Chapter 60 Diplomatic Reception
Huo Yanli stared at the gold-embossed invitation in his hand, his brows furrowing slightly.
The invitation came from the closing reception of the China-EU Economic and Trade Cooperation Forum, jointly hosted by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the EU Delegation to China, and requested that guests bring a companion. He usually attends such occasions alone or with an assistant, but this time the invitation specifically stated "it is recommended to bring your wife or partner," which clearly indicates that the organizers had heard some rumors—about Mrs. Huo, who had never appeared in public before.
My phone vibrated on the table; it was a message from my mother: "I heard about the party. Take Zhiyi with you; it's an occasion she should attend."
Her tone left no room for argument. Huo Yanli knew that ever since Song Zhiyi relieved her mother's migraine with three acupuncture needles, her mother's attitude towards her had undergone a subtle change—from complete rejection, to mixed observation, and now to this almost "urging" approval.
He put down the invitation and dialed a number he rarely made.
The phone rang five times before being answered, with the soft sound of keyboard typing in the background.
"Mr. Huo?" Song Zhiyi's voice came through the receiver, calm and steady.
"It's me." Huo Yanli paused for a second. "Next Wednesday evening, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is hosting a reception for the China-EU Economic and Trade Cooperation Forum, and attendees are required to bring a companion. Are you... free?"
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, and only the sound of typing on a keyboard could be heard.
"Specific time and location?"
"Wednesday evening at 7 p.m., China World Hotel banquet hall."
Do I need an accompanying translator?
"It's not work, it's as..." Huo Yanli paused for a rare moment, "...as my date."
A longer silence.
Then Song Zhiyi said, "It's for work, I understand. I will be there on time."
Her answer was crisp and emotionless, like accepting a work assignment. Huo Yanli could even picture her expression as she spoke—calm, focused, already thinking about what to wear and what materials to bring that day.
“I’ll prepare the dress,” he said. “I’ll have it delivered to your dorm on Wednesday afternoon.”
“No need,” Song Zhiyi immediately refused. “I have formal attire. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has a uniform requirement.”
"But this is not the Ministry of Foreign Affairs' job."
“I know. But I’m a staff member of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and my attire needs to be appropriate for my status.” Her voice left no room for negotiation. “Thank you for your kindness, but it’s no trouble.”
Holding his phone, Huo Yanli suddenly felt a familiar sense of powerlessness. This feeling often arose when dealing with Song Zhiyi—she always politely drew boundaries, strictly defining their marital relationship as "work-related" or "contractual obligation," not allowing any private intrusion.
Including a dress.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Then I’ll pick you up at 6:30 on Wednesday evening.”
"I can go by myself; it's very convenient from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."
“Song Zhiyi,” Huo Yanli’s voice deepened, “As your husband, picking you up for the party is the most basic courtesy. It’s also part of the ‘work requirements’.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few more seconds.
“…Okay.” She finally relented. “Six-thirty, west gate of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
After hanging up the phone, Huo Yanli leaned back in his chair, watching the sky outside the window gradually darken. The setting sun gilded the CBD buildings with golden-red edges, like a grand farewell.
He recalled the day they got their marriage certificate more than two years ago, when she was the same way—accepting, but not committed; cooperating, but not integrated. It was as if this marriage was just a task for her to complete, and once the task was finished, she would return to her own track and continue running.
The phone vibrated again; it was a message from Ji Yun: "I heard you're taking Song Zhiyi to the diplomatic reception? Good for you, President Huo, you've finally figured it out."
Huo Yanli did not reply. He looked at it for a few seconds, then locked the screen.
He will see her at 6:30 p.m. on Wednesday.
---
At the same time, the Translation Department Office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Song Zhiyi put down the phone and continued typing. On the screen was a glossary of terms related to the China-EU trade agreement, which she needed to submit to her department for review tomorrow.
My colleague, Xiao Chen, peeked out from behind the partition: "Sister Song, was that your husband just now?"
"Um."
"Want to have dinner with you?"
"No, there's a cocktail party on Wednesday, and I need to attend."
Xiao Chen's eyes lit up: "A diplomatic reception? Is it the one at the China World Trade Center? I heard a lot of ambassadors and business leaders go there! Sister Song, what are you going to wear? Do you want me to go shopping with you for a dress?"
"No need, just wear a uniform." Song Zhiyi's eyes didn't leave the screen.
"A uniform?" Xiao Chen was stunned. "Wouldn't wearing a uniform be too formal for that kind of occasion?"
"Foreign Ministry staff members are required to wear formal attire or dress at international events. I choose formal attire," Song Zhiyi said calmly, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard as she revised the translation of a term.
Xiao Chen opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but ultimately swallowed it back. She looked at Song Zhiyi's focused profile and recalled the rumors in the department about this chief translator—rich in battlefield experience, fluent in multiple languages, and possessing excellent medical skills, but with a cold personality and rarely participating in any social activities outside of work.
"Well... Sister Song, do you need help with makeup? I'm pretty good at it..."
"Thank you, no need." Song Zhiyi finally raised her head and smiled politely at Xiao Chen. "A little light makeup is enough, just keep it natural."
The smile was faint, but gentle enough.
Xiao Chen nodded and retreated to her workstation. She heard Song Zhiyi's keyboard tapping resume, steady and rhythmic, as unwavering as her own heartbeat.
Outside the window, night fell. The lights of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building lit up one by one, like a giant ship sailing quietly in the deep sea.
Song Zhiyi completed the glossary and sent the email. Then she shut down her computer and packed her things.
When she walked out of the office, the corridor was already quiet. She stopped in front of a full-length mirror.
The woman in the mirror was dressed in a simple white shirt and black trousers, her hair tied in a low ponytail. She wore light makeup appropriate for the occasion and maintained basic social etiquette. Her gaze was calm, and overall she appeared clean and dignified, without any ostentatious or immediately memorable features.
She watched for a while, then turned and left.
As the elevator descended, she remembered Huo Yanli's words, "I will prepare the dress."
It wasn't that she was ungrateful. It was just that she felt that if something needed to be proven by a beautiful dress, then that in itself revealed something.
She is who she is.
Song Zhiyi, a translator for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. An orphan of a martyr. The daughter of a peacekeeping doctor. Fluent in eight languages and proficient in traditional Chinese medicine and acupuncture.
These identities do not require an expensive gown to adorn them.
The elevator reached the first floor, and the doors opened. She stepped out, into the cool night breeze of early autumn.
She will attend the cocktail party on Wednesday.
As Huo Yanli's wife and an employee of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, she was fulfilling a social etiquette obligation.
That's all.
She thought.
But somewhere deep inside, a very soft voice was saying: Is that really all there is to it?
She did not answer.
I simply quickened my pace and headed towards the subway station.
As night deepened, she needed to go back and prepare for tomorrow's work.
That was her world.
Real, concrete, and within reach.
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