Chapter 43 Exclusive Release Chapter 43 I'm having a blast, Fan...
Wynne's Window | Marriage vs. Career: What Makes a Winner in Life?
You're twenty-two, fresh out of college. To your left is a management trainee offer from a top company, and to your right is the engagement ring your boyfriend proposed with. Both boxes are exquisitely crafted with gold foil, but no one tells you which one to open, or rather, everyone tells you which one to open, just in different ways.
A fashion editor standing by the runway said, "Independence is the new sexiness."
The cover of the wedding magazine is titled: "Marry for love, live like a fairy tale."
On social media, some people are showing off their newly won project bonuses, while others are sharing photos of sunrise silhouettes from their island weddings.
Marriage and career are never opposing options.
The fashion world loves to create dichotomies: haute couture vs. ready-to-wear, classic vs. trendy, female power vs. gentle wifely charm. But truly stylish people know how to mix and match, like pinning their grandmother's antique brooch to a deconstructed suit.
Life is the same.
Marriage is not a cage, nor is a career a temple. They are both containers that hold your vitality in different dimensions.
The question is: How much of yourself do you want to put in which container?
The cruelest yet fairest rule of fashion: trends fade, but style lasts forever.
Look at your career on your left, look at your marriage on your right, and then look at the complete, complex, and full of possibilities you see in the mirror.
Then she asked softly, "How do I want to portray myself today?"
Maybe today you want to wear your wedding ring, put on flat shoes, and go to the market to pick out ingredients for dinner.
Maybe today you want to put on red lipstick, put on high heels, and go to the negotiating table to secure your dream project.
Perhaps today you just want to lie on the sofa with a bare face and read a novel that has nothing to do with anything.
Whichever you choose, as long as you make a conscious choice and fully embrace it, that is the best fashion statement.
But for me, marriage? Perhaps one day, when I can say "I am Wynne" without any suffix, I will rethink its meaning.
But not now. Right now, I'm busy becoming my own chief designer, sketching out the next season of my life.
Wynne Meng | Global VIC Relations Consultant, Chanel | Invited Researcher, Guggenheim Museum
*
After finishing all her work in Paris, Yuan Ning returned to New York City; the Casanova project needed to move forward.
Fortunately, Prince Esposito eventually signed the agreement and became one of the twelve founding members of the Casanova workshop.
With his endorsement, recruiting other members would be much easier, but Yuan Ning still wanted to try her best to get Marta.
After returning to her apartment in New York, Yuan Ning quickly packed her luggage and began to seriously consider returning to China.
Outside the window, New York City is experiencing the delicate transition from winter to spring. Faint green shoots emerge from the bare branches of Central Park, but the wind still carries the chill of the Hudson River.
Yuan Ning stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a cup of black coffee that had gone cold.
The decision to return to China was harder than she had imagined.
The restoration plan for Dunhuang was her only bargaining chip to persuade Marta. But getting Marta and Mrs. Olivia to agree to hand over a precious 1947 dress to her, a student who hadn't even started working yet, to take back to China, thousands of miles away, was virtually impossible.
Putting everything else aside, at six o'clock in the evening, she arrived at the Van der Berg mansion on time.
This is her job.
She hadn't seen Elias since they parted ways in Paris.
There were no phone calls or text messages.
The two of them were back to the beginning, in an employer-employee relationship, with nothing else existing.
Yuan Ning has always been a very open-minded person.
The snow in Switzerland, the rain in Paris, Elias gently asking me in the car late at night, "Want to spend Christmas with me?"—she sealed them all away and continued on her way.
The black oak doors slid open silently. Dorotha stood in the foyer, wearing her usual black uniform skirt, a professional smile on her face.
"Good evening, Miss Wynne. Mr. Elias is in the study; please go directly to the dressing room."
"Thank you, Dorotha." Yuan Ning took off her cashmere coat and handed it over, revealing a simple black knit dress and flat shoes underneath.
The corridor was as quiet as ever.
Yuan Ning walked forward along the main corridor, preparing to turn right into the side corridor leading to the cloakroom.
Elias van der Berg is coming down the stairs at the other end.
He held a book in his hand, Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray," his gaze lowered, seemingly completely immersed in his own world.
The two met in the middle of the corridor.
As the familiar scent drew near, Yuan Ning's heart pounded like a drum.
Unfortunately, the other party did not pay any attention to her.
The gentleman revealed his cold and arrogant side, leaving Yuan Ning at a loss.
Good evening, boss.
As he brushed past her, she turned and said something.
Elias paused briefly.
“Miss Wynne,” he nodded slightly, “please go ahead.”
Yuan Ning could only see a third of his profile; he seemed to be annoyed with even the slightest bit of emotion from her.
“Boss,” Yuan Ning called out to him again, “According to the schedule Richard sent, you need to be interviewed by a Financial Times reporter tomorrow. I have prepared two outfits for you. In order to better match the magazine background, I think you should try them on. If there is anything that is not suitable, I can adjust it in time.”
Her attitude was so professional, as if it were devoid of any personal feelings.
Elias finally stopped, and in the light of the corridor wall lamps, Yuan Ning could only see his blurry face.
The overhead light in the walk-in closet turned on automatically.
Yuan Ning walked in, took out the suit she had chosen beforehand, and laid it flat on the table.
After Elias entered, he sat down on the sofa by the round table, and Yuan Ning's gaze inevitably fell on the book in his hands.
What are you reading?
She turned around, hung up her suit jacket, and took out a garment steamer.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray,” he said softly.
The hiss of steam from the garment steamer in Yuan Ning's hand was particularly clear in the quiet dressing room.
With her back to him, she slowly read aloud the sentences from the book:
"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."
(The only way to escape temptation is to succumb to it.)
He paused, his gaze fixed on her.
Yuan Ning slowly turned around, the steam iron in her hand continuously spewing white steam, forming a hazy barrier between her and him.
She couldn't see him clearly, and he couldn't see her clearly either.
She slid her thumb to turn off the steam iron, then turned around and took off her suit.
"It's ironed, let's try this one first."
Then she went to the accessories counter, opened the glass door, and selected matching cufflinks and lapel pins.
Elias closed the book and placed it on the sofa beside him.
Yuan Ning unfolded her dark gray double-breasted suit, held the inside of the collar with both hands, and walked up to him.
Elias stood up, and she went behind him and draped her suit jacket over his shoulders.
Then she moved in front of him and began to button his shirt.
“The Financial Times interview was about ‘the positioning and transformation of traditional capital in the wave of technology.’ I suggested choosing more modern fabrics and cuts to soften the overly classic silhouette,” she began. “This outfit is a dark gray worsted fabric from Scabal’s new season, 180 count, with a moderate sheen, giving it an authoritative feel without being outdated.”
He did not respond.
She fastened the second button, and instead of immediately removing her fingers, she smoothly moved them downwards to smooth out a barely visible, tiny crease on the front of her suit jacket.
“Lift your head,” she said.
He obediently raised his chin slightly. Her fingers moved to below his Adam's apple, adjusting the junction of his shirt collar and suit lapel.
As Yuan Ning moved professionally and without overstepping boundaries, she recalled the warmth of his lips when he kissed her.
She suddenly stopped what she was doing.
"Elijas".
She called him by his name, no longer "boss." Her voice was very soft, almost drowned out by the rustling of her clothes.
His icy blue eyes finally focused on her face.
"Are you still angry?" she asked. Her gaze didn't waver, meeting his directly. Her fingertips were still resting on the side of his neck.
Elias did not answer, but simply looked at her.
She pulled her hand away from him, turned and opened the glass cabinet door, her fingertips gliding over a row of cufflinks before finally choosing a pair of simple platinum square cufflinks inlaid with black onyx.
“Hands,” she said.
He extended his wrist. She knelt down. This was the most convenient height to adjust her cuffs.
Unbutton his old cufflinks and put on new ones.
“I admit I misspoke,” she continued, her eyes downcast, focused on her hands. “Elijas, we are not just employer and employee, partners.”
After she finished speaking, she looked up at him.
He looked down at her: "Is there any difference, Miss Wynne?"
She lowered her head again, fastened one cufflink, switched to the other side, and repeated the same action. She did not look up.
"Of course."
She didn't say anything more until she had completely straightened her cufflinks, then she stood up, took a step back, and examined the overall effect.
The suit fits perfectly, with just the right amount of shirt edge peeking out from the cuffs.
“Perfectly suited,” she commented, her gaze sweeping over him with professional expertise. “In tomorrow’s interview, you will be the most authoritative and forward-thinking spokesperson in the entire event.”
She walked behind him and straightened his collar and shoulder line. Her hand lingered briefly on his back to make sure the fabric was smooth.
She spoke from behind his ear: "Elijas, the difference is, I like you, but that's all."
She slowly withdrew her hand and looked in the mirror.
Elias, in the mirror, gazed into her own eyes with his icy blue eyes.
"You like me." He repeated these four words, his voice low, as if he were chewing on the texture of these unfamiliar words.
The two gazed at each other in the dim light, their eyes clear, yet unable to touch.
Yes, I like you.
“Wynne, I don’t understand.”
“What can’t you understand, Elias? You’ve known from the beginning that I’m not someone who forms deep connections with people through intimacy.”
The walk-in closet was enveloped in a more private and hazy atmosphere. Only a few warm yellow wall lamps in the distance cast long shadows, which intertwined and distorted on the dark wooden floor and walls.
Elias closed his eyes, as if he was suppressing something, and then opened them again.
"Wynne, what were you thinking when we were in the cabin, doing this?"
*
Yuan Ning relayed the possible solutions for removing the stains that Gao Ran had sent her to Marta.
Marta was somewhat interested, but still didn't trust her.
“Although I would love to give you this opportunity, Mrs. Olivia would never feel comfortable entrusting the dress to you. If you were to damage it, little girl, how do you plan to compensate me?”
Yuan Ning's heart sank. She should have expected this.
“Although your credibility is insufficient, if you can find a sufficiently influential intermediary to vouch for you, Mrs. Olivia might agree,” Marta finally said.
Yuan Ning sighed softly. In the end, it was still because her name, "Wynne Meng," was still nobody in New York City.
"Okay, Marta, I understand. I'll think of something else."
After hanging up the phone, the name, along with everything that name represented—cold elegance—emerged almost instantly in Yuan Ning's mind.
At 3:00 PM, in the rooftop meeting room of Percival Capital.
Camille Carter, a senior reporter for the Financial Times, sat on a low, custom-made Italian sofa and gently placed a voice recorder down.
Across from her stood Elias van der Berg, wearing the dark grey Scabal fine-woven suit that his stylist had carefully selected and ironed for him the previous night, paired with her chosen platinum and black onyx cufflinks and a soft, silver-grey tie.
Sunlight streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows as he sat languidly on the sofa, his eyes calmly fixed on the reporter, awaiting the first question.
The air was thick with the low hum of electronic devices, the warmth of freshly printed reports, and a barely perceptible tension. It was the collective anxiety stemming from the unsettling fluctuations that the Nasdaq index was beginning to exhibit after its unprecedented surge.
Carter noticed a few details: next to him was not a laptop, but a freshly published copy of the Wall Street Journal, still wet with ink, with annotations in his elegant silver Montblanc pen.
His watch was a minimalist Patek Philippe Calatrava with a gold case and a black alligator leather strap, which seemed out of place amidst the flashing electronic trading screens around him.
What was most striking was his posture when he answered an emergency internal phone call.
Without raising his voice or making exaggerated gestures, he simply stated in a clear, restrained tone: "Reduce our position in Sun Microsystems by another five percent. No, no discussion, execute." He then hung up, turned to Carter, and nodded slightly: "Sorry, please continue."
“Mr. Van der Berg,” Carter adjusted the recorder, his gaze sharp, “the Nasdaq has risen more than 80% in the past year, while Percival Capital’s exposure to tech stocks has consistently remained at a ‘cautious’ level. Many people think you’ve missed out on this biggest wave. What’s your take on this ‘conservatism’?”
“Ms. Carter, the word ‘wave’ is interesting. It means surging, power, and also… it recedes. Investing is not surfing. Our responsibility is not to dance on the crest of the wildest wave, but to ensure that our clients’ assets are still on solid sand after the tide goes out, rather than hanging precariously on some sharp reef.”
His metaphors bear the marks of old-fashioned elegance, and his word choice is precise.
Carter shifted the topic to a broader level: "So, in your opinion, what is most important when making investment decisions—returns or risks?"
Elias was silent for a few seconds, then slowly spoke:
“Emotion. Beyond data and algorithms, emotion is the only irrational decision in investing. Capital flows, technology iterates, social classes are reshaped, but emotion… can lead to the most insane mistakes. On Wall Street, we call it the ‘irrational variable.’”
Carter astutely pressed further: "So you believe that emotions are an unavoidable risk in investing?"
He replied, "No. Emotions are the only 'long-term asset' worth betting on."
Carter pressed further: "Have you made any investments recently based on 'emotion'? Aren't you worried about huge losses due to 'irrational variables'?"
Elias paused meaningfully, and after a moment, he answered the first question: "No."
After the interview, Elias returned to his office.
Manhattan outside the window was bathed in the afternoon sunlight, the glass curtain walls of the skyscrapers reflecting a cold light, like countless giant mirrors of reason.
He didn't sit down immediately, but walked to the floor-to-ceiling window that took up the entire wall and drank a cup of Boston black tea.
He turned and went back to the 18th-century English-style mahogany desk, without any extra emotion.
He processed several encrypted emails and approved a proposal from the risk management department to further tighten exposure to certain overvalued technology stocks.
The internal phone rang.
“Boss,” it was Richard’s voice, “there’s an email from Miss Wynne’s private inbox labeled ‘Casanova Project Progress Report.’ Should I print it out for you, or send it to your private inbox?”
“Send it directly, Richard.” He hung up the phone and his gaze returned to the screen.
A few seconds later, the encrypted mailbox beeped, and an email from Wynne.Meng@…… lay quietly at the top of the inbox.
Yuan Ning waited all afternoon but did not receive a reply from Elias.
She closed her laptop, and as the screen went dark, her somewhat bewildered face was revealed.
The Casanova project has faced numerous challenges since its inception.
Elias wasn't unwilling to help her. Sometimes she thought that, given his current attitude towards her, if she said a few soft words and acted coquettishly, even though he was very principled, he would definitely side with her.
The gentleman's inclination was very useful; he only needed to do a little bit to get her through the difficult time.
She had used these methods before to gain advantages from him.
But for some reason, even though using those methods now would make it easier to achieve her goals, she felt it was pointless.
My mother just called to ask if I'm coming back to China for Chinese New Year this year, and what my plans are as I graduate. She said that it's fine for a girl to choose to build a career or to choose a good marriage, but the premise is that she has a plan.
"No matter what, Nini, you must stay there, stay where you belong, don't give in to them, do everything you can to live the best life you can."
What can Yuan Ning say? She is still struggling, but she was just a little bit away from becoming Wynne van der Berg, who would have land, estates, fame, and an easy career path.
Sometimes she's confused about herself, wondering why she has to refuse.
She took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing her anxiety, and got up to go to the kitchen.
She didn't add many things to the apartment, but the kitchen was the place she had decorated with a little care.
A Miele induction cooker, a minimalist German WMF cookware set, and a glass jar that is always filled with fresh lemons and mint.
When she's anxious, she tends to fill her time with concrete tasks, especially those that require focus and physical exertion.
She tied on a light gray linen apron and took out chicken breast, asparagus, bell peppers, and quinoa from the refrigerator.
She cut the chicken breast into even strips and marinated it with sea salt, black pepper, and a little Dijon mustard. She brought the water to a boil and added the quinoa.
Heat a skillet, pour in olive oil, and slide the chicken strips into the pan, making an enticing sizzling sound. The kitchen is soon filled with the simple and clean aroma of food.
Cooking was something she only started learning after she went bankrupt.
Controlling the heat and adjusting the flavors transforms seemingly random ingredients into a healthy, delicious meal that meets her current health needs. This is one of the few things that brings her a sense of certainty.
Dinner was quickly prepared: pan-fried chicken breast with roasted asparagus and bell peppers, served with a quinoa salad seasoned with lemon juice and fresh herbs.
She carefully arranged the food on a small table placed by the window. The main light wasn't on; only a Danish-brand mushroom-shaped table lamp was lit, its warm yellow glow enveloping the single-person table.
She sat down and ate slowly, chewing each bite carefully.
A respectable appearance requires a respectable lifestyle to maintain, even when you are alone.
My phone is right next to me.
After dinner, she washed the dishes, wiped down the stove, and put everything back in its place.
Next up is "Wynne's Window".
She went to her desk, turned on her computer again, logged into the Blogger backend, and began writing a new blog post.
As I tap the keyboard, I transform the ideas I conceived this afternoon into words. This time, the theme is "Sustainable Refreshing of Your Spring Wardrobe: Ten Ways to Style Three Classic Pieces."
After this period of time, her blog has gained over 10,000 followers, and the three classic items featured in this blog post were all provided by the brand.
After finishing her blog post, she closed the page. The time was 6:30 PM.
The phone screen lit up briefly, and she opened it to check.
"Come to the Van der Berg mansion at eight o'clock tonight, and I will sign the guarantee agreement for you."
Yuan Ning's heartbeat paused for a moment, then pounded against her chest at an even faster pace.
She took a deep breath and replied with only one word:
"good."
At 7:45, she drove her Ferrari across the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights of the bridge cables forming flowing golden lines outside the car window, and the night view of the East River unfolding beneath her feet.
She was focused on driving and didn't notice that as she drove into Willow Street, a quiet road lined with ancient oak trees, Elias's black Bentley was right behind her, like a silent shadow.
The imposing brownstone mansion gradually came into view in the night.
After coming to a complete stop, she quickly turned off the engine, grabbed her handbag, and got out of the car.
Just then, the door of the Bentley behind us opened, and the first thing to step out was a gleaming square-toed leather shoe, followed by impeccably tailored charcoal gray trousers.
Elias stepped out of the car, looking like he had just finished a formal occasion; his blond hair was impeccably styled.
Yuan Ning stopped in her tracks. Elias's gaze swept quickly across her face without any change. He strode up the steps with steady steps.
He walked straight past her. Yuan Ning stood there, and only after he went inside did she come to her senses and quickly followed him.
“Good evening, Miss Wynne,” Dorotha greeted her.
"Good evening, Dorotha." Yuan Ning tried to make her voice sound natural as she took off her coat and handed it to him.
Elias had already headed towards the study, walking quickly without stopping or waiting.
Yuan Ning followed a few steps behind him. She could smell the scent emanating from him, a mixture of cool perfume and the chill of the outside air, and she could also feel the invisible, cold, low pressure emanating from him.
She gripped her handbag tightly; she was there to discuss serious business.
The two walked silently to the study door, one after the other. Elias pushed open the dark green door and went inside.
He had his back to her, but his hand paused for a moment before opening the door for her.
The fireplace in the study was burning brightly, and Yuan Ning was casually wearing a light blue cashmere sweater.
This reminded her of the nights in Switzerland.
He casually draped his coat over the sofa armrest, took off his leather gloves, and sat down behind his desk.
Yuan Ning was about to open her mouth to say something, such as a greeting.
Elias cut straight to the point: "I can sign a guarantee agreement for you, but Miss Wynne, I won't clean up your mess. If you don't handle it well, the combined wrath of Mrs. Olivia and Marta could very well make it impossible for you to stay in New York City any longer."
"I know."
He took out a pre-prepared agreement from the drawer; the paper was thick, indicating that he hadn't reduced any necessary procedures by inducing her.
“Then, let’s get straight to the terms.” Elias began, his voice as calm as if he were presenting a quarterly financial report. “Based on the proposal in your email and our assessment, the main framework of the agreement is as follows: Percival Capital and I will provide a full credit guarantee for Mrs. Olivia’s 1947 dress cross-border restoration project and will be responsible for coordinating insurance coverage of 85% of the valuation. The remaining risks and potential liabilities will be borne by the guarantor.”
“As consideration and for risk hedging, you will need to sign a supplementary agreement.” He paused, his gaze landing squarely on her face. “If the dress suffers permanent damage or depreciation due to your fault (including but not limited to repair errors, improper transportation, or flaws in the design), you shall compensate with all of your profit-sharing rights from the Casanova project over the next ten years. Any shortfall shall be offset by services of equivalent value. The content, standards, and duration of the services shall be defined by the guarantor.”
Yuan Ning's fingertips curled slightly under her sleeve, but her expression remained unchanged.
He really is... not giving an inch.
It seems she really annoyed him enough.
*
"Wynne, what were you thinking when we were in the cabin, doing this?"
"What are you thinking? I was having the time of my life, Mr. van der Berg. Do I have to say it? Your perfectly styled blond hair was in my hands, your back muscles were tense as I pinched them with my fingers, and those muffled groans in your throat... I only had one thought in my mind at that moment, I was having the time of my life. Is that specific enough, boss?"
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