It was one or two in the morning, and night had already deepened.
The streets of Hangbei still blazed with lights, making the stars overhead seem dim in the glow of the city’s prosperity.
A red light flashed ahead, and a black Aston Martin came to a smooth stop behind the line.
The car window slid down slowly. A slender, refined hand holding a cigarette extended out and rested on the window frame.
Su Yicen frowned slightly, weariness evident in his dark eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. He tapped off the ash with his finger, and the glowing ember flared bright in the passing breeze.
The wind carried white smoke back into the car. The cool night air, laced with tobacco, made Su Yicen wrinkle his nose in disgust.
Ever since he learned that Song Chan hated the smell of smoke, he hadn’t smoked in a long time. But his mood was truly foul today.
The impact of yesterday’s hot search on the family elders far exceeded Su Yicen’s expectations. He had taken full responsibility, insisting the matter had nothing to do with Song Chan and that she was just cooperating with his PR efforts.
Xu Wan, heartbroken for her daughter, gave Su Yicen the cold shoulder for the first time. Su Dingran unleashed a torrent of scolding, only letting him leave just now.
He took a drag, the smoke filling his lungs and snapping him awake in an instant. He exhaled through his nose, but the fatigue didn’t ease. Remembering Song Chan’s dislike for the smell, he stubbed out the freshly lit cigarette in the ashtray.
The red light blinked a few times, then turned green.
The tinted window rose slowly, concealing that cold, sharp-featured face. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, pressed the accelerator, and sped toward home.
By the time Su Yicen arrived home, Song Chan had been asleep for a while.
She lay on the sofa, head on a cushion, body curled up in a cozy ball, looking as obedient as a kitten.
The moment he saw her, Su Yicen’s troubles vanished. He walked toward Song Chan slowly, his heart calming with every step.
The soft night light from the window softened the room’s darkness, casting long shadows from Song Chan’s eyelashes. Her red lips trembled faintly; she slept soundly.
Sleeping on the sofa wouldn’t do. Su Yicen bent down to carry her back to the bedroom, moving gently to avoid waking her.
Before his arms could slide beneath her, the phone slipped from her hand. The screen lit up, displaying the search page from earlier.
The golden sunflowers on the screen caught his eye. He glanced up, and the line of small text beneath the photo made his heart skip.
【Sunflower Bouquet Flower Language: Silent love, loyal heart.】
His breath caught, and his movements froze, time seeming to halt.
His gaze lingered on the phone screen. The light pierced the darkness glaringly, but only after it dimmed did he confirm he hadn’t misread.
He turned his eyes to Song Chan, watching her peaceful sleeping form. Su Yicen curved his lips into a faint smile, his heart rhythm unusually erratic, even a bit nervous.
He exhaled and murmured deeply, “Are you finally noticing?”
His paused movements resumed. Su Yicen scooped her up. Her soft body in his arms felt like it might melt away. He held her carefully, encircling her lightly, but it still woke her.
Song Chan nestled in the crook of his arm, sensing herself lifted. Her arms naturally looped around his neck. She lifted her gaze to the man holding her. The faint tobacco scent made her brows furrow. Through bleary eyes, she recognized him and didn’t pull away. Instead, she rubbed her head against his chest.
Her faint body fragrance lingered at Su Yicen’s nose, diluting the subtle smoke on his breath. It was Song Chan’s unique scent, alluring enough to tighten his throat. His steps quickened unconsciously.
Carried back to the bedroom by Su Yicen, Song Chan sprawled out on the soft bed the moment she felt it, stretching into a comfortable position and drifting back to sleep. She slept contentedly, oblivious to the man beside her.
She felt Su Yicen reach out, pulling her into his embrace. He tugged the blanket over them. Under the covers, their bodies pressed close. He held her gently and carefully, guarding her like a precious treasure.
Bound by his embrace, Song Chan wriggled a bit but couldn’t break free. Even in her drowsy state, she felt the strong heartbeat against his chest at her back.
Song Chan furrowed her brows and pushed at the firm arms holding her. She mumbled fuzzily.
“Don’t… I’m tired… I have to go to work tomorrow…”
Her soft, coquettish voice carried an ambiguous lilt, stirring ripples in the heart.
Understanding her implication, Su Yicen knew he had no intention of bothering her further. He was just bone-tired, and she was his best remedy.
His arm around Song Chan tightened briefly. He wished he could merge her into himself. Feeling her struggle, he loosened his grip but kept her from escaping.
Su Yicen leaned down for a feather-light kiss on her neck. His warm breath brushed her ear, his nose nuzzling her hair, inhaling her sweet scent. The pure, clean touch stopped there, no excess.
Su Yicen patted her lightly, like coaxing a child.
His voice hoarse, he coaxed her. “Sleep. I just want to hug you.”
The next day.
The alarm rang, rousing the sleeper. Song Chan woke to a floral scent.
Opening her eyes, she saw a bouquet of blooming sunflowers on the bedside table. The faint fragrance surrounded her, fresh and clean, unlike the heavy scent of roses.
Vaguely, she remembered Su Yicen carrying her to the room last night. His restraint touched her heart.
She turned over. The spot beside her was empty; Su Yicen had left. Only the lingering warmth on the sheets proved he’d been there.
Song Chan picked up her phone, silencing the grating alarm. The screen jumped back to last night’s search.
There was that line she hadn’t seen: the sunflower bouquet’s flower language.
【Silent love, love not yet spoken.】
Seeing those short words, Song Chan’s heart raced unwittingly. The hazy figure in her mind seemed to sharpen into clarity.
She looked up at the brilliant golden flowers filling her view. Each sunflower held its head high, all facing her—only her.
Song Chan’s heart trembled faintly, a shock from long ago echoing within.
She poked a sunflower petal lightly. It was real—tactile, fragrant. She wasn’t dreaming.
—
After four days on a business trip and one day off, Song Chan hadn’t been to the company in a week.
In ZE Fashion’s fast-paced environment, even a single day away could throw off progress, let alone nearly a week.
Song Chan had just clocked in when she saw Qian Ya rush past without a greeting.
Moments later, Li Yuchuan hurried after her, carrying several cups of coffee.
He spotted Song Chan and paused, greeting her.
“Morning, Chan Sister.”
With that, he didn’t linger, quickening to a near-jog in Qian Ya’s direction.
“What’s going on? So hasty and flustered…”
Song Chan muttered. As soon as she entered the department, she sensed the low pressure in the office. Everyone wore a troubled frown.
“What’s wrong with everyone?” Song Chan couldn’t help asking.
Before anyone answered, the editor-in-chief’s door opened. Lin Jinhe called to her.
“Song Chan, come in for a sec.”
Even after four years at ZE Fashion, Song Chan always felt like a unlucky student summoned by the homeroom teacher whenever she entered Lin Jinhe’s office.
It was all Lin Jinhe’s powerful aura—an unspoken authority that commanded respect without anger.
Nearly a minute in, Lin Jinhe said nothing, just flipped through the proposal in her hands.
As Song Chan opened her mouth to ask, Lin Jinhe closed the proposal and handed it to her.
“The first-quarter theme issue is wrapping up; I’ve assigned someone else. You’re taking this one.”
Song Chan was a bit dazed but had no reason to refuse. She took the proposal and scanned it.
【ZE Pure White Fashion】
Seeing the bold title, Song Chan guessed the gist.
This must be the color-themed series Lin Jinhe had always wanted. She just hadn’t expected it so soon.
Song Chan skimmed the contents, grasping the overview. But the projected release date made her doubt her eyes.
Her fingertip tapped the date, her words stumbling.
“N-Next month… release?”
Lin Jinhe nodded. “Tight timeline, heavy task. Make it shine.”
Dazed, clutching the proposal as she left the office, Song Chan caught the sympathetic looks from her colleagues. Now she understood the department’s gloom.
In her years in the industry, Song Chan knew without being told: the debut issue of a themed series was crucial—it determined the whole line’s success.
The photo in the proposal showed a man with sharp, angular features, a cold and brooding expression, faint mixed-race bone structure giving him an unapproachable vibe.
She murmured, “Wei Lai…”
Song Chan knew how hot he was: an A-list international superstar with massive fanbases at home and abroad. Hiring Wei Lai showed Lin Jinhe’s ambition—to expand ZE’s overseas market.
Wei Lai had a Chinese face but foreign nationality, a returning overseas Chinese. Nicely put, developing back home; bluntly, cashing in on the domestic scene.
His diva antics were infamous in the industry. But capital cared only for money. With his buzz, the boss wouldn’t spare a thought for the staff’s plight.
Another tough nut to crack. Song Chan rubbed her temples.
Before her headache eased, Qian Ya returned, looking defeated after a ordeal.
She shuffled to her desk like a zombie and collapsed into her chair, near-wailing her complaints.
“No more. I’m never going back. Turning fan to hater—that ancestor’s impossible to deal with.”
“What happened?” Song Chan asked.
Qian Ya lifted her head, mouth agape from exhaustion, eyes slow to focus.
“Chanchan, that idiot Wei Lai rides his fame hard, bossing everyone around, total diva, zero cooperation…”
“Not shooting properly—one minute out of it, next the lighting’s off, then he wants water.”
“That’s nothing. Little Li got him water—tap’s too cold, hot’s too hot, lukewarm he skips. Demands coffee. Coffee arrives, every flavor and temp wrong—too sugary, but he’s sugar-free…”
Her rant unstoppable, Qian Ya fumed. “Go see for yourself. I made an excuse to bail, or with my temper, I’d yank off his wig pieces…”
Song Chan listened patiently, but zeroed in on one point.
“Aren’t you Su Yicen’s fan? When did you stan Wei Lai?”
Stumped, Qian Ya doubled down. “I stan all hot guys.”
“Anyway, go now.” Qian Ya glanced at the editor’s office. “This issue’s rushed. No test shots today, and the boss won’t let you off…”
Threat landed, effective.
Song Chan shot up from her chair and headed for the Photography Studio.
At the door, she heard a grating, bizarre voice inside.
Wei Lai: “I feel, your shooting angle not right…”
His assistant translated: “Brother Lai says the shooting angle’s off.”
The photographer was dumbfounded. Decades in the game, first time directed on angles.
Song Chan was even more baffled. The words were pure Chinese—why did they sound incomprehensible from Wei Lai’s mouth?
The lead photographer seethed quietly while Wei Lai babbled on in broken Mandarin. A blowup loomed, so Song Chan stepped in.
“Mr. Wei Lai, right? Long admired.”
“Fans?” Wei Lai paused, turning to Song Chan with a blank look, then a smile.
“Give photo? My Mandarin not good, want pic together?”
His assistant: “Brother Lai asks if you’re a fan. His Mandarin’s rough—wanna take a photo?”
Song Chan was speechless, but professional poise kept her expression neutral.
Before she could speak, Wei Lai had an assistant, and Song Chan had one too by her side—Li Yuchuan, who was extremely perceptive.
He introduced Song Chan: “Song Chan, the fashion editor at ZE Fashion, and also the person in charge of this series’ theme.”
Upon hearing this, Wei Lai kept his fawning smile and gave a thumbs up in praise. “Song Editor, so young and accomplished.”
After saying that, he extended his hand. Out of politeness, Song Chan shook it with him, but she never imagined that once he gripped it, he wouldn’t let go. His fingers rubbed against her palm, the teasing intent obvious.
Song Chan’s expression turned stern, and she yanked her hand free with force. Wei Lai was still smiling meaningfully.
“Song Editor’s hand is very soft.”
Enduring her disgust, Song Chan tried to avoid contact with Wei Lai as much as possible, but he acted as if he truly didn’t know how much she disliked him.
Wei Lai buzzed around Song Chan like a fly, occasionally brushing against her body as if by accident.
She couldn’t tolerate such harassment any longer. Finally, when Wei Lai reached for coffee again and Song Chan handed it to him, he pretended to accidentally touch her hand once more. Song Chan couldn’t hold back.
“You!” She gripped the coffee cup tightly in her hand, stared at his lecherous smiling face, and splashed the coffee right onto Wei Lai’s face.
To match the pure white theme, this series’ thematic journal featured all white elements from backgrounds to clothing and props.
Wei Lai’s face was splattered with coffee, brown stains splashing all over his white suit. His wretched appearance was obvious.
He jumped in rage, but the more anxious he got, the less coherently he could speak. No one knew what he muttered, but he took off his coffee-stained white suit and threw it on the ground.
Only the last sentence was clear to everyone.
Wei Lai: “Terminate the contract. That’s your reason.”
Although everyone was delighted that Wei Lai left, for the Pure White Series’ thematic issue—such an important first edition—they couldn’t have no cover figure at all.
Song Chan racked her brain for celebrities in the Entertainment Circle she could contact who matched Wei Lai’s popularity, and there really weren’t many.
She looked up and saw on Qian Ya’s computer screen nearby that exquisitely handsome face entering her view.
Su Yicen…
Her heart involuntarily tightened. He was more suitable as the cover figure than Wei Lai, not to mention as a replacement.
She opened WeChat’s chat page and clicked on the pinned message—the chat box for ‘Next-Door Neighbor’.
She typed word by word.
Song Chan: 【Can you do me a favor?】