Chapter Thirteen: A Midsummer Night’s Banquet

At night, a corner of the villa at Fragrant Hill was still illuminated. The man held several photographs in his hand, his expression unreadable, his gaze lingering on them for a long time. Eventually, he dialed a number overseas.

The call was answered on the second ring, and the man's somber mood eased a little.

“Ling Tian?” The delicate, alluring voice was like a breath lingering at his ear for half a month, evoking a longing that was hard to resist. Huo Ling Tian remained impassive, his thumb gently caressing the image of the charming girl in the photograph.

“Do you miss me?” His deep, hoarse voice made Rong Qing’s cheeks flush, as if the ambiguous, tender feelings could travel through the phone. Did she miss him? Perhaps she did, otherwise why would her mind be full of the watch she had bought when her purse was snatched, and why would she have felt such despair when she fell? Rong Qing, this was supposed to be just a transactional game—how could she take it seriously?

She calmed herself, pulling back the emotions that threatened to spill over. “Of course I miss you. Don’t forget, I rely on you to make a living now.”

Her coquettish teasing instantly soured the man’s mood. Stubborn little woman! “Oh? I thought you were so enthralled with France that you’d forgotten all about me.” The man’s brow furrowed as he glared at the other man in the photograph, as if his gaze could pierce a hole through him.

Rong Qing sensed the shift in his mood, and wondered if men also had those days each month. Well, as a considerate, understanding, problem-solving, hardworking, and endlessly patient perfect lover, she ought to make concessions. With a coaxing, syrupy voice she soothed him, the sweetness making the sulking man feel mollified. “Ling Tian, just a few more days. I’ll be home next week, and I’ll cook you a feast and bring you gifts.”

Gifts? Huo Ling Tian’s ears perked up. He would never admit that his earlier foul mood had vanished, replaced by a faint joy.

“I want red wine and steak,” he demanded haughtily. The other man in the photograph was torn in half, the tall, handsome figure split apart.

Rong Qing replied gently, “Ling Tian, I have to hang up now, there’s still work to be done here.”

“All right.” Content, the man turned off the lights, changed into pajamas, and went to bed.

On the other side, Yan Lin’s eyes nearly blazed with fury. My dear lady, you’ve barely been out and already gotten yourself hurt—how will you attend tomorrow’s gala? The high-end dress he’d prepared couldn’t cover the scar on her elbow.

Rong Qing, the one involved, seemed unconcerned. “Yan Lin, if you keep frowning like that, you’ll age quickly!”

You know it! And who am I worrying for? Heartless little thing! Yan Lin struggled to restrain his simmering anger. He would never admit that even as a perfect assistant, she brought him unprecedented challenges.

“Evening gowns aren’t mandatory. Men have high-end suits to showcase their stature; women could have tailored suits too, no less striking than a man’s elegance.” These years, he’d seen countless evening dresses shrouded in chiffon—masterpieces from genius designers, yet even the most exquisite gowns could lead to aesthetic fatigue. Wearing a fancy dress to stand out was no longer enough; only innovation would catch the eye.

Yan Lin’s eyes shone with excitement—Rong Qing’s idea was daring and novel. If successful, it would cause a sensation in French society and open up the French market. Of course, there were risks; such a choice was thrilling and challenging. As he got to know her better, the surprises she brought increased…

“Fine, it’s too late to custom-make one, so we’ll check with the company to see if any recent pieces fit the bill.” Yan Lin acted swiftly, immediately drafting a new plan.

The Midsummer Night Gala was France’s most extravagant annual event, gathering nobles, celebrities, stars from the entertainment and fashion worlds, and several French aristocrats. Those who received invitations were either world-renowned artists or industry masters—a constellation of stars, dazzling and bright.

At the Hilton Private Club, luxury cars from around the globe crowded the underground parking lot. Handsome gentlemen and elegant ladies entered arm in arm. At the entrance, attendants carefully checked invitation cards, while outside, a crowd of journalists from various publications was held at bay.

“Aaron, isn’t that Aaron, the top model in the French fashion world?” The fans outside had already gone wild with excitement, screaming and cheering. Even Chinese students abroad waved his signs, shouting his name. His status in the entertainment industry was nothing short of legendary.

A silver-grey designer suit accentuated his striking physique, his face chiseled with godlike precision, and his deep blue eyes radiated a mysterious charm that could captivate countless hearts. His chestnut hair was meticulously styled, and the moment he appeared, he became the focal point of the crowd—some people needed only to exist to attract all attention.

Yet the man who caused such a stir didn’t linger, and was ushered directly into the hall.

Within half an hour, celebrities from all fields arrived, guaranteeing coverage in tomorrow’s fashion weekly.

Rong Qing was not an international superstar, yet for a newcomer from China to secure a ticket to the Midsummer Night Gala was explosive news back home. This year, only superstar Wen Rui from China had received such an honor.

She wore a striking tailored suit, perfectly framing her exquisite figure. The collar formed a subtle V, and a silver Chanel necklace gleamed faintly against her wrapped chest, sensual and full of feminine allure. Amidst a crowd of women in flowing dresses and ball gowns, she stood out—bold and commanding.

Rong Qing’s entrance caught everyone’s attention. Her makeup was flawless, her hair styled in a classical Chinese updo, lips a vibrant crimson—luxurious and seductive. If heaven had bestowed her unparalleled beauty, tonight she appeared almost like a bewitching spirit, exuding an enchanting aura.

“Wow, she really is a siren,” Aaron murmured, his blue eyes sparkling as he gazed at her under the lights.

Without a male companion, Rong Qing quickly drew the admiration of countless gentlemen. An unknown Eastern woman, holding a wine glass with effortless poise—her smile was perfect, her manners impeccable, her British accent flawless, charming even the French gentlemen. It turned out Eastern women weren’t always gentle and demure; there was a mesmerizing allure, fiercer and prouder than any French lady.

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