After expressing her doubts, Ji Mingshu saw Cen Sen’s chat box alternating between “the other party is typing” and “the other party is speaking.” But after all this back and forth for quite some time, Cen Sen only responded with a long string of ellipses.
Ji Mingshu had to assume this meant he had nothing to say, admitting guilt and surrendering to justice.
She put away her phone and got out of the car directly. Zhou Jiaheng, like a loyal messenger, promptly followed her out of the car, even more respectful and attentive than when in front of Cen Sen. He rushed to help carry her bag and shoes and led the way to escort her upstairs.
Before she entered her room, Zhou Jiaheng added, “Madam, whenever you want to go home, just call me directly. I’m on standby twenty-four hours a day.”
Ji Mingshu gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, waved goodbye, and mercilessly closed the door.
Zhou Jiaheng closed his eyes briefly, then sheepishly rubbed his nose.
At this hour, Gu Kaiyang was still working overtime at their exploitative magazine company.
Ji Mingshu changed into slippers at the entrance, humming a tune as she limped into the bathroom, her mood inexplicably cheerful.
When she imagined Cen Sen being speechless after being caught playing the victim, her mood became even more joyful.
However, as she squeezed makeup remover onto a cotton pad, Ji Mingshu suddenly thought of something, raised her eyes, and stared at the mirror.
Strange.
Had Gu Kaiyang’s lipstick expired?
Why did the color fade so quickly today?
The thought lasted only a moment, and she didn’t dwell on it, quickly returning to humming while removing her makeup.
Over the next few days, Ji Mingshu’s foot injury hadn’t healed, making movement inconvenient, but her mood remained in a very pleasant state, and her work efficiency was high.
At home, she revised the show venue’s audience area design based on Cen Sen’s ideas, and went to the hotel daily to closely follow the progress of the venue’s construction.
These days, she greeted everyone with a smile, exceptionally cordial. Even when she caught Jiang Chun lying about her latest weight in messages, she responded with gentle understanding.
Ji Mingshu: [If Tang Zhizhou doesn’t mind, then it’s okay for you to indulge occasionally. A girl reduced to nothing but bones isn’t beautiful either.]
Jiang Chun: [???]
Ji Mingshu’s previous profound insight—”When I like you, you’re precious; when I dislike you, you’re just a smelly little fatty”—was still fresh in Jiang Chun’s mind. She couldn’t believe that Ji Mingshu could express any genuine sentiment about “occasional indulgence.”
At this point, her gentle words took several turns in Jiang Chun’s mind, directly transforming into some kind of newly invented reverse motivation strategy.
Jiang Chun’s heart trembled, and she quickly adopted a 180-degree prostration posture of sincere apology.
Jiang Chun: [I was wrong! I unconditionally admit my mistake to the organization, TVT! Please forgive me, Princess, wuwuwu!]
Jiang Chun: [For ChrisChou’s upcoming show, I’ll fill my Hermès bag with money and smuggle it out to support our esteemed Princess! Our Princess has suffered so much!!!]
Ji Mingshu: [No need.]
After replying, she propped her chin on her hand, smiling as she glanced at the row of orange boxes that Zhou Jiaheng had delivered, her fingers unconsciously tapping against her cheek.
Half a month later, ChrisChou’s early spring fashion show was held as scheduled at the Junyihuazhang Hotel on Huating Road in Beijing.
On the day of the show, celebrities came and went at the hotel entrance, luxury cars gathered, reporters waited outside, and camera flashes and clicking sounds rose and fell.
During yesterday’s rehearsal, Ji Mingshu had been present throughout, making final, detailed adjustments to the entire venue based on the models’ positioning and ChrisChou’s opinions. Exhausted late at night, she had even gone for a midnight snack with the staff to exchange experiences.
Actually, ChrisChou’s Milan debut show two years ago had also been designed by Ji Mingshu, but at that time, ChrisChou’s shows weren’t of such high caliber, and he himself wasn’t famous enough to invite Ji Mingshu to participate fully in the venue decoration.
As she recalled, Ji Mingshu had only gone to see the venue once and provided a design drawing, without much additional concern.
Honestly, the feeling of freely creating design drawings two years ago was completely different from the feeling of participating in the entire design process and watching the venue come to life.
Before, she had been very lofty, only needing to imagine without considering how others would put her imagination into practice.
Over these two years, many people had praised ChrisChou’s Milan debut show designs and venue, and she would naturally accept this praise, believing that all the beautiful presentations on screen were the achievement of both ChrisChou and herself.
But when she participated in it, she realized how much meticulous design and silent effort from so many people went into making a show successful.
Before the show started, there were about forty minutes of social time. Socialites, celebrities, editors, buyers, and fashion influencers arrived one after another, signing autographs, taking photos in the media area, and giving interviews.
When there were five minutes left until the show began, announcements in both Chinese and English reminded guests to take their seats early.
Ji Mingshu exchanged a high five with ChrisChou before grabbing her handbag and hurrying from backstage to her seat.
She had always sat in the front row at fashion shows, but this time, having personally participated in the venue design, she had actively chosen a corner seat after the third row during the PR’s seating arrangement, saying she wanted to see the viewing effect from the back rows.
Jiang Chun was also in this row, though there were several seats between them. Ji Mingshu was just about to greet her when a tall figure blocked her view.
She paused slightly and looked up—
It was Cen Sen.
Cen Sen adjusted his collar as he sat down, with a gentlemanly dignity, making the back corner seat seem as prestigious as inheriting a throne.
Ji Mingshu instinctively asked, “Why are you here?”
“It’s my hotel. I’m here to see if there are any problems.”
“…”
Of course, there were no problems.
But would this last-century fossil, who didn’t even connect his office to the internet, understand a fashion show? Why was he joining the crowd?
The most amusing thing was that he had even seriously put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Perhaps he had come directly from unfinished office documents.
Ji Mingshu looked him up and down, her gaze naturally falling on his hand.
Wait, it had been half a month, and he was still wearing bandages…?
So he was still playing the victim? Even a fracture should have healed by now, right?
Ji Mingshu was about to say something when the venue entered the final ten-second countdown, “Ten, nine, eight…”
When the countdown reached “one,” the music started at the perfect moment, the immersive imaging device shifted to display gilded brilliance, golden figures jumped one by one above everyone’s heads, eventually transforming into a golden airplane that passed through the LED screen. In the center, it traced ChrisChou’s English logo with contrails, accompanied by a clear American female voice that simply announced, “Welcome ChrisChou.”
Fashion shows were different from celebrity galas and TV programs—there were no hosts or opening speeches.
After the logo appeared, it gradually disappeared from the center of the screen in fragments of gold, followed immediately by dynamic drum beats and increasingly lively musical rhythms.
Amid the changing music, the spotlight fell on the well-known Chinese model opening the show. The model walked expressionlessly forward along the piano stairs.
—Surprisingly, even sitting in the back row, the viewing experience was excellent.
Ji Mingshu secretly made a “yeah” gesture in her heart, finally relaxing after days of anxiety.
Cen Sen also commented, “Not bad.”
Ji Mingshu glanced at him.
What’s “not bad”? Did he even understand what he was looking at?
It turned out Cen Sen did understand. He said slowly and methodically: “Your stage design and this designer’s work remind me of an oil painting from the 1990s that once sold for nearly ten million. That work was called ‘Decadent Luxury,’ belonging to abstract expressionism. The composition was very simple, mainly using lines and colors…”
“…”
“Did you research this?”
Ji Mingshu couldn’t help but interrupt in a low voice.
Cen Sen gave her a faint glance, his glasses reflecting light, making his exact expression unreadable. His voice, however, was nonchalant: “Within my knowledge base, this is common sense.”
Common sense.
Ji Mingshu choked, speechless for a moment.
But she quickly remembered that they were still in a cold war state and shouldn’t be too friendly, so she made up her mind not to speak to him anymore and just quietly watched the show.
Cen Sen, however, occasionally made mild comments beside her, saying things like “This one is nice” and “This one is also nice.”
Despite months of preparation, the actual show time was only one hour.
After all the pieces were displayed, ChrisChou took the stage wearing a new-season T-shirt from his collection and gave a speech in awkward, jumbled Chinese.
The gist was reflecting on his feelings about founding the brand over the past few years, what special meaning incorporating Chinese elements into this season’s work had for him, and thanking everyone for their continued support.
The show was considered perfectly concluded at this point, and Ji Mingshu spontaneously joined everyone in applause.
But to everyone’s surprise, ChrisChou’s bow and pause didn’t mark the end of his speech. Holding the microphone, he changed the subject, suddenly looking in Ji Mingshu’s direction, directly calling her out as “Shu,” giving her the title of interior designer, and spent a full two minutes thanking her, talking about all the effort she had put into today’s venue.
The socialites in the front rows thought they were hearing things. They had heard that Ji Mingshu had once designed ChrisChou’s Milan debut show, but at that time, ChrisChou was far from as well-known as he was today. Few people had seen the venue in person, and many suspected there was some trick to it.
But now ChrisChou was personally thanking her… meaning that today’s intricate and complex venue, combining modern chic with old Shanghai decadence, was designed by Ji Mingshu?
The ladies who had been privately gossiping about the Cen-Ji divorce were a bit dumbfounded, unable to believe that this young mistress who only knew how to shop could produce something presentable.
After the show, there was an after-party, and the showroom was open to all guests. Those interested in the runway designs could place orders.
Ji Mingshu walked toward the showroom with Jiang Chun.
Cen Sen was still sitting in his original seat, flipping through the new product catalog and giving instructions to Zhou Jiaheng. Looking up briefly, he happened to see Ji Mingshu accidentally bump into a young man.
Ji Mingshu wasn’t paying attention. She nodded and apologized, “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” the man smiled warmly. As he was passing by Ji Mingshu, he seemed to remember something and suddenly asked hesitantly, “Are you… Mingshu?”