An army is raised for a thousand days, but used for only one.
The week after the Edison Chen photo scandal subsided, Li Fuqiang had Qian Dayou transfer nearly 1,000 square meters of commercial space on the first floor of the Guomao business district to Zhiwei's name. That afternoon, Qian Dayou personally delivered the property documents to Yayuan, the brown paper bag still bearing the seal of the law firm. Zhiwei was in her studio revising the new season's design drafts when she heard the doorbell ring; she only sent Xiaoyu to answer the door.
"Madam," Qian Dayou said, standing in the entryway, his tone more respectful than usual, "Mr. Li instructed me to give this to you."
Zhiwei looked up from behind the mannequin, still holding a pin in her hand. She took the document bag, and with a flick of her finger, retrieved the property certificate. Her gaze lingered on the area and location sections for a moment before she casually placed the document on the coffee table and continued adjusting the shoulder line of her suit jacket.
After seeing Qian Dayou off, Xiaoyu couldn't help but whisper a reminder: "Madam, this shop is in a prime location in the China World Trade Center; its market value is probably close to nine figures."
Zhiwei fastened the last bead, examined the outline of the clothes, and a faint smile curved her lips: "Mr. Li has always been fair in his rewards and punishments."
She naturally understood the meaning of this "reward"—it was both compensation for her outstanding performance at the press conference and an affirmation of her keeping quiet. She had handled that crisis brilliantly, not only preserving Li Fuqiang's dignity but also protecting the stock price of Fumao Group. This shop was the most tangible recognition of her "work ability."
The spring sunshine was beautiful outside the window, filling the studio with warmth. Zhiwei walked to the window, gazing at the newly blooming roses in the garden below. Suddenly remembering something, she turned to her assistant, Shiya, and said, "Clear my schedule for next month; I'm going to Shanghai for a while."
As usual, she flew to Shanghai over the weekend. Xu Anyi now lives in the Yunlan Sanatorium in the western suburbs, a place with a tranquil environment, top-notch medical facilities, and monthly fees comparable to a presidential suite in a five-star hotel. When Zhiwei arrived, the caregiver had just finished a routine check-up for Xu Anyi, and Aunt Mei was chatting with her in the living room.
"...To be honest, Weiwei has had a tough time," Aunt Mei's voice came through the slightly ajar door. "Those photos leaked, and she still had to force a smile and hold a press conference. You didn't see how awful the comments online were."
Xu Anyi's voice, though weary from illness, remained firm: "Weiwei has always been sensible. Since she says it's a private matter between her and her husband, we should believe her."
Zhiwei stood quietly outside the door for a moment before pushing it open and going in. The two elders immediately changed the subject. Aunt Mei held her hand and praised her for her good complexion, adding that the light apricot-colored knitted cardigan she was wearing made her look especially gentle. Zhiwei listened with a smile and placed the fresh lilies she had brought into a vase.
"What has Aunt Mei been busy with lately?" she asked, changing the subject at the opportune moment.
"Isn't it because I'm worried about Linlin's job?" Aunt Mei sighed. "Her company is laying off staff recently, and she's constantly on edge."
Zhiwei listened patiently, occasionally offering a few suggestions: "If Linlin is interested in the fashion industry, I have a few friends in Shanghai who are hiring. Although you'll start as an assistant, the career prospects are good."
After seeing Aunt Mei off, the room fell silent. Xu Anyi leaned against the headboard, gazing at the swaying bamboo shadows outside the window, and after a long while, she softly spoke, "Weiwei, Mom knows you're smart, but these days..."
"Mom," Zhiwei said, peeling an apple with smooth, even movements, the peel forming a long, continuous strip, "I've been training for this for a long time, and now that I'm getting paid, I should do my job well. This job pays well, the boss is easy to please, and it's no harder than other jobs."
She cut the peeled apple into small pieces, stuck toothpicks in them, and handed them to her mother. Xu Anyi looked at her daughter's calm profile and felt a pang of sorrow. Her daughter treated marriage like a job and crisis management like a performance evaluation, seemingly adept at it, but in reality, she had already wrapped her true feelings in layers. She was both gratified by her daughter's resilience and heartbroken that she had lost the common woman's longing for love so early.
Zhiwei took a tissue to wipe her hands, her tone relaxed: "You see, I didn't lose anything. One press conference and I got a whole floor of shops as a reward. This deal is a win-win. I can't see what people say online anyway."
Back in Beijing, orders for "Wei Nian" poured in. The launch event unexpectedly became the best advertisement, bringing Zhiwei's designs to the attention of a wider audience. Mrs. Zhang introduced several other wealthy ladies, each specifically requesting a unique design like "Hua Mei." Zhiwei maintained her own pace, accepting only three to five custom orders per month, but began sharing more of her everyday outfits on social media.
She never actively contacted any fashion bloggers, yet street photographers always managed to spot her. One afternoon in April, she was walking out of her studio wearing an oversized suit and wide-leg pants of her own design, carrying a canvas bag, when she was caught on camera by a photographer who had been lying in wait. The photo went viral online, and the light gray suit quickly became known as the "Rose Suit."
When she attended the UCCA art exhibition opening in May, she wore a simple black slip dress with only a pair of pearl earrings. This outfit was analyzed by fashion bloggers as "the ultimate interpretation of minimalism," and related topics on Weibo garnered over 100 million views.
The most unexpected was a set of supermarket street photos taken in June. She was wearing a baseball cap, a simple white T-shirt, and jeans, selecting fruit in the fresh produce section. Her casual and relaxed demeanor was completely different from her usual glamorous image, which sparked even more discussion.
These photos quietly circulated online, gradually shaping a unique style—not deliberately pursuing luxury, yet exuding an inherent sense of sophistication; not blindly following trends, yet always leading the way. A feature article in *VOGUE China* commented: "The charm of Shen Zhiwei's style lies in the fact that she wears whatever she looks like, rather than being controlled by the clothes. Her fashion attitude represents the aesthetic awakening of a new generation of elite Chinese women."
Zhiwei was trying on new sandals when she read this article in her studio. She raised an eyebrow slightly and put her tablet aside. A trendsetter? She never deliberately pursued such things; she simply expressed herself honestly. If someone happened to appreciate it, that was fate; if no one cared, she was happy with the peace and quiet.
Xiaoyu would sometimes show her trending posts on social media, and Zhiwei would just smile faintly: "Let others say what they want. We just need to focus on doing our own thing."
In the sweltering heat of July, Zhiwei and her team began preparing for the autumn/winter collection. She was planning the first flagship store for "Wei Nian" in the newly acquired shop, personally overseeing the interior design. One late night, she paced alone in the empty shop, her high heels clicking crisply on the unpaved concrete floor.
When Shi Ya brought over the late-night snack, she saw her standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing absently at the dazzling city lights outside.
"Miss Shen, would you like to rest first?" Shi Ya asked softly.
Zhiwei turned around, her eyes shining with the excitement of creation: "I'm thinking, maybe I should do a special series with a rose theme."
She picked up her sketchbook, the pencil scratching across the paper. A rose slowly bloomed on her skirt, its branches and leaves intertwined, carrying a touch of stubborn vitality. Outside the window, the summer night in Beijing was unbearably hot and humid. Zhiwei put down her pencil and went into the bathroom. The warm water washed over her body, and she closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift away. Those carefully prepared police reports, those hairstyles that were hard to tell were real or fake, those carefully cultivated images on social media—all of these were the protective net she had woven for herself.
As she dried herself, she paused in front of the mirror. Without makeup, she looked much younger than her actual age, her eyes clear, as if she were still that girl on the Columbia University campus, burning the midnight oil working on her design drafts. She gently touched her cheek, suddenly remembering her mother's words: "Weiwei, you're only in your twenties, you shouldn't live such a tiring life."
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