Qin Yuzheng leaned against a pillar, a faint smile playing on his lips.
If any of his subordinates had seen him now, their jaws would have dropped. Since when did the Secretary wear such an unmistakably lovestruck smile? It was almost unsettling.
At meetings, banquets, and every sort of social gathering, most people’s words were meant for someone else. They carried motives, strategies, carefully baited hooks waiting for the right fish to bite.
But Yang Zhiyan was different.
When she spoke, it was as though she’d forgotten anyone else was there. It was as if she were talking only to the qipao, to the white magnolias, to the moonlight.
She truly loved qipao.
There was light in her eyes whenever she talked about them.
Yang Zhiyan led the couple to another dress displayed on the right—a lotus-purple Xiangyunsha silk qipao.
“This one doesn’t have any embroidery,” she said, tilting her head toward it. The expression in her eyes was one unique to artisans admiring their own work, like looking at one’s own child—both proud and critical.
“It’s not that I didn’t embroider it. The fabric itself is already beautiful enough. Xiangyunsha silk is dyed with yam juice, creating a natural coating on the surface that gives it a very distinctive texture. Adding embroidery would only be excessive. Qipao design is all about moderation. Once you go too far, it becomes overdone. And once it’s overdone, it becomes vulgar.”
Too much becomes excessive. Excessive becomes vulgar.
Qin Yuzheng silently repeated her words.
They reminded him of the calligraphy and paintings hanging in his grandmother’s study. An old master had once explained similar principles to him—”Knowing white while preserving black,” “Treating empty space as solid.” It was all about the art of restraint, the beauty of leaving space.
He hadn’t expected to hear the very same philosophy today—from the lips of a young woman at a qipao exhibition.
“Look at the pleats on this collar.”
Yang Zhiyan bent slightly, her fingertip pointing at the fine folds along the neckline.
But all Qin Yuzheng could see was her profile, her slender fingers, her lips moving gently as she spoke, the braid resting over her shoulder, and the dark emerald ribbon tied at its end.
Dark emerald.
The very same color as the qipao she’d made for his grandmother.
His gaze lowered.
The exhibition hall’s polished gray marble floor reflected faint silhouettes. He saw his own shadow stretched across it.
Alone.
He suddenly thought that if she were the one chatting endlessly beside him about ordinary family matters, even that would probably sound pleasant.
He looked up again.
She was bidding the couple farewell, bowing slightly with that gentle, perfectly measured smile on her face. Then she turned around, her gaze sweeping across the exhibition hall—
—and met his.
Yang Zhiyan visibly froze for a second.
What a coincidence, she thought.
We’ve run into each other three times in just a few days.
She stood there, still holding the exhibition brochure, unconsciously rubbing its edge with her fingertips.
Qin Yuzheng straightened away from the pillar and walked toward her.
It took him only a dozen steps.
As he crossed the distance, the lights overhead spilled across his shoulders before sliding away behind him.
The crowd around them blurred into the background.
Only she remained clear.
Standing before the pale gray display wall, with her qipao, her name, and her world behind her.
He stopped in front of her.
A perfect social distance—close enough to read the subtle expressions on her face, yet not so close as to make her uncomfortable.
“M-Mr. Qin?”
Yang Zhiyan looked at him, her long eyelashes fluttering twice like a butterfly’s wings.
“You’re here for the exhibition too?”
Qin Yuzheng looked at her.
Her braid rested over one shoulder, the ribbon at its end fluttering lightly in the cool breeze from the air conditioner.
The collar of her qipao wasn’t cut high, revealing a graceful stretch of collarbone and the delicate hollow beneath it.
The fingers hanging at his side twitched.
His fingertips brushed against the seam of his trousers as he suppressed the impulse to lift his hand.
“My grandmother is interested in qipao,” Qin Yuzheng said. “I came to take a look with her in mind.”
Yang Zhiyan nodded gently.
“I see.”
“Would you like me to show you our collection, Mr. Qin?”
She stepped aside, revealing the three qipao behind her, and extended an arm in a polite gesture.
“Please.”
Qin Yuzheng took one step forward.
The distance between them shrank from one meter to half.
He caught the faint fragrance lingering around her.
“This dark green one,” Yang Zhiyan said, pointing to the dress in the center, “is the same one I made for your grandmother. It’s made from the same fabric.”
“It’s beautiful,” Qin Yuzheng replied.
Whether he meant the dress or the person wearing the smile beside it…
Only he knew.
“Everything you make is beautiful.”
Yang Zhiyan’s fingers tightened around the edge of the brochure.
She lowered her head, pretending to flip through it.
The tips of her ears were burning.
“Miss Yang.”
His voice drifted down from above.
She raised her head politely to meet his eyes.
“You have a profound understanding of qipao.”
So Mr. Qin actually knows quite a bit about qipao culture, she thought.
“My master taught me well.”
At the mention of her master, pride and gratitude colored her voice.
Qin Yuzheng didn’t respond.
He simply looked at her, as though waiting for her to continue.
The background music changed.
The nostalgic jazz from old Shanghai faded away, replaced by a solo pipa performance.
The notes were crisp yet lingering, each one springing from the strings, bouncing beneath the exhibition hall’s lofty ceiling before slowly dissolving into the air.
“Mr. Qin,” Yang Zhiyan suddenly said, “last time you mentioned wanting a qipao made for your mother. What color does she like?”
In truth, he had never considered it.
When he’d added her on WeChat that day, saying it was for his mother’s birthday qipao had simply been an excuse.
His mother’s birthday was still months away.
“She…”
His eyes swept over the row of qipao before settling on the moon-white one.
“She prefers simple, understated colors.”
Yang Zhiyan nodded seriously, took out her phone, and typed a note:
Qin’s mother — prefers understated colors.
“Would it be convenient for you to provide her measurements? Height, weight, shoulder width, waist, bust, and hips?”
She looked up with the same businesslike expression she’d worn while explaining the frog closures earlier—serious, professional, entirely free of personal emotion.
Watching her carefully typing on her phone, Qin Yuzheng found her incredibly earnest.
He was racking his brains trying to get closer to her.
Meanwhile, she was diligently planning his mother’s custom tailoring.
“I’ll measure her and send them to you later,” he said.
“All right.”
She put her phone away.
“When would you need it by?”
“Next month.”
“That’ll be enough time.” She calculated quickly. “A normal custom order takes twenty days to a month. If it’s urgent, I can finish it in fifteen days, but rushing the schedule may affect quality control. I’d recommend—”
“No rush,” Qin Yuzheng interrupted.
“Quality takes time. Just follow your normal schedule.”
“Thank you for trusting me, Mr. Qin.”
Watching her smile, Qin Yuzheng felt something lightly bump against his heart.
At some point, the pipa music had ended.
The sounds around them gradually softened, as though someone had slowly turned down the volume of the entire exhibition hall.
Standing only half a meter apart, he could see the curve of her eyelashes.
He could even see the fine baby hairs on the tip of her nose glowing softly beneath the lights.
He wanted to say something.
Anything.
Ask if she’d like to have lunch together.
Ask whether there were more events scheduled for the exhibition that afternoon.
But those weren’t questions someone in their current relationship could ask.
It was too soon.
He would only frighten her away.
“I won’t keep you from your work,” Qin Yuzheng said.
“I’ll be going now.”