Chris Chou's Milan debut, but back then Chris Chou had been nowhere near as famous as he was today. Very few people had actually seen that show, and many quietly assumed the story had been exaggerated.
Yet now Chris Chou was publicly thanking her himself.
Which meant, this breathtaking venue, blending sleek modern fashion with the glamorous decadence of old Shanghai, had really been designed by Ji Mingshu?
The ladies who had recently been obsessively gossiping about the rumored divorce between the Cen and Ji families were all left stunned.
They could hardly believe that the spoiled heiress they thought only knew how to shop could actually create work worthy of this kind of recognition.
After the show, the after-party began, and the showroom opened to all guests. Anyone interested in the runway pieces could place orders there.
Ji Mingshu headed toward the showroom together with Jiang Chun.
Cen Sen remained seated where he was, casually flipping through the new collection catalog while giving Zhou Jiaheng a few instructions.
When he happened to glance up, he saw Ji Mingshu accidentally bump into a young man.
Startled, Ji Mingshu immediately nodded apologetically. "I'm so sorry."
"It's alright." The man smiled warmly.
As they passed each other, however, something seemed to occur to him. He hesitated for a moment, then asked uncertainly,
"Are you... Mingshu?"
---
Comments
Post a Comment