IDEI CH62

Ling Cangzhou’s mind went completely blank. He stared dazedly at Qi Yanning.

The temperature inside the cabin crept steadily upward. He felt as though Qi Yanning’s pleasant scent were quietly enveloping him, every breath saturated with woodsy undertones and sandalwood, threatening to drown him whole.

The cool touch upon his cheek gradually turned to scorching heat; that soft sensation seemed etched straight beneath his skin, burning feverishly and stirring a prickling, hypersensitive ache.

His heart pounded wildly against his ribs.

He had fantasized countless times about when and where his first kiss with Qi Yanning would happen.

It was supposed to be far in the future—perhaps after a movie ended, or following a romantic dinner date. Looking into Qi Yanning’s eyes, finally receiving silent permission, he would confess his feelings, then press a devout, burning kiss upon a magnanimously nodding A-Ning’s cheek.

Not like this—on an ordinary day, on an exhausted night.

Sensing his foul mood, A-Ning had bestowed a gesture of tender mercy upon him.

“I—A-Ning, I…” Ling Cangzhou’s breath came hot and ragged. Lifting his hands from the steering wheel, he had no idea where to place them, clutching at his trousers until deep creases formed in the fabric.

“Hm?” Qi Yanning arched an eyebrow lazily, a faint, bittersweet trace of wine lingering on his breath.

Ling Cangzhou felt as if he saw boundless indulgence in those eyes. Blood rushing to his head, he locked his gaze onto those exquisitely shaped lips and leaned forward.

Warm, damp breath brushed against a waiting palm.

Failing to get the outcome he craved, he lifted his eyes, looking at Qi Yanning with a mix of impatience and wounded grievance.

His eyes were rimmed red, glistening with damp light.

He murmured Qi Yanning’s name over and over in a thick, slurred voice.

“Be good,” Qi Yanning said with a soft laugh in his tone. “That’s too fast. Not yet.”

Ling Cangzhou ought to have felt disappointed, yet a swelling tide of contentment and joy filled his chest to bursting, leaving not a single crevice for disappointment to take root.

Drawing back a fraction, he lowered his head slightly to make it easier for Qi Yanning to stroke his hair. Pulling down the palm blocking his lips, he clasped it tightly in his hold.

At last, his restless hands found their rightful place. Qi Yanning’s hand was cradled between both of his, caressed inch by inch—from the rounded fingertips down the slender fingers to the thin, strong heel of his palm.

With a touch of assertive force, he laced the five fingers of his left hand between Qi Yanning’s, squeezing firmly, while his right hand wrapped around Qi Yanning’s wrist, his thumb rubbing gently as he felt the steady warmth and pulse beneath the skin.

His palms burned hot, warming Qi Yanning’s cool, jade-like skin.

Throughout these small, deliberate touches, Ling Cangzhou never once tore his eyes from Qi Yanning’s face. Staring straight into Qi Yanning’s eyes, his gaze burned with raw, undisguised possessiveness.

It looked as though he wanted to devour Qi Yanning down to the bone.

Yet Qi Yanning did not flinch by even a millimeter from that overwhelming intensity.

Letting out a soft chuckle, his voice dropped into a gentle murmur: “Yuchuan, I’m tired. Aren’t you going to drive?”

Qi Yanning watched the shift across Ling Cangzhou’s features. Freezing for a heartbeat, the man closed his eyes briefly to rein in his emotions; the ravenous wolf that had looked ready to tear someone apart moments ago instantly transformed back into an obedient hound.

Settling heavily back into his seat, Ling Cangzhou started the engine.

Inside the car, the thick, ambiguous tension seemed to disperse gradually in the cool breeze drifting through the cracked window.

And yet…

Qi Yanning glanced down at his left hand.

At this very moment, its fingers were tightly intertwined with Ling Cangzhou’s right hand, held securely within his grip.

Returning to the hotel suite, Ling Cangzhou hesitated several times as if wanting to speak, yet seeing the rare weariness etched across Qi Yanning’s face, he swallowed his words.

“A-Ning, go get some rest,” Ling Cangzhou took the makeup case from Qi Yanning’s hand and began organizing it for him.

Qi Yanning arched an eyebrow. Seeing his movements were careful and proper, he turned toward the bathroom to wash up.

When he emerged refreshed, under the warm glow of the living room lamps, Ling Cangzhou was still cleaning the makeup brushes Qi Yanning had used today. His movements were unpracticed yet endlessly patient, washing each brush until it was spotless.

He hadn’t even changed out of his evening attire; clad in a crisp dress shirt and tailored trousers, he looked every inch the corporate elite. Yet here sat the grand CEO beneath warm domestic lighting, meticulously washing cosmetic brushes utterly out of place in his hands.

Qi Yanning halted his steps, deeply charmed by this grounded, everyday side of Ling Cangzhou. Only after taking his fill of the sight did he walk forward slowly.

“A-Ning? Why aren’t you resting yet?” Ling Cangzhou’s gaze softened instantaneously, looking up at Qi Yanning with pure, unguarded joy.

“I came to thank Yuchuan,” Qi Yanning smiled.

Stepping directly before Ling Cangzhou, he cast a shadow across the overhead light.

“Is there nothing you wish to say to me?” Carrying the crisp, clean scent of a fresh shower, Qi Yanning sat down beside Ling Cangzhou.

How could Ling Cangzhou have nothing to say? His chest felt ready to explode from everything he was holding back!

“A-Ning!” His voice came out hoarse, straining involuntarily to lean closer while forcing himself to keep a respectful distance. “What are we… right now?”

What is our relationship?

What did that kiss in the car mean?

How do you truly feel?

…

Back when Qi Yanning had first stepped into that styling room on Your Star, Ling Cangzhou had felt as if a sudden gale had swept through a silent forest, bringing everything to vivid life in a single heartbeat.

It was a flutter of the heart he had never experienced before. With each passing encounter, that spark had grown into a lush, blooming garden.

He believed no one could remain immune to Qi Yanning’s allure.

What about Qi Yanning, then—did he harbor even a sliver of affection in return?

Countless tangled thoughts swirled within him; there was so much he longed to know, so much he wanted to ask. Yet in the end, he let out a soft laugh—ardent, open, and unashamed.

“I like you, A-Ning. From the very first time I saw you.”

“A-Ning, may I have the honor of being with you?” Ling Cangzhou looked deep into Qi Yanning’s eyes, brimming with anxious, unvarnished sincerity.

Once again, he handed the initiative squarely into Qi Yanning’s palms, sheathing his claws and lowering his head to slip willingly into Qi Yanning’s collar.

Qi Yanning had already prepared his answer earlier that evening.

Throughout his past life, he had fought endlessly merely to survive—battling disasters, battling kin, battling the cannibalistic politics of the imperial court. Yet he had occasionally overheard the innocent young palace maids under his protection whispering shyly about their fiancés beyond the palace walls.

“…Being with him brings me pure joy, and whenever we are apart, he never leaves my thoughts…”

He had never experienced such sentiment, nor had he cared to. He had assumed living a second life in this modern era would keep him equally insulated from romance—until Ling Cangzhou walked into his life.

Ling Cangzhou handled affairs with steady competence, yet treated him with fiery, unguarded devotion. Who could possibly dislike a large, loyal puppy whose eyes held nobody else?

The moment he realized he had begun looking forward to seeing Ling Cangzhou again, he already knew his answer.

“Then let’s give it a try,” Qi Yanning’s light, airy voice drifted down.

Ling Cangzhou’s wildly racing heart finally found solid ground. At last, he had placed the leash of his collar firmly into Qi Yanning’s hand.

He felt as though he were floating high among the clouds.

“So, Yuchuan,” Qi Yanning’s voice laced with amusement, “aren’t you going to give me a goodnight kiss?”

Ling Cangzhou reached out abruptly, wrapping the person before him in a tight embrace as his trembling lips pressed forward.

The hotel sofa was far too plush, yielding effortlessly beneath their weight. Qi Yanning sank back into the soft cushions, enveloped by the scorching warmth of Ling Cangzhou’s chest.

That tight, protective embrace brought him an overwhelming sense of security.

Wrapping one arm around Ling Cangzhou’s waist, he stroked the man’s back steadily with his other hand, soothing the eager, trembling Ling Cangzhou.

In the dim glow of late night, Qi Yanning claimed a loyal puppy belonging exclusively to him—and a passionate, breathless kiss.

The next morning, Qi Yanning woke up quite late. Rising lazily, he went to wash up.

Ling Cangzhou had sent him a flood of messages; starting from the moment he woke, he had practically photographed every wildflower along the sidewalk to share with him. Had work not kept him busy, the message count would likely have doubled.

Qi Yanning read through them one by one, replying to each in turn.

Right as he was reviewing Ling Cangzhou’s “imperial memorials,” a message popped up from Alaric:

[Alaric]: Qi, are you busy? Can we talk on the phone?

Arching an eyebrow, Qi Yanning dialed him immediately.

“Oh! Qi! Thank goodness you finally answered!” Alaric exclaimed, followed by a rapid torrent of his native language.

Unable to understand a word, Qi Yanning knitted his brows. Fortunately, another person took the phone shortly after—likely an interpreter.

“Hello, Mr. Qi,” the interpreter spoke politely. “Mr. Alaric wishes to inform you…”

Listening as the interpreter relayed Alaric’s explanation sentence by sentence, Qi Yanning finally pieced together what had transpired.

Originally, Alaric had planned to rest at home today, only to be dragged out by a friend working at a fashion magazine to observe their latest editorial shoot.

The magazine’s issue theme was “Fluidity,” which aligned closely with Aphrodite’s previous haute couture and ready-to-wear “Wind and Poetry” collection; consequently, the garments prepared for the shoot were pulled from Aphrodite’s prior season.

Yet the moment Alaric arrived on set and saw the makeup artist’s work, fury erupted.

The stylist had drawn inspiration from “the fluidity of history”—a somewhat superficial concept paired with several richly hued pieces from Aphrodite’s archive.

Had the execution stopped there, it would merely have been uninspired; however, the makeup artist harbored malicious ulterior motives. He had deliberately painted slanted, upturned monolids onto an Asian model with natural double eyelids, slapping exaggerated, garish blotches of rouge across her cheeks.

Adding insult to injury, without any creative necessity, he had jammed ornate hairpins into her hair and handed her a long opium-style smoking pipe as a prop.

Alaric exploded in rage the instant he laid eyes on it. Having visited China and befriended Chinese colleagues, he understood public sentiment and cultural sensitivities well.

This styling clearly harbored ill intent! He didn’t know whether the magazine had sanctioned it, yet since the garments belonged to Aphrodite, he refused to let the look proceed and drag his brand down into the mud alongside the stylist!

After storming up to the magazine’s senior executives to deliver a blistering tirade, he immediately dialed Qi Yanning.

He now held absolute faith in Qi Yanning’s mastery—and during Fashion Week, when every elite stylist was booked solid, Qi Yanning was easily the highest-caliber artist he could summon.

Although Alaric had berated the editorial team into agreeing to scrap the offensive look, the hot-tempered designer insisted that allowing that bigoted stylist to touch models wearing Aphrodite was an outright desecration of his brand. Yet firing the stylist outright met stiff resistance from the publication.

Thus, they needed a stylist capable of completely outclassing him—someone who could deliver vastly superior artistry and genuine high-fashion sensibility.

Qi Yanning was the reinforcement he had called in.

Grasping the full situation, Qi Yanning narrowed his eyes and agreed without hesitation.

He wanted to see firsthand just what caliber of skill this stylist who deliberately caricatured Chinese features possessed.

Packing his kit, Qi Yanning boarded the car Alaric dispatched and arrived swiftly at the magazine’s studio.

The publication was Trend, one of the world’s Big Five fashion bibles and an undisputed bellwether of global style.

Occupying a sprawling compound, the building featured stark, avant-garde architecture exuding minimalist elegance.

Following the interpreter toward the soundstage’s styling suite, Qi Yanning heard a shrill, effeminate male voice shouting loudly the moment he reached the doorway.

The interpreter’s expression darkened immediately.

“What is he saying?” Qi Yanning asked calmly.

“…He claims that’s simply what Chinese people look like, and instead of accusing him of caricaturing them, they should reflect on themselves,” the young Chinese interpreter replied tightly.

Narrowing his eyes, Qi Yanning stepped into the styling room.

A tall, heavy-set man wearing garish, theatrical makeup stood locked in a confrontation with Alaric. Wearing a mask of syrupy politeness, the words spilling from his mouth had driven Alaric nearly apoplectic with rage.

“He claims it’s based on historical Chinese cosmetics, and insists he even verified it with other makeup artists,” the interpreter translated.

Qi Yanning turned his gaze toward the model. She sat slumped dejectedly in the vanity chair, the long pipe set far aside on the counter. Her complexion had been powdered a sickly ashen gray, her brows thinned out, and beneath dark purple shadow, thick black eyeliner flicked sharply upward. Blush stretched harshly from the outer corners of her eyes down past her cheekbones in an unnatural diagonal band.

Qi Yanning observed carefully. Technically, the stylist’s hand was competent: the detailing was crisp, both sides of the face were symmetrical, and the color transitions were smoothly blended. That technical proficiency only made the malicious intent behind the design all the more reprehensible.

Lack of skill could be pardoned, but deliberate malice…

“Qi! You’re here!” Spotting Qi Yanning’s silhouette, Alaric hurried over to greet him.

Exchanging a brief greeting with Alaric, Qi Yanning stepped quietly to the side.

Just then, the executive overseeing the shoot—the magazine’s Deputy Creative Director—arrived on the scene.

Wearing a diplomatic smile, he attempted to smooth things over with Alaric. The magazine hoped to sweep the conflict under the rug, yet Alaric refused to budge an inch.

“Either replace this makeup artist, or I will pay the breach-of-contract penalty right now and pull Aphrodite’s styling rights from Trend!” Alaric thundered.

The Deputy Director let out a weary sigh. Never expecting Alaric to take such an uncompromising stance, he exhausted every persuasive angle before coaxing a single concession out of the designer.

“Trend has been a longtime partner of Aphrodite, so I will take one step back. Let the makeup artist I brought compete directly against him—whoever wins takes charge of the styling for this shoot. How does that sound?” Alaric’s tone was dead serious, clearly drawing his absolute bottom line.

The Deputy Director deliberated for a moment. A head-to-head showdown posed zero downside for the magazine; either way, superior styling would grace their pages. Reluctantly, he nodded in agreement.

“Mr. Alaric, how much time will your stylist require…” the Deputy Director offered a wry smile. “We must wrap photography within the next two days; our schedule cannot afford delays.”

“Qi!” Alaric called out.

Both the Deputy Director and the burly stylist followed Alaric’s gaze, spotting Qi Yanning standing poised in the corner.

“Ah, Mr. Qi.” Having attended Aphrodite’s runway show the previous evening, a flicker of pleasant surprise crossed the Deputy Director’s face.

Meanwhile, the resident stylist cast a disdainful, hostile glare in Qi Yanning’s direction, muttering a slur under his breath: “Yellow-skinned monkey.”

Alaric and the Deputy Director’s expressions shifted sharply, while Qi Yanning’s eyes narrowed into cold slits. Unfortunately for the man, he understood that insult perfectly.

Yet he paid the stylist no heed whatsoever, ignoring his existence entirely.

“Give me a model, and one hour,” Qi Yanning stated at an unhurried pace.

The fluidity of history? He had no interest in playing into such a contrived, superficial angle.

Aphrodite’s “Wind and Poetry” collection called for direct, visceral fluidity in hair and makeup.

Selecting an understated, ethereal gown from the wardrobe rack, Qi Yanning guided a model toward an open vanity station.

“Alaric, that particular garment…” The Deputy Director frowned deeply, looking rather anxious.

“Trust him,” Alaric said with absolute conviction. “He never fails to conjure miracles.”

“He is a miracle in himself.”