After taking her seat, Sang Lu stretched her stiff back slightly.
Numerous guests approached with champagne glasses in hand, greeting Feng Yan and clinking glasses with him.
She occasionally offered polite smiles and joined in the toasts.
But only two words floated persistently through her mind—starving.
Even a single peanut-sized morsel of French cuisine on a massive plate would suffice at this point.
Just bring the food already!
Yet when the dishes finally began arriving, her thoughts swiftly shifted to four words—pins and needles.
Just the appetizers and aperitifs alone came in three rounds.
Over the next two hours, there were four courses of starters, two main dishes, followed by a cheese trolley and desserts.
Each serving could be chewed and swallowed in minutes, yet they had to endure lengthy explanations from the sommelier and head chef about the "story behind the dish," cooking techniques, and signature sauces.
Without exaggeration, Sang Lu nearly dozed off mid-bite.
Delicious, yet torturous.
For a fleeting moment, she even felt the urge to apologize to the takeout boxed meals she’d once complained about.
At least boxed meals have their merits.
Throughout the dinner, Lucas enthusiastically elaborated on MK Group’s strategic ambitions to Feng Yan, emphasizing his eagerness to collaborate with Feng Corporation.
At a nearby table, a group of foreign faces kept glancing their way.
Distance muffled their whispers from the main table’s ears.
"Lucas has never been this obsequious with us…"
"There’s a Chinese saying—adjust your dishes to suit the guest. After years here, Lucas has mastered it perfectly."
"What a shame. If only he’d consider opening luxury boutiques in our group’s commercial zones, we’d prioritize him too."
"No use. The prime real estate is all held by people like President Feng. We lack bargaining power."
"Sigh…"
After the meal, the banquet seamlessly transitioned into a cocktail reception.
Guests clustered in small circles, glasses clinking.
A blend of socializing and business.
Sang Lu felt stifled.
After excusing herself from Feng Yan, she slipped away to the restroom.
Upon returning, she accepted a towel from a server to dry her hands.
The corridor leading back to the ballroom was suffused with the scent of white sandalwood. A few steps in, fragmented French conversation drifted toward her—
"President Feng’s companion is such a radiant beauty."
"Like a blooming French rose."
Sang Lu’s eyes lit up instantly.
Huh?
Are they talking about me?
In high school, her institution had encouraged students to pick a minor language. Back then, enamored by Sophie Marceau’s ethereal charm, she’d chosen French.
She’d never advanced beyond basics, but simple dialogues were still intelligible.
Unconsciously, her lips curved upward.
How lovely—international folks praising someone behind their back.
She mentally rehearsed flashing them a gracious smile later, a nod to her homeland’s reputation for courtesy.
But as the voices grew clearer, the tone shifted.
"What a waste of that face," one speaker murmured, lowering his voice. "Married to a mute."
"No waste at all. A mute and a vase—a perfect match," another chuckled.
Sang Lu’s smile faltered, her brow furrowing.
The French accents now dripped with malice and envy.
"Chinese standards must be low if even a mute gets idolized."
"Wolf king without fangs, no matter how formidable in business."
"Oui. If I were him, I’d have thrown myself into the Seine long ago."
Snickers followed.
As Sang Lu drew closer, she finally glimpsed the speakers—
Brown hair, blue eyes.
It was the two people who had been frequently glancing toward the head table earlier.
Those two also noticed Sang Lu, their faces flashing with a moment of panic before quickly regaining composure. They smiled at her and nodded politely.
Meanwhile, they continued speaking in French:
"She can't understand us,"
"Look at her—pretty but foolish, stuck serving a mute cripple."
Sang Lu pressed her lips into a tight line, her fingers curling slightly at her sides.
As she passed them, she suddenly turned her head and flashed a smile that was far from friendly—chilling, even.
"My husband's mouth is on me. It's not your place to judge."
The abrupt remark startled the two, their bodies stiffening.
They didn’t understand the meaning of her words in Chinese, but the hostility in Sang Lu’s expression was unmistakable. Hesitantly, they asked in French:
"Madame, do you understand French?"
Sang Lu’s face hardened, her gaze sharp as she repeated her words in flawless French:
"Listen well—my husband’s mouth is on me. It’s not your place to judge. Meanwhile, your mouths belong in the toilet. Dinner’s over, yet you’re still hungry, scavenging for scraps by the restroom?"
The fluency of her French left the two stunned, their faces draining of color.
Sang Lu gave them a slow once-over before adding coolly:
"Instead of gossiping about others, why don’t you go back to the streets of Paris and catch some thieves? Your city has more pickpockets than locals."
She couldn’t care less about their identities, their companies, or whether they were foreign guests.
When dealing with people who run their mouths, the only satisfying response is to shut them down on the spot.
Instantly, shame and dread washed over the two men. They realized they’d made a grave mistake.
They had been sent from France by their corporation with the primary task of expanding business here.
Now, they’d offended Feng Yan’s woman.
Forget about business expansion—staying in Jing City at all might be impossible now.
They were doomed.
Watching Sang Lu stride away, fear gripped them, and they hurried after her, frantically apologizing:
"Je vous prie de m'excuser!"
Please forgive me.
Sang Lu ignored them, quickening her pace down the hallway.
As she turned a corner, her steps were too hurried, and she nearly collided with someone coming the other way.
"Sorry—"
She apologized, stepping back.
When she looked up, a sharply defined face filled her vision.
Sang Lu froze.
Feng Yan stood tall and imposing, his shadow completely enveloping her, blocking the light from the banquet hall.
The sharp angles of his brow cast a blade-like shadow, his gaze cool as it swept past her head to glare down at the two Frenchmen.
Sang Lu stared up at him, backlit.
For the first time, she felt the full weight of his commanding presence—a quiet intensity that sent chills down the spine, even with just a glance.
Her heart clenched.
Had he… heard something?
Behind her, the two Frenchmen abruptly stopped their apologies at the sight of the man before them, instinctively retreating a step.
In broken, trembling Chinese, they forced out:
"F-Feng… Feng zong..."
Feng Yan had only caught part of the exchange.
He didn’t understand French, but he’d heard Sang Lu’s earlier remark in Chinese.
Now, seeing her furious expression and the terrified looks on the two men’s faces, he could piece together the rest.
The two hunched slightly, babbling apologies in a mix of French and clumsy Chinese.
Feng Yan’s gaze lingered on them for only a few seconds before indifferently turning away.
As if they weren’t worth another glance.
Sang Lu’s mind was in a daze.
Did Feng Yan hear it?
Did he understand?
Would he feel upset inside?
As she was lost in thought, her wrist was suddenly enveloped by a warm, broad hand. The gentle yet firm grip guided her unhurriedly toward the balcony.
Only when they stood by the railing, far from the clamor of the banquet hall, did Sang Lu finally snap back to reality.
She lifted her gaze to look at him.
Feng Yan’s expression remained as unreadable as ever, calm and silent.
But now, that silence felt different to Sang Lu—tinged with an inexplicable hint of vulnerability.
She regretted it.
She should have cursed those people a few more times.
Those two had such vile tongues, targeting Feng Yan’s inability to speak, deliberately stabbing at his sore spots.
Hadn’t she declared that Feng Yan’s voice was hers? Then she should’ve cursed them on his behalf without holding back.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
Feng Yan didn’t respond. His gaze lowered, long lashes veiling his eyes as he studied her with an inscrutable intensity—as if searching her face for some answer.
The quieter Feng Yan was, the more Sang Lu’s heart ached for him.
“No, the more I think about it, the angrier I get. I’m going back to give them a piece of my mind. I know how to swear in French—I’ll kick those two French jerks while I’m at it!”
Her anger made her eyelashes flutter, her voice trembling with indignation, teeth gritted.
Frowning, Sang Lu turned on her heel.
But before she could take two steps toward the banquet hall, her arm was encircled again.
A steady, deliberate pull drew her back.
Then, a voice drifted down from above her.
“Sang Lu, come here.”
The words were clear, deep and magnetic, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the edges—like a slow, deliberate stroke against her heart.
Sang Lu’s head jerked up.
Her eyes met Feng Yan’s sharp jawline and the fathomless darkness of his pupils.
Her mind went blank.
She stared at him, stunned.
The balcony was empty—no one else around.
She was certain.
Those words had come from Feng Yan’s lips.
He spoke!
He actually spoke!!?
