The next morning, the two of them met in the breakfast room, with dark circles under their eyes, looking like two pandas.
Chen Luoru hadn’t been able to sleep because she was so angry at Meng Jianchen, while Meng Jianchen had forced himself to stay up until two o’clock with a cup of cappuccino before finally falling asleep.
This morning, the kitchen had prepared a plate of cold rice noodles for Chen Luoru, with some small side dishes to go with it.
She used her chopsticks to snap apart the milky-white rice noodles on the plate, imagining that this was Meng Jianchen, and that she was cutting him into eight pieces.
Meng Jianchen asked for another cup of coffee. He had to rely on coffee today to perk up, otherwise he feared he might fall asleep during the morning meeting.
When Chen Luoru saw the coffee, her anger grew even greater.
Yesterday evening, she had specially asked the dessert chef to make a heart-shaped latte art for Meng Jianchen, subtly and tactfully expressing her feelings.
And him? Fine.
He drank her coffee, then turned around and scolded her.
Even saying something so high-sounding as “Husband and wife are one body.” Who wants to listen to that?
Butler Wu stood to the side watching these two pandas, sighing—the breakfast table was a battlefield without smoke.
He really didn’t know what these two did every night, but every morning Madam’s temper was always so bad.
“Madam, do you have any plans today?” Butler Wu took a transparent glass cup from the tea set rack and poured Chen Luoru a cup of flower tea.
“I’m going out shopping,” Chen Luoru said without hesitation.
To relieve worries, there is nothing but buy, buy, buy.
“Then in a while I’ll arrange a car and driver for you,” said Butler Wu.
“Remember to take bodyguards with you.” Meng Jianchen set down his chopsticks and reminded her.
“I’m not taking them.”
“Be good. There are too many bad people outside nowadays,” Meng Jianchen slowly said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Have you seen The Woman Who Married the Mountain? If you got abducted, that would be bad.”
Chen Luoru stared at him for a while, then glanced out at the mountain ranges outside the window.
How could this dog of a man have the face to mention The Woman Who Married the Mountain to her? Wasn’t that movie precisely the reflection of her tragic life?
Seeing that Chen Luoru didn’t believe him, Meng Jianchen added: “Considering your identity, the likelihood of being kidnapped is even greater.”
Chen Luoru sneered: “What? Do you have enemies outside?”
“How would I know?” Meng Jianchen glanced sideways at her. “Bringing bodyguards is only to protect your safety.”
Bullshit!
Who would dare cause trouble right under the Son of Heaven’s feet?
Saying it so nicely when really it was just putting people to monitor her. Who would believe that?
After Meng Jianchen left, Chen Luoru went upstairs to change clothes, put on sunglasses, slung a Hermès Constance bag over her shoulder, and finally set out.
She sat in a white Porsche Panamera, while four plainclothes bodyguards drove a BMW 7 Series separately, following behind her car.
Chen Luoru had grown up in Guangdong, studied in Hong Kong, and later went to England.
She hadn’t wanted to leave her hometown to marry into Beijing, because this city was very unfamiliar to her.
“Madam, where would you like to shop?” The driver turned the steering wheel, slowly driving the car out of the villa district.
“What good places are there for shopping in Beijing?” Chen Luoru asked.
“You can go stroll around Wangfujing or the China World Trade Center,” the driver said.
“Then Wangfujing,” Chen Luoru said, crossing her legs and gazing at the ever-changing scenery outside the window, lost in thought.
The place she lived, Langyue No.1, was located along the East Extension Line of Chang’an Avenue.
This was a typical example of developers inflating their property’s value. Since the Chen family was in real estate, Chen Luoru knew developer rhetoric inside and out.
If it was a remote location, then they would call it “far from the noise of the city, enjoying a tranquil life.” If there was a little puddle nearby, then it was “a rare waterfront mansion, blessed by wind and water.” If there was no public transportation nearby, then it was “a private territory with room for appreciation in value.”
If the roof was round, they would call it “Baroque style.” If the roof was pointed, they would call it “Gothic style.” If the roof was flat, they would call it “scenic rooftop.”
In reality, the Langyue No.1 villa district was located at the border of Chaoyang and Tongzhou, about ten kilometers from East Chang’an Avenue, a decent drive away—but it truly was at the same latitude as Chang’an Avenue, so it was called a luxury villa group on the East Extension Line of Chang’an Avenue.
Meng Jianchen owned more than one property, but this was their marital home, so they lived here.
Wangfujing was a pedestrian street, about two kilometers long from north to south.
In earlier years, Wangfujing was a good place to fleece foreigners and out-of-towners. In recent years, the entire commercial street had been planned and managed quite well, with both high-end and mid-range shopping malls, so more and more locals also came here to shop.
After parking in a nearby underground parking lot, a bodyguard came forward to open the car door for her. Chen Luoru got out with her bag.
A bodyguard proactively opened an umbrella to shield her from the sun—it was June now, the sun outside was scorching, and she must not be sunburnt.
On the roadside there was a dessert window selling matcha ice cream, with a long line outside.
“I want that,” Chen Luoru directed.
Souvenirs from scenic spots all over the country, with the rise of the Yiwu Small Commodities Market, had become fairly uniform.
But since Chen Luoru rarely wandered around cities inside the country, she found these little trinkets quite interesting—for example, this little colorful umbrella you could wear on your head.
Not long after, the bodyguard brought back a matcha ice cream.
Chen Luoru took a small bite; the matcha flavor was rich and reminded her of the matcha ice cream she had eaten outside the Golden Pavilion in Japan.
As she was eating her ice cream, she suddenly noticed a young couple not far away.
The two of them had only bought one ice cream, and they were taking turns eating it, you bite then I bite, and as they ate, they even exchanged a quick, short kiss.
Looking again at the ice cream in her own hand, Chen Luoru suddenly felt that this wasn’t matcha flavor, it was dog food flavor.
A young couple could be this happy with just one ice cream. Such a simple happiness she could not have—what was the point of buying so many Hermès bags?
That dog of a man Meng Jianchen, every day all he did was work, eat, and sleep. Where would he ever have the time to accompany her in doing things like this?
At this thought, Chen Luoru’s interest in shopping was cut in half—even though right ahead was the Hermès store she loved most.
No! If she couldn’t occupy a man’s time, then she would spend the money he earned!
Thinking of what Meng Jianchen had done to her, Chen Luoru instantly reignited her ambition and fighting spirit.
The sales associates in luxury stores were all shrewd. Normally, they dealt with too many wealthy people, with plenty of practical experience. A single glance and they could tell if you had money or not.
The moment a young lady like Chen Luoru stepped inside, they already knew—this young woman was extraordinary.
Whether a person had money wasn’t always about how they dressed. More often, it was about their bearing and presence.
Her looks were elegant, and every gesture carried a touch of socialite grace—it was clear at a glance she was a well-educated rich daughter.
Her clothes had almost no visible brands, but the materials were all excellent.
Don’t look at the Constance bag she was carrying as being only worth a little over a hundred thousand yuan—it was extremely hard to get, even rarer than Hermès’s other two legendary bags, the Birkin and the Kelly. Some stores only had five or six of them in a year, all reserved by sales associates for top VIP clients.
Many customers who came into a Hermès store would head straight for the Birkin, but she calmly strolled around the store a few times.
She took a liking to a calfskin handbag and asked the sales associate if there was any stock.
In China, sales associates usually had an unwritten rule for meeting sales targets—that is, however much you spent on a bag, you had to match it with that much in other goods. To put it plainly, it was bundled sales.
The matched goods were usually Hermès scarves, belts, or other small accessories. Only after you bought enough of those would the sales associate say they’d “check the stockroom” for you.
Although the sales associates could tell Chen Luoru was wealthy, who among those shopping at Hermès wasn’t wealthy?
So here, she wouldn’t receive special treatment, and still had to follow the process.
“This bag is very popular, it’s currently sold out. You can take a look at other items in the store, we have some pretty scarves and belts,” the sales associate explained.
When shopping in the UK, the sales associates practically worshipped her, never daring to make her buy bundled goods. With her level of yearly spending in those stores, she absolutely didn’t need to do that. Even when it came to reserving hot bags like the Birkin or Kelly, the sales associates would always try to move her up the waiting list.
“What about that one?” She pointed at a little bucket bag beside it.
“That one’s also out of stock.”
“Then when do you actually have stock?” Chen Luoru was puzzled—if this or that was all out of stock, then what business were they running?
“These scarves and belts are all in stock.”
Chen Luoru glanced at them. It wasn’t that the scarves and belts were bad—she had many Hermès scarves already—but she didn’t like the patterns of these few, so she wasn’t interested.
As for the belts, they were all the same ones she already had.
“But I don’t want to buy scarves and belts, I only want this bag. When you have stock, tell me, and I’ll have someone come pick it up.” Chen Luoru spoke crisply and directly.
“May I ask if you have a membership with our store? I can register you,” the sales associate spoke carefully. Hermès memberships were store-specific—different boutiques could not share customer information.
Even if Chen Luoru could buy out an entire Hermès store in the UK, here she was nothing at all.
“I don’t have a membership with your store,” Chen Luoru said truthfully.
“Then perhaps you can pick out a few things to purchase, and I’ll make a membership card for you,” the sales associate said.
“Wait a second, let me check.” Chen Luoru suddenly remembered something. She pulled a wallet out of her Constance bag. This was something Meng Jianchen had given her after she returned to China; she thought there might be a few membership cards inside.
She searched in the wallet’s compartments for a while, and sure enough, found a Hermès membership card.
“Is this from your store?” Chen Luoru asked.
The sales associate glanced at it—and indeed, it was.
The associate took the card, checked in the system, and was instantly dumbfounded.
This card’s spending in the first half of the year was several million yuan. To call it a Hermès super-VIP card was no exaggeration.
Looking closer at the information, it actually belonged to that person… In the whole of the capital, who didn’t know his name?
What was this young lady’s relationship with him? Why would she have his card?
Could she be his wife? When Meng Jianchen had come into the store before, the staff had discussed it among themselves—there was a wedding ring on the ring finger of his left hand; he was a married man. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
But this young lady’s left hand was bare and clean, wearing nothing at all.
Of course, these were questions the sales associate would never ask. They served according to the guest; as long as someone was willing to spend money on her behalf, that was enough.
The associate handed the card back to Chen Luoru and said: “Apologies, I just checked in the system. The bag you had your eye on is actually in stock.”
“Then wrap it up for me,” Chen Luoru said.
“Both styles?” the associate asked.
“Yes, both.”
“May I show you this one as well?” The associate recommended another ten-thousand-yuan clutch.
Chen Luoru only gave it a glance before saying: “I don’t want that one, I already had it last year.”
Chen Luoru spent over an hour in the store. Besides the bags, she also chose some Hermès handicrafts. Altogether she spent about five to six hundred thousand yuan.
The associate was naturally overjoyed—without needing to force her into bundled purchases, she was the one actively buying add-ons. Where else could one find a customer like this?
As Chen Luoru was leaving, the associate added: “Our store will soon be hosting a tea party. Would you be available to attend?”
“When?” Chen Luoru had also attended many membership events hosted by luxury boutiques in the UK, so she was long used to them.
“Next Saturday. If you can leave me your contact, I’ll send you the details.”
After shopping, Chen Luoru was in a good mood, stepping lightly as she headed to the next store, with the bodyguards carrying bright orange-red shopping boxes behind her.
The psychological shadow from that day in London hadn’t yet faded for the bodyguards. They wondered how much Madam would buy today. With so many bags, could she even carry them all?
At three in the afternoon, Chen Luoru found a café and sat down to rest.
She ordered an iced mocha and a small piece of Black Forest cake, passing the time with her phone while enjoying her afternoon tea.
It was Friday. Office workers didn’t have the leisure to be out shopping; only an idle wealthy lady of a rich family like her could wander the streets like this.
Chen Xiao was busy writing a report that had to be submitted before she got off work, so she had no time to keep her company. Chen Luoru could only entertain herself.
Suddenly, Chen Luoru noticed a red notification dot on the app she had used to read novels two days ago.
She tapped it open and saw that the comment she had left had received dozens of replies.
【Author “The Wind Blows and Blows”: So this is the reason you threw eggs at me? Did your mom only give birth to you but forget to teach you how to behave?】
【Reader 1: Author, don’t be angry. Don’t bother with this kind of person.】
【Reader 2: Where did this nitpicker come from? Must be an elementary kid on vacation.】
【Reader 3: Such a big-name bag without a zipper? Never heard of it.】
【Reader 4: Hahahaha, if it can’t be dry-cleaned and can’t be washed with water, how exactly are you supposed to clean it?】
【Reader 5: And saying don’t wear CL shoes to shop—I think it’s just because you can’t afford them.】
【Reader 6: What’s this nonsense about applying for a flight route? Talking like you own a private jet.】
【Reader 7: Nowadays pretending doesn’t cost money.】
…
The good mood that shopping had finally cured instantly turned gloomy for Chen Luoru.
Sitting amid a pile of luxury shopping bags, being mocked online as “poor”—what kind of magical realism was this?
She then noticed a later comment that said: “Saw the author’s Weibo and specially came here to comment. How much of a failure must someone be in real life to come online looking for a sense of existence?”
The author’s… Weibo?
Chen Luoru opened Weibo, typed in the author’s pen name, and sure enough, found an account with a hundred thousand followers.
Clicking into it, she saw that her own comment had been reposted by the author.
【@The Wind Blows and Blows: Worked hard to write something only to be egged by a nitpicker. Looked into her reader info, and I can’t help but feel she has ulterior motives.】
Below were two screenshots: one of her comment, and one of her record of tipping “Daydreamer” 10,000 yuan.
From the comments under the Weibo post, it seemed this “Wind Blows and Blows” had long been at odds with “Daydreamer.” And now with Chen Luoru’s involvement, the whole thing looked even stranger.
Chen Luoru was speechless. What was all this?
Out of nowhere, an author writing online novels had to turn it into some palace intrigue drama? Didn’t they think they were being overly dramatic?
So, Chen Luoru left a comment under that Weibo post:
@ChristinaChen: I’m the reader who left the comment. I bought your book, and now I don’t even have the right to leave a review? Also, let me answer a few of your questions:
I have many Birkins, and I’m certain this bag has no zipper;
This kind of clothing is worn a few times then thrown away—do you really expect to keep it until next year?
CL red-bottoms are only suitable for walking the red carpet. For shopping the heels break easily, they’re tiring to wear, and wearing them out shopping is asking for trouble.
My family’s private jet has to apply for a flight route every trip. Doesn’t your private jet need to apply?
Thanks for visiting. If you like this story, then I’m shamelessly asking you to visit NovelUpdates and give a 5⭐ review. (人❛ᴗ❛)♪тнайк чоц♪(❛ᴗ❛*人)