Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Shen Ling stepped out from behind Huo Yanshen.

For a split second, Awen felt like he forgot how to breathe.

It wasn't that he'd never seen handsome people before—most of Maison Montagne's clientele were big names in high society who were easy on the eyes.

But this one before him—porcelain-white skin, eyes that naturally tilted up just a touch at the corners, lips so pale they looked like someone had dabbed peach blossom juice on paper with a fingertip.

He stood beside Huo Yanshen, wearing a cream-colored thin cardigan, a slender stretch of neck visible at the collar, like a porcelain doll Huo Yanshen had whipped out of his pocket.

Awen mentally kicked himself for being so clueless earlier.

This gorgeous guy had been right within arm's reach, and he'd still asked where the celestial beauty was.

Bernard, however, remained composed. His gray-blue eyes squinted a little behind his glasses as he gave Shen Ling a thorough once-over. He'd dressed countless big shots—whether someone had good proportions or not, he could tell in one look.

And this young man's proportions, even by Bernard's exacting standards, there wasn't a single thing to nitpick.

Bernard said in a hushed, almost worshipful tone: "Mr. Huo, your other half is a true work of art."

Bernard picked up the measuring tape slung around his waist and walked over to Shen Ling.

Though Shen Ling couldn't understand French, he could guess from Bernard's tone and expression that he was being praised. His ears went a little pink as he spread his arms, letting Bernard wrap the tape around his waist.

Huo Yanshen didn't sit down. He stood by the full-length mirror about ten feet away, arms crossed over his chest, his dark gaze fixed on Shen Ling.

Bernard pulled the tape snugly around Shen Ling's waist.

As the tape cinched, Shen Ling's cardigan was pulled taut, revealing an inward curve at the waist that was almost unreal—from his ribs down, like it had been carved with a master's chisel.

Just as that graceful arc reached its peak, the tape moved down a fraction and suddenly met resistance.

The curve of his hips was round and firm, obvious even through the fabric.

Bernard rattled off a number for Awen to record, then continued measuring downward.

Huo Yanshen's gaze followed the tape in Bernard's hand as it traveled down, sweeping past that waist so slender it seemed it might snap if you breathed on it, settling on that curve.

His gaze darkened.

Shen Ling's hips were indeed beautiful—flesh perfectly draped over a delicate frame, creating a full, pert arc that paired with that slim waist like an upside-down jade vase, shaped by a master's hand into perfect proportions.

But that waist was honestly too thin.

When the tape cinched shut, only a narrow span remained between Bernard's middle finger and thumb—as if another inch of pressure would snap that waist clean in half.

Huo Yanshen frowned slightly. "Too thin."

Bernard looked up from the tape, nodding in agreement: "Yeah, a few more pounds and it'd be perfect. How's Mr. Shen's appetite these days?"

Shen Ling replied, "It's alright, I guess..."

Huo Yanshen gave him a look.

Shen Ling quickly corrected himself: "Sometimes I can't eat much. But I've been trying."

Bernard said seriously: "Young man, eat more. With bone structure like yours, if you put on a bit more flesh, you'd look even more striking in custom suits than you do now. Right now..." He made a gesture, "a gust of wind could blow you over."

Shen Ling nodded, though whether he'd truly taken it to heart or was just nodding along was unclear.

Afraid Huo Yanshen would bring up the eating thing again, Shen Ling quickly changed the subject and thanked Bernard. Bernard gestured for Awen to take Shen Ling to pick out fabrics.

Just then, Huo Yanshen's phone vibrated.

He glanced at the caller ID on the screen, his face going a little cold. He gave Shen Ling's shoulder a light squeeze: "Go pick out fabrics you like. I'll take this call."

Shen Ling nodded. Awen was already waiting nearby, holding a fabric sample book as thick as a dictionary. Seeing Huo Yanshen leave, he let out a quiet sigh of relief and smiled warmly at Shen Ling: "Right this way, Mr. Shen."

He led Shen Ling to a long walnut table by the window, where over a dozen fabric sample books in different color schemes were already spread out.

"Mr. Huo's call might take a while. No rush, Mr. Shen," Awen said, pushing the sample books toward Shen Ling.

Shen Ling casually opened a book of dark wool fabrics, running his fingertips across swatches of different shades, his brow furrowing slightly.

Awen stood by for a moment, sneaking looks at this remarkably young Mr. Shen.

He'd actually heard of Shen Ling before. In the local art academy circles, Shen Ling was kind of a legend—he'd won an international emerging talent award in his sophomore year. Professors and classmates alike privately said his talent was extraordinary and his future limitless.

But it was precisely that extraordinary talent that had brought him trouble.

There was an old professor in the department named Liu Xian, highly esteemed in the industry—he held a seat on international award juries, and half the design directors at top-tier brands were his former students.

This very man had set his sights on Shen Ling.

He'd repeatedly offered to take Shen Ling on as his final disciple, claiming to admire his talent, but everyone in the department knew exactly what he was really after.

Shen Ling naturally refused. Word had it the falling-out with Liu Xian had been quite ugly, and the bastard professor had subsequently spread the word in industry circles, covertly blocking Shen Ling's eligibility for various competitions.

For a student of ordinary background like Shen Ling, being quietly blacklisted by such a well-connected senior figure meant his career path was essentially severed.

But now, well.

Awen glanced at Huo Yanshen outside on the phone, thinking that Shen Ling probably didn't need to worry about any of that anymore.

Awen swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue and put on a warm smile: "Mr. Shen, what aesthetic style do you prefer? More modern or more classic?"

Shen Ling looked up from the sample book, thinking seriously for a moment: "For more formal occasions, the color should carry presence, but I don't want it too somber. As for fabric, I'd like something with good luster."

Awen turned and pulled out several more color sample books from behind, flipping through a few pages before handing them to Shen Ling for reference.

Shen Ling felt the fabrics, examined the colors against the light, and chatted with Awen about styling suggestions, gradually narrowing it down to three swatches he liked best.

He held an ink-blue in his left hand, pressed a smoke-gray between his right fingers, while his eyes remained fixed on the champagne page, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper.

"They're all so nice..." he murmured, looking up to ask Awen, "Which one do you think suits better?"

Awen leaned in for a look. "If you like them all, Mr. Shen, you could take your time deciding."

Shen Ling shook his head, waving the fabric swatches in his hand. He was about to say something when a shadow fell over him from behind.

"Made up your mind?"

Huo Yanshen's voice was low and even. He'd been standing there for a moment already.

Shen Ling tilted his face up to look at Huo Yanshen, holding up the two fabric swatches and giving them a little shake: "I... the ink-blue, the smoke-gray, and the champagne—I think they're all quite nice."

Huo Yanshen's gaze slid off Shen Ling's face and landed on the sample books spread across the table.

He didn't answer Shen Ling's question. Instead, he asked: "Ink blue, smoke gray, champagne—can't decide between them?"

Shen Ling gave a soft "Mm," then added, a little sheepish, "I can't seem to make a choice."

Huo Yanshen glanced at him, said nothing, and turned to Awen, his tone flat and even. "Then we'll take them all."

Awen blinked. "Huh?"

"Ink blue, smoke gray, champagne—bag up everything he just touched," Huo Yanshen said. "And that full Loro Piana color range—make one suit in every shade."

Awen: "!"

Shen Ling grabbed Huo Yanshen's sleeve, looking up at him in a panic. "No need! One set is enough! I'm not torn because I want a lot—I really just can't pick..."

Huo Yanshen looked down at the fingers clutching his sleeve—slender and pale, gripping the fabric like a cat's paw batting at him.

He said evenly, "Buy them all and try them on. Whichever one feels best will tell you what color to pick next time."

Shen Ling was momentarily at a loss for words. He just thought Huo Yanshen's definition of "waste" was seriously confusing.

The guy would watch him finish every last bite in his bowl, yet here he was, dropping several million yuan on custom suits without blinking.

Awen snapped out of it and closed the sample books faster than he'd ever moved in his life, pulling a leather-bound ledger from under the counter to jot down the order.

As he wrote, he was frantically crunching numbers in his head.

Wuwuwu, he didn't dare look at that string of zeros at the end of the total.

Huo Yanshen didn't wait for Awen to finish. He pulled a black card from his inner suit pocket and held it out between two fingers.

Awen took it with both hands, turned to grab a mobile card reader, and ran the transaction right in front of Huo Yanshen before handing him a pen to sign.

Shen Ling stood on his tiptoes, peeking over Huo Yanshen's shoulder, stealing a curious glance at the receipt.

He saw the string of numbers and figured his astigmatism prescription must have gone up again.

Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten-thousands, hundred-thousands, millions, tens of millions...

Shen Ling's pupils shrank to pinpricks at that number.

Huo Yanshen tucked the black card back into his inner pocket, then casually ruffled the back of Shen Ling's head.

Awen handed over the receipt, bowing slightly, his voice dripping with sincere flattery: "Mr. Huo is so generous to his wife."

Huo Yanshen took the long receipt, folded it without a glance, and tucked it away, ready to leave with Shen Ling.

Just then, Awen came around from behind the counter. He stood there for a few seconds, steeling himself, before finally working up the nerve to step forward.

"Mr. Shen!" Awen called after him.

Shen Ling turned around.

Awen hurried over to Shen Ling and fished his phone out of his pocket. "Um... if you don't mind, could I add you on WeChat? The tailoring usually takes three to four weeks. When the suits are ready, it'll be easier to set up a delivery time."

The words were all business, but Awen's voice was noticeably brighter than when he'd been talking fabrics earlier.

He genuinely liked Shen Ling—soft-spoken and polite, and more importantly, they clicked on taste. It was rare to get a customer like this in the shop.

Shen Ling pulled out his phone, brought up his QR code, and held it out. "Sure."

A soft "ding" and the friend request went through.

*

As they stepped out of the old villa's front gate, the evening breeze carried the bitter-sweet scent of plane trees across his face.

The black Maybach was already waiting at the alley entrance. The driver, spotting them from a distance, opened the rear door.

Shen Ling climbed in first, Huo Yanshen right behind him.

The back seat was roomy, but Huo Yanshen was just too big.

Broad-shouldered and long-legged, he filled half the back seat even just leaning back in silence. His black suit hugged his solid frame like a beast lying in wait.

Huo Yanshen reached up and adjusted the back air vent, making sure it wasn't blowing right on Shen Ling.

"Cold?"

Shen Ling: "I'm fine, not cold."

Huo Yanshen hummed in acknowledgment and told Li, "Drive slower."

The car did stop jolting. Shen Ling had just gotten over a fever and had spent the whole afternoon at the tailor's. Now that he was sitting, he let out a small, quiet yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, a faint sheen of moisture at the corner of his eye.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

Shen Ling pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.

Shen Guoliang. His father.

Shen Ling stared at those three characters, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks.

The drowsiness vanished from his face. A cold sweat crept down his back, and a sour, nauseous churn rose in his stomach. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed it back down.

The phone kept buzzing in his palm, vibrating until his wrist went numb.

His fingertip hovered over the screen, frozen—unable to swipe.

==========Author's Note:==========

Fabric names and regions of origin are sourced from Baidu.