Chapter 18: Clothes Make the Man
Wu Yifan stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the buttery yellow suit. For once, he didn't look like a slacker security guard—he looked… put-together. The suit fit like it had been tailored, the fabric soft but crisp, and when he ran a hand through his gelled hair, he barely recognized the guy staring back.
Tall, sharp, with a hint of that lazy confidence he'd mastered—he could almost pass for one of those slick businessmen who sipped coffee in glass towers.
"Not bad," he muttered, grinning. "Maybe I should quit security and become a model. Or a gigolo. Bet I'd make bank."
He snickered at the thought. Gigolos had to deal with rich old ladies and their weird fetishes. No thanks. He'd stick to chasing thieves and getting trounced in *Warcraft*.
By the time he reached Infinity KTV, the morning shift hostesses were already there, wiping tables and restocking liquor. When Wu walked in, their chatter died.
"Whoa. Is that… Wu?"
"No way. He looks like a *movie star*."
"Is he wearing *Armani*? That suit has to cost a fortune!"
Wu fought the urge to preen. Instead, he nodded politely, heading for the bar. "Looking for Boss Ye."
The bartender, a perky girl named Linlin, practically melted into a puddle. "S-she's upstairs! I'll call her right away!"
Before Wu could say "no rush," Ye appeared at the top of the stairs.
And *wow*.
She'd traded her usual blazers for a floor-length silk gown, deep purple with a slit up one leg, revealing a flash of toned calf. Her hair cascaded in loose waves, and her lips were painted a bold red that made her skin look porcelain-pale. For a second, Wu forgot how to breathe.
"Not bad," she said, descending the stairs, her tone casual—but Wu caught the flicker of approval in her eyes. "You clean up nicely."
"Look who's talking," he shot back. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to impress someone."
Ye rolled her eyes, but there was a smirk playing on her lips. "Please. This? It's armor. You don't walk into a room full of sharks without looking like you can bite back."
She had a point. Zhang Hualei's banquet wasn't a party—it was a power play. The mayor's son wanted to flex his influence, and every club owner in Beitian would be there, smiling through their teeth while calculating how to stay in his good graces.
"Ready?" Ye asked, grabbing her clutch.
"As I'll ever be."
They headed out to Ye's car—a sleek black Magotan, nothing flashy but solid, the kind of car a sensible business owner drove. Wu slid into the passenger seat, still getting used to the feel of the suit.
"Nervous?" Ye asked, merging into traffic.
"Me? Nah. I've faced down drunks with knives. A bunch of guys in suits? Cakewalk."
Ye laughed. "Famous last words. These aren't just guys in suits, Wu. These are people who'd sell their mothers for a better lease. Zhang Hualei's their golden ticket—they'll舔 his boots if it means getting a break."
Wu frowned. "And we're just… playing along?"
"For now. We need to stay in his good graces—at least until we figure out what he wants. Rent hikes? Kickbacks? If it's too much, we walk. But I want to hear him out first."
The car fell silent as they drove, the city unfurling around them—skyscrapers giving way to tree-lined boulevards, then to the glitzy district where Heavenly Realm sat, a marble palace with a sign that blazed in gold.
Ye parked around the corner, away from the valets. "We walk from here. Less attention that way."
Wu nodded, stepping out of the car. The suit felt heavier now, like a costume he wasn't sure he could pull off. But when he glanced at Ye, she gave him a small, encouraging smile.
"C'mon. Let's go be politicians."
As they approached Heavenly Realm, Wu's senses sharpened. Valets scurried, opening doors for sleek cars—Porsches, BMWs, even a Rolls-Royce. Men in tailored suits and women in diamond-encrusted gowns mingled on the steps, their laughter loud and brittle.
"Stick close," Ye murmured. "And whatever you do, don't argue with anyone. Nod, smile, drink the champagne. Got it?"
"Got it."
Inside, the ballroom was a sea of excess. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, casting rainbows across the marble floor. Waiters carried trays of caviar and lobster canapés, while a jazz band played softly in the corner.
Wu's eyes scanned the crowd, landing on a man in a white suit holding court near the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, with a smirk that screamed "entitled."
"Zhang Hualei," Ye whispered, following his gaze. "Mayor's son. Avoid eye contact unless he talks to you."
Too late. Zhang had spotted them, and he was already sauntering over, a champagne flute in hand.
"Ye Xiwen!" he boomed, his voice too loud for the elegant setting. "You clean up *beautifully*. And who's this?" He nodded at Wu, his tone dismissive, like Wu was a piece of furniture.
"Wu Yifan, my security manager," Ye said, her smile never wavering. "He's here to… keep me out of trouble."
Zhang laughed, a hearty, fake sound. "Trouble? With a face like yours? Impossible. But hey—better safe than sorry, right?" He clapped Wu on the back, hard enough to make him stagger. "Look after her, tough guy. She's a handful."
Wu bit back a retort. *Play nice*, he reminded himself. *Play nice, get paid.*
Instead, he smiled—a lazy, knowing smile—and said, "Don't worry, Mr. Zhang. I've got her."
Zhang's smirk faltered. He didn't like that—didn't like that Wu wasn't cowering, wasn't starstruck. He recovered quickly, though, turning back to Ye. "Shall we dance? Or would you prefer a drink first?"
"Drink first," Ye said, smoothly extracting her arm from his reach. "I need to catch up with some old friends."
Zhang nodded, his eyes lingering on her a little too long before he wandered off.
Wu let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Creepy."
"Welcome to my world," Ye said, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a tray. "Here. It's terrible, but it's free."
Wu took a sip. She was right—it tasted like sparkling vinegar. But he drained it anyway.
"See that woman in the red dress?" Ye nodded toward a statuesque brunette across the room. "That's Li Na, owns three clubs in the west district. She'll try to undercut you if you cross her. And the guy with the mustache? Wang Tao. He owes Zhang money—he'll snitch to stay in his good graces."
She reeled off names and warnings, her voice low, her eyes sharp. Wu listened, impressed. For all her complaining, she knew this world inside out.
"Any advice for me?" he asked.
"Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open," she said. "And if anyone asks, you're my *assistant*, not security. Sounds fancier."
Wu grinned. "Yes, ma'am."
As the night wore on, Wu settled into a rhythm—nodding, smiling, pretending to care about golf scores and real estate prices. He watched Ye work the room, charming, negotiating, turning enemies into allies with a single well-placed compliment.
And he realized something: Ye Xiwen wasn't just a "Black Widow" or a penny-pincher. She was a survivor.
"Ready to go?" she asked, appearing at his side an hour later.
"God, yes," Wu said. "My face hurts from smiling."
Ye laughed. "Mine too. But we did good. No promises broken, no bridges burned. Mission accomplished."
As they left, Wu glanced back at the ballroom—the glitter, the lies, the people pretending to be something they weren't.
"Not my scene," he said.
"Not mine either," Ye admitted. "But sometimes, you've got to play the game."
Wu nodded. He knew the feeling. Whether it was chasing thieves with super speed or schmoozing with mayor's sons in fancy suits, life was just one big game.
And for once? He didn't mind playing.
Not one bit.