She can’t bear it.

While fretting over the real economy and private enterprises, Ming Shuyan arrived with the Green Building Committee’s expert team.

Amid a crowd of suited leaders in black shoes, Ming Shuyan stood out, strikingly vibrant.

A delicate silk scarf adorned her neck, its soft hue reminiscent of Monet’s water lilies.

Sunlight filtering through lotus petals, casting soft pinks and purples, flowing gently over leaf edges, blooming faintly under shifting daylight.

Such a tender scarf on a decisive woman created an instant harmony—like moonlight veiling a vast field at dusk, brightening the earthy tones beneath.

Ming Shuzhen and Xu Dazhi, done setting up flags, stood by the booth, watching the group enter through the main door.

Nearby, media raised their cameras, snapping shots of the arrivals.

Ming Shuzhen stared at Ming Shuyan’s scarf, lost in thought.

Her mother once bought a luxury scarf, too flashy for school, so it stayed boxed up.

Scarves, as brand culture, reflect one’s aura. European luxury brands craft scarf artistry—Dior’s classic florals, Chanel’s camellias, Gucci’s Flora, Hermes’ iconic squares.

This scarf—so gentle, untouchable like moonlight—hinted that the boss wasn’t as cold as she seemed.

Or maybe, Ming Shuzhen mused, she just thought it matched her outfit.

While distracted, the group drew closer, offering formulaic smiles, handshakes, and photos for the cameras.

Staff handed out numbered badges with adhesive backs.

Seeing Xu Dazhi stick his on, Ming Shuzhen peeled hers and pressed it onto her jacket, smoothing it firmly.

“Dazhi Bro, what’s the number for?”

“There’s an opening ceremony soon. The number matches your chair,” Xu Dazhi said, familiar with such events.

“Oh,” Ming Shuzhen nodded. Xu Dazhi’s badge was 59, and nearby colleagues had sequential numbers—60, 61, 62, 63.

“…Why am I 19?” she asked, baffled.

“Means you’re up front. Didn’t they send the numbers in the group chat? Sit with your row,” Xu Dazhi said, practically implying, “Why are you with me?”

Catching on, Ming Shuzhen realized she’d followed the wrong person.

She’d hoped sticking with a familiar Team Two face would feel safer, but things were more complicated.

“Uh, is it okay if I don’t sit by my number?” she asked sheepishly.

A passing colleague, Wu Zhengyu, Team One’s leader, overheard and snapped, “Why else would they make numbers? To waste resources and time? With all these big shots and bosses here—some don’t get along, some need to talk business, some can share a frame, some can’t. You think you can just sit anywhere? If you mess up the seating, should the planner get fired for pointless work?”

His temper flared, and his rant left Ming Shuzhen mortified.

Xu Dazhi saw her hang her head, knowing Wu Zhengyu’s words hit hard.

“It’s not that serious. The boss’s guests won’t cause drama over seats. Numbers just help manage things—too many faces to match. Sit where you’re assigned. I just didn’t expect you’d be so far up front. Thought we’d be close,” he said.

“Oh,” Ming Shuzhen mumbled, cheeks flushed.

Wu Zhengyu, also assigned up front, didn’t linger, moving to “guide” other booths.

The event started with an opening ceremony, followed by experts dispersing to booths for equipment demos or simulations.

The ceremony was in another hall with a red carpet, a stage, and rows of numbered chairs.

Ming Shuzhen checked her badge—19, front row. But it was full, and squeezing in felt awkward.

Xu Dazhi, beside her, sensed her unease. “No big deal. Maybe the organizer mixed up. We Team Two folks rarely do these events, and you’re new. They might’ve mismatched faces. Your number should be near mine. Let’s sit back here.”

“Okay,” she nodded, still uneasy but comforted by a familiar face.

The hall filled with Red Brick’s leaders, staff, and partner firms.

Ming Shuyan sat with the committee in the front row.

Chatter buzzed, lively but chaotic.

Ming Shuyan sat formally at first but began scanning the back when she noticed Ming Shuzhen wasn’t in her assigned seat.

“Uh, do you know Full Pockets from Team Two? Isn’t she supposed to be here?” she asked a second-row employee, grasping at straws.

The employee, from Team One and on the van with Ming Shuzhen, scratched his head, wondering if “Full Pockets” was the crocheted-strap girl. She seemed too green for the boss to personally check on.

“Dunno,” he said.

Ming Shuyan’s disappointment was clear as she scanned the back, vision blocked by the crowd.

When she turned back, Han Shuyu glanced at the empty seat beside her, realizing something.

The boss valued skill and talent, so Team One got front seats. But Full Pockets, clearly a fresh grad, naive and green, had a number next to hers—likely some boss’s connected hire.

Han Shuyu’s face flickered with disdain.

Meanwhile, Ming Shuzhen, in the back, couldn’t sit easy.

The rightful owner of her seat soon arrived, checking their badge against the chair’s number.

She was polite. “Hi, I think you’re in my seat. My number matches this one.”

“Oh,” Ming Shuzhen knew she was out of place and stood. “Sorry.”

“I’ll head up front,” she told Xu Dazhi.

The front was packed, and seat 19 was near the middle. Ming Shuzhen, embarrassed, shuffled through, muttering “sorry” past crossed legs and hooked feet.

“Ugh,” she groaned inwardly. Why put a nobody like her so far up? She couldn’t handle it.

Nearing 19, she hit a snag—Wu Zhengyu, legs crossed high, smirking at her struggle.

“Row’s full, and you’re still squeezing in?” he said, implying she was clueless.

As a seasoned Team One leader, he pegged her as a connected hire—only they’d get such prime seats. His bravado came from habit, wanting to flex his authority, especially over “nepo babies.”

He pressed her, keeping his legs up, leaving her stuck.

“Sorry, can I get through?” she asked.

“Go ahead,” he said with a mocking smile, legs unmoved, daring her to risk dirtying her clothes.

Her smile faded, eyes flashing with quiet anger.

But she stayed silent. She *was* disrupting, and as a rookie with no standout skills, she lacked the confidence to sit up front.

Sighing, she sidled past, her clothes catching a gray shoeprint—gross.

Suppressing her discomfort and frustration, she reached her seat.

As guests settled, the ceremony began.

The committee leader spoke, followed by Ming Shuyan on the company’s vision.

Ming Shuzhen tried to listen but kept fixating on Ming Shuyan’s scarf.

Though no breeze stirred indoors, its airy fabric seemed to float.

Its dreamy hues felt like they brushed her face, soft as a dewy petal.

Sweet, vibrant, gentle, silky.

As she imagined a cherry blossom shower, Ming Shuyan caught her distraction.

Her tone steady, smile professional, her gaze turned sharp, locking onto the second row.

Ming Shuzhen, oblivious, kept staring at the scarf, her eyes tracing its flow over Ming Shuyan’s slender neck and waist.

The scarf’s end tucked behind, swaying subtly, accentuating her graceful figure.

Ming Shuzhen swallowed, recalling her mother’s scarf. She used to think scarves were for old ladies, but now she’d dig hers out.

Lost in thought, Han Shuyu nudged her.

“Hm?” Ming Shuzhen’s eyes widened, looking at her.

Han Shuyu nodded silently toward the stage.

Ming Shuzhen looked up, meeting Ming Shuyan’s gaze.

Yikes, terrifying. She shrank back.

So scary.

Hiss—she chided herself for lacking better words, her thoughts scattering again.