As they ate, Qian Dailan took a bite of a delicate cake mixed with cream and blueberries.
She watched as the waiter brought out a vegetable salad and lamb shoulder, then suddenly realized—she had to use a knife and fork.
Luckily, Ye Xiyan quietly demonstrated the correct way to use them.
Right hand holding the knife, left hand holding the fork.
He gripped them from above, using his index fingers to press against the handles.
Qian Dailan quickly glanced at Zhang Nan across from her, who was eating green peas and corn salad.
He used his knife to slowly push the small pieces onto his fork before bringing them to his mouth.
So troublesome.
Accepting her fate, Qian Dailan copied Ye Xiyan’s posture.
She pierced the lamb shoulder with her fork, used the knife to press against the back of the fork, and carefully cut it into smaller pieces before eating.
She mumbled, “So annoying.”
“Agreed,” Ye Xiyan sighed.
“Every time I eat Western food, I get a headache.”
“I get a headache and my hands hurt,” Qian Dailan complained as she focused on cutting the lamb.
“Eating this feels like sawing wood. By the time I finish, my stomach won’t be full, but my biceps will be well-trained.”
“Oh, I see,” Ye Xiyan chuckled.
“Thanks to you, I finally understand why my fitness coach recommends eating Western food.”
Qian Dailan sighed.
“So this is what Western food is. When Brother Yang Quan said we’d be having Western food tonight, I thought everyone would just get a Coke and gather around for burgers, fried chicken, fries, and pizza.
I really can’t get used to all these utensils—it’s so easy to accidentally hurt your mouth.”
She paused for a moment, then asked, “Brother, if I ask for chopsticks right now, do you think people will laugh at me for being uncultured?”
Tired of cutting the lamb, she put down her knife and fork, and the silverware clinked against the white porcelain plate with a crisp sound.
At the next table, Wu Ke heard the noise and happened to see Qian Dailan carelessly place her utensils on the plate.
She smiled and got up, walking over to Qian Dailan’s seat.
Leaning down naturally, she gently reminded her, “Dailan, the way you placed your knife and fork isn’t correct. If you’re finished eating and want the plate to be cleared, you should place the knife and fork together on the plate.
If you just want to pause and chat, they should be placed in a V-shape with the knife blade facing inward—”
“Ke-jie,” Ye Xiyan interrupted, setting down his knife and fork.
“There’s no need to make it so complicated. If she doesn’t want to eat anymore, she can just call the waiter to clear the plate.”
Wu Ke smiled.
“It’s just basic table etiquette.”
“It’s just a meal—no need to make things difficult,” Ye Xiyan said indifferently.
He glanced at Qian Dailan, who was frowning at her lamb shoulder, then called the waiter over.
“Excuse me,” Ye Xiyan smiled politely at the waiter.
“I don’t know how to use a knife and fork. Could you bring me a pair of chopsticks?”
Wu Ke stared at him in surprise, noticing that his knife and fork had actually been placed perfectly on his plate.
The waiter responded politely, “Of course, sir. I’ll bring them right away. Do you need anything else?”
“He might not, but I do.”
Qian Dailan raised her hand.
“Can I have a pair of chopsticks too?”
She then turned to Wu Ke and asked, “Ke-jie, do you want chopsticks as well?”
Wu Ke smiled.
“No, thank you.”
She slowly returned to her seat, but she couldn’t help looking back.
The waiter had already brought over two pairs of chopsticks.
Ye Xiyan and Qian Dailan each took a pair and, without hesitation, used them to pick up the newly served braised veal.
With chopsticks, the taste of the meal instantly improved.
Not to mention, Qian Dailan even secured a few potential clients’ phone numbers.
They had even asked about her work schedule, hoping she could help them pick out some menswear.
She had no pen or paper, so she made a conscious effort to memorize their faces, their preferences, and mentally store every word they said—breaking their conversations into pieces and archiving them in her mind.
That way, when they visited the store, she could recall them instantly.
A good salesperson must have the ability to remember every customer at a glance and know their tastes by heart.
Toward the end of the meal, a band arrived, accompanied by a male singer in a tailcoat and white dress shirt.
He sang passionately—not a pop song, but a powerful operatic tenor piece.
“What song is this?”
Qian Dailan asked Ye Xiyan with curiosity.
“It doesn’t sound like English. I don’t understand it.”
“Italian,” Ye Xiyan explained patiently.
“It’s Brindisi, also known as The Drinking Song, from the first act of La Traviata.”
“Oh,” Qian Dailan nodded, then asked, “Do you like it a lot?”
“No,” Ye Xiyan shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“It’s just that every time I attend a Western-style gathering, I’m forced to listen to it.”
Qian Dailan burst into laughter.
“Also,” she hesitated for a moment, “Brother Yang Quan gave me copies of VOGUE from the U.S., U.K., and Italy today. The American and British versions are in English, so I can look up words in a dictionary and manage to understand them.
But I don’t know a single word of Italian…”
“You’re biting off more than you can chew,” Ye Xiyan said.
“Your time is limited, and those magazines aren’t meant for you to read thoroughly—they’re for you to look at the photos.”
“The photos?”
“Yes,” Ye Xiyan replied.
“The Italian and Spanish editions of VOGUE have the best covers and photography. Since your work involves these things, even if you can’t read the articles, looking at the visuals will still be beneficial.”
Qian Dailan’s eyes sparkled.
“Thank you, Brother.”
Ye Xiyan didn’t respond—someone had come over to drink with him.
No one here made things difficult for Qian Dailan, nor did anyone show disdain for her job or education level.
Everyone was polite and respectful.
Some even invited her for a drink.
The women could choose fruit wine, and Qian Dailan opted for a strawberry-lime cocktail.
It was cold-fermented, low in alcohol, with a strong fruity taste—sweet and tangy, chilled with ice, making it both refreshing and invigorating.
At the nearby table, Ye Pingxi also took notice of Qian Dailan.
There was no other reason.
As a notorious old flirt, his body may have softened with age, but his roving eyes remained sharp as ever.
Even in death, if he were nailed into a coffin, his lustful gaze would probably be the last thing to close.
Though he was at the age where he needed medication for almost everything, his appreciation for beauty had never dulled.
When selecting potential wives for his two sons, beauty was a non-negotiable requirement.
If beauty was lacking, then at the very least, the woman had to be virtuous—educated, well-mannered, and with a respectable career.
A person radiates elegance from within when they have knowledge and culture.
“At the very least, she should be like Wu Ke…”
“That’s Xijing’s girlfriend?”
Ye Pingxi kept glancing at Qian Dailan, both surprised and impressed.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me she was this beautiful?”
“What’s the point of being beautiful?”
Lin Yi snorted.
“Can beauty put food on the table?”
“Of course beauty can put food on the table,” Ye Pingxi replied with a knowing smirk.
“You must have forgotten what it feels like to go hungry. When people are desperate, they’ll do anything.”
Lin Yi’s expression darkened.
She turned away, catching her own aged reflection in the silver candelabra.
“If she were just ordinarily pretty, that’d be one thing. But she’s this beautiful—keeping her around might improve Xijing’s future children’s genes,” Ye Pingxi mused.
Then, he turned and grabbed his son before he could slip away.
“Xijing.”
Ye Xijing stopped.
“Dad.”
He saw Yang Quan say something to Ye Xiyan, and Ye Xiyan got up to leave.
It looked like Qian Dailan wasn’t planning to stay much longer either—she stood up, about to follow.
Ye Xijing still had so much to say to her.
Feeling anxious, he turned to his father.
“What is it?”
“Nothing much,” Ye Pingxi said.
“It’s late. It wouldn’t be convenient for Dailan to go home alone—why don’t you take her? Tomorrow, we should have a proper talk.”
Ye Xijing was stunned.
“Talk about what?”
“You two,” Ye Pingxi said.
“Since Xiyan thinks she’s a good person, I should take the time to get to know her as well.”
Clang!
Lin Yi didn’t say a word—she simply slammed the silver table knife onto her plate, shattering the pristine white porcelain into pieces.
Her face was pale as she stormed off.
Ye Xijing didn’t have time to console his furious mother.
His heart was racing.
Unable to suppress his smile, he gave Ye Pingxi a fierce hug before sprinting out to find Qian Dailan.
He spotted her at the restaurant entrance.
Somehow, she had already changed out of her high heels and into an old pair of sneakers.
Ye Xijing recognized those sneakers—they were a birthday gift from Yin Shenyan last year.
“Why did you change your shoes?”
Ye Xijing, feeling elated, grabbed her hand.
“Wait, switch back first. My dad wants to meet you—it’s not appropriate to wear these.”
“My feet hurt,” Qian Dailan refused firmly.
“If Uncle wants to meet me, I’ll go as I am. It’s fine.”
“No, no,” Ye Xijing shook his head.
“It doesn’t look right. Change back.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Dailan,” Ye Xijing was getting desperate.
The more he looked at those sneakers, the more they irritated him.
He wanted to grab them and throw them far, far away.
He softened his tone.
“It’s just a pair of shoes, right?”
“Exactly,” Qian Dailan said.
“It’s just a pair of shoes.”
Her response caught Ye Xijing off guard.
He was momentarily stunned.
“Xijing,” she looked at him as he held her hand.
“Have you ever heard the story of cutting the foot to fit the shoe?”
“I know it, but I can’t recall the details right now. Are you trying to quiz me, just like Dad?”
Ye Xijing smiled nervously.
“Why are you asking?”
“Cutting the foot to fit the shoe is the story of Cinderella’s eldest sister, her second sister, and a foolish girl like me—blinded by love,” Qian Dailan said seriously.
“Just like those heels earlier. They were beautiful, but they hurt my feet. And because they were so beautiful, I endured the pain and kept wearing them. But a person’s tolerance for pain is limited. Once it exceeds the threshold, they have to take off the shoes.”
At that moment, Ye Xijing finally understood the source of the terrible premonition he had felt all night.
“To be honest, ever since I came to Beijing, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve thought about it last night and today,” Qian Dailan said.
“And now, I’ve come to a conclusion.”
Ye Xijing felt something slipping away—something he desperately wanted to grasp.
It was like trying to catch a swallowtail butterfly in flight.
“Can you think about it again?” he pleaded.
“I don’t think so,” Qian Dailan smiled.
“Xijing, I think we should break up. The road ahead is long, and I don’t want to force myself to fit the shoe anymore.”