Addicted to Love, Mr. Fu’s Newly Married Wife

Chapter 1718 F

Nan Weiwei spoke up, "Xiaoxiao, thank you for the information, and thank you Fu Yanchen too. I'll take the information back and study it. Now I can study it openly, hehe... Since I'm representing the company in the competition, why can't I do it during work hours? Xiaoxiao, don't you think so... hehe."

Xu Xiaoxiao nodded, "Yes, that's fine. Even if you're not representing the company, I believe Lu Feng won't say anything. After all, you're his classmate, and he has a good relationship with Nan Yifeng. He'll have to give you face."

Nan Weiwei hugged the several thick foreign magazines tightly, her arms tightening around them.

Previously, she originally planned to do it during her lunch break or after get off work, since doing side jobs at the company was a big no-no, even for the so-called "Newcomer Cup" design competition.

Unexpectedly, this powerful figure gave them the green light and even gave them money.

After all, Lu Feng had just said that if her workstation couldn't hold all the documents, he could have someone get her a bigger desk.

Only Xiaomei is a little...

next day

Nan Weiwei, clutching the documents, questioned Lu Feng again, fearing he might have been joking yesterday. Lu Feng replied that he never joked.

I also gave her a few magazines to take home for reference.

"Yay!" Nan Weiwei was happy.

Lu Feng didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the documents in front of him. He quickly signed his name with his pen, the handwriting bold and clear. "Get out of here, don't delay my money-making."

Nanwei nodded slightly, not even daring to glance at the expression on the face of the assistant standing next to her, and slipped out with her books in her arms.

As she reached the door, she heard the sound of papers turning behind her, along with the man's usual indifferent tone: "The coffee's cold, get another one."

The assistant quickly responded.

Stepping out of the CEO's office, the air outside seemed to start flowing again.

Nan Weiwei returned to the design department and spread the magazines on the table.

Li Na, who was working at the next desk, leaned over, glanced at the original magazines, and said sourly, "Hey, Weiwei, it's only this early and you're already reading frivolous books? Our department hasn't even met its KPIs for this month yet, and instead of helping, you're leading the way in slacking off?"

Li Na's voice was quite loud, and several of her colleagues around her turned to look.

Some people gloated, while others watched coldly.

After all, Nan Weiwei is a newcomer who got a spot in the competition not long after arriving, and now she's swaggering around reading magazines during work hours, which is indeed annoying.

Nan Weiwei paused for a moment as she flipped through the magazine.

She didn't rush to refute, but slowly folded a corner of the book before turning her chair to face Li Na.

"Sister Li, these magazines were given to me personally by President Lu just now."

Nan Weiwei wore a professional fake smile and spoke softly, just loud enough for those around her to hear, "President Lu said that this competition represents the company's image, and he has given me special permission to study it during working hours. If you have any objections to this arrangement, the president's office door is still open, so you can go in and discuss with President Lu which is more important, KPIs or the company's image."

Li Na choked, her face turning pale and then red.

She opened her mouth, glanced in the direction of the president's office, but ultimately didn't dare to say anything. She snorted, turned around, and started typing away on the keyboard.

The onlookers immediately withdrew their gazes.

Nan Weiwei's inner voice made a peace sign.

It feels so good to be a fox borrowing the tiger's power.

However, after the fun, the pressure also followed.

Lu Feng has put it this way. If she can't come up with something decent, it won't just be Nan Weiwei who loses face, but also Lu Feng's "brilliant and powerful" act of giving her preferential treatment.

Throughout the day, Nan Weiwei was like a sponge, frantically absorbing every detail in the magazine.

From color matching to tailoring lines, from fabric texture to accessory embellishments.

It wasn't until the clock-out machine beeped that she realized her neck felt rusty, making a cracking sound with the slightest movement.

Back in her rented apartment, Nan Weiwei didn't even bother to change her shoes. She kicked off her high heels, walked barefoot on the floor, and dumped all the sketchbooks and pens from her bag onto the coffee table.

Xu Xiaoxiao's words played on repeat in her mind like a broken record.

"Retro! Weiwei, the big trend this year is definitely retro! But I don't mean you have to go through your grandma's closet. I mean... that kind of impact that has a filter of old times, yet can kick open the door to modern aesthetics!"

That's easy for you to say.

Nan Weiwei bit the pen and stared blankly at the drawing paper.

The topic of retro is too broad.

Is it the decadent glamour of the 1920s? Or the disco craze of the 1980s? Or perhaps the Victorian style from even earlier?

She tried drawing a few strokes.

Large shoulder pads, bell-bottoms, and an afro.

tear it up-

This page was ruthlessly torn out, crumpled into a ball, and precisely thrown into the trash can at his feet.

"This isn't retro, it's a tacky excavator," Nan Weiwei complained to herself.

I drew another one.

Lace, corset, tutu.

tear it up-

"Is this for a stage play? Next up."

The trash can quickly filled up, and the overflowing crumpled paper rolled all over the floor, like a pile of white ghosts mocking her.

Nan Weiwei sprawled out on the carpet, staring at the ceiling light.

The lights were so bright they made my eyes sting.

The feeling of creative block is like searching for water in the desert, your throat is parched, and all you see are mirages.

She rolled over and touched something cold with the back of her hand.

is a cell phone.

The screen was black, reflecting only her somewhat disheveled face.

Nan Weiwei turned on the screen as if possessed, skillfully swiped to open WeChat, and clicked into a pinned chat box.

The nickname consists of only one character: F.

The profile picture is of a pitch-black night sky, with only one inconspicuous star hanging in the corner, lonely and desolate.

The chat history is from many days ago.

That was the last time she agonized over a color scheme to the point of insomnia, sending him a picture at 3 a.m. and asking, "Won't this red and green combination look like a floral print jacket from Northeast China?"

The other party replied instantly: "If you want to design costumes for Errenzhuan performances, this solution is perfect."

Nan Weiwei was so angry at the time that she almost smashed her phone, but after calming down and making the changes, it did look much better.

She met this F on a niche design forum.

She posted a thread complaining about the client's bizarre aesthetic sense, and a lot of people agreed. Only F replied, "Aesthetic sense is subjective, but ugliness is objective. Your design logic itself has flaws, so you can't blame the client."

Nan Weiwei was furious and sent a private message to argue with him, only to be completely criticized by the other party from composition to lighting.

It was a pure technological crushing victory, devoid of any personal emotions, yet leaving no room for rebuttal.

After a few exchanges, the two added each other on WeChat.

F never posts on social media, never talks about personal matters, and has never even sent a voice message.

He's like an AI on the other end of the network, only revealing his amazing sharpness and biting wit when talking about design.

Nan Weiwei didn't know if he was male or female, how old he was, or what kind of work he did.

All she knew was that this person's skill level was definitely at the master level.

"Why don't we... ask him?"

Nan Weiwei sat up, crossed her legs, and held her phone in her hands as if it were a bomb.

But we haven't been in touch for so many days.

In adult social etiquette, this level of disconnection is basically equivalent to tacitly deleting each other or forgetting each other completely.

Now that he's suddenly come back to life, especially to ask for help, doesn't that seem too opportunistic?

"He will definitely think I'm a petty person who doesn't pray for blessings usually but only tries to help at the last minute."

Nan Weiwei buried her head in her knees and let out a wail.

However, the competition deadline is fast approaching.

She doesn't have much time left.

If you don't ask, this room full of discarded drafts might be her final resting place.

If I ask, I might get a few sarcastic remarks from him, but since we're separated by an internet cable, he can't just crawl over and beat me up.

How much is face worth? Can it get you a bonus? Can it lead to a promotion and a raise?

No.

Nan Weiwei suddenly looked up, grabbed her phone, and her fingers flew across the screen.

"Master, I need your help urgently!"

No, that's too greasy. Delete it.

"Teacher F, have you been busy lately? I have a small question I'd like to ask you..."

That's too humble; it makes you seem insecure. Delete it.

"Are you there?"

This is the worst opening line ever, bar none. Delete, delete, delete.

Nan scratched her hair in frustration, turning her once smooth, long hair into a bird's nest.

She stared at the black profile picture, a dramatic scene unfolding in her mind.

Maybe he deleted her a long time ago?

Maybe he's busy right now negotiating a multi-million dollar project with some big client?

Maybe he lost his phone?

Maybe……

Just as she was lost in thought, her finger slipped and accidentally touched the emoji section.

A cute, cheeky panda head emoji that says "kneel down and call me daddy" was sent out without warning.

Nan Weiwei's pupils trembled.

What the hell!

Withdraw! It must be withdrawn!

She frantically pressed and held the emoji, about to click "recall," when a line of text suddenly popped up at the top of the screen.

"The other party is typing..."

Nan Weiwei's hand froze in mid-air, as if a pause button had been pressed.

Before she could react, a new message popped up.

F: "Is it already Chinese New Year? Such a grand ceremony."

Nan Weiwei looked at the words and her face flushed instantly, the heat shooting straight to the top of her head.

It’s over.

This is truly a disaster.

She could even picture the other person's cold smile on the other end of the screen, that expression of three parts mockery and seven parts nonchalance, which was definitely more infuriating than Lu Feng's.

Since the society is already dead, let's just give up and make things worse.

Nan Wei took a deep breath, steeled her resolve, and started typing furiously. "Since the gift is fine, could you perhaps give me a red envelope? Or... maybe some inspiration?"

Sent successfully.

She tossed her phone onto the sofa, curled up into a ball, and dared not look at the screen.

One second. Two seconds.

My phone vibrated.

Nan Weiwei sprang up like a startled rabbit and grabbed her phone.

F: "Speak."

There is only one word.

Concise and to the point, yet exuding domineering power.

Nan Weiwei even felt a sense of oppression coming from the word, which made her subconsciously sit up straight.

She dared not waste any more words, quickly organized her thoughts, and sent over all her questions about "retro" and the pile of discarded drafts.

After sending it, there was another long wait.

This time the wait was exceptionally long.

Five minutes passed.

Ten minutes have passed.

Nan Wei stared at the screen, her eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

Just when she thought the other person was annoyed by her and didn't want to talk to her anymore, her phone vibrated again.

This time it's not text, but a picture.

Nanwei clicked to open the larger image.

It was a photo I took casually.

The background resembles a corner of an upscale study, with dim and ambiguous lighting.

A large, bony hand was pressing down on an open old book, its pages yellowed and covered with intricate Baroque patterns.

Beside that hand lay a pocket watch that looked quite old, its cover half-open, revealing a small section of its intricate gear structure.

The caption for the picture is only one sentence:

"Retro is not about restoring history, but about making time stand out at this moment."

Nan Wei stared intently at the picture, her gaze fixed on the hand.

Long, strong nails, neatly trimmed.

This hand... it looks kind of familiar.

Before she could think about it further, another message from F arrived.

"Gears represent the order of the industrial age, while Baroque represents the romance of classicism. What do you see when you put these two together?"

A string in Nan Weiwei's mind suddenly snapped.

A clash between order and romance.

Cold metal and intricate lace.

The precision of machinery and the exaggeration of art.

This is misalignment!

She suddenly jumped up from the carpet, rushed barefoot to the desk, grabbed a pen, and began sketching frantically on the new drawing paper.

All those previous rejected drafts became stepping stones.

She wanted to paint gears on the hem of her skirt and embroider Baroque patterns with metallic silk threads!

The pen tip made a soft, scratching sound on the paper, which sounded especially pleasant in the quiet of the night.

After an unknown amount of time, a rough sketch began to take shape.

Nan Weiwei put down her pen, looked at the design on the paper, and her chest heaved violently.

Although it was still very rough, she knew that she was on the right track.

That shivering feeling of being struck in the soul cannot be faked.

She picked up her phone again and excitedly messaged F: "Master! I've got it! You're my god!"

This time, the other party replied very quickly.

F: "Stop flattering me. If you can't produce anything, it's just a piece of waste paper."

Nan Weiwei hugged her phone and smiled foolishly, completely ignoring the other party's coldness.

"Don't worry, genius, I'll definitely do it this time! I'll treat you to dinner when I win the award!"

After the message was sent, it disappeared without a trace.

Nan Weiwei didn't care. Her mind was full of design drawings, and she couldn't wait to make the dress.

……

The other side of the city.

Top floor of Genting One Apartments.

In front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, Ye Junhao, wearing a dark gray bathrobe, held a glass of red wine in his hand, swirling it gently.

In the unlit room, only the neon lights of the city streaming in through the window cast his long shadow.

He held his phone in his other hand, the screen's light illuminating his high, straight nose.

Seeing the message "I'll treat you to dinner" on the screen, he didn't reply, but simply tossed his phone onto the leather sofa next to him.

Turning my gaze back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the bustling traffic of the entire city flowed beneath my feet.

Ye Junhao scoffed lightly, tilted his head back, and downed the glass of red wine in one gulp.

He turned and walked toward the desk.

On the table, the yellowed old book was still open, with the pocket watch that had just appeared in the picture next to it.

Next to the book was Nan Weiwei's file. In the photo in the file, Nan Weiwei was smiling brightly, looking quite silly.

Ye Junhao tapped the smile with his finger, the pressure neither too light nor too heavy.

"Let me see what you're really capable of making."

He closed the file and was about to turn off the lights and go to sleep when his phone, which was on the sofa, suddenly lit up again.

It's not a WeChat message.

It was a text message from an unknown number.

Ye Junhao frowned, walked over and picked up his phone.

The text message was short, but it instantly made his previously nonchalant demeanor harden.