Driving Up the Price (1)

Dong Qiaoziao's words had slipped out unconsciously, but Lin Wanrong caught them and casually agreed. A blush spread across her face, tinged with delight. Every girl loves beauty—who wouldn't dream of preserving their youth on canvas?

"Thank you, Young Master," she said shyly.

Lin Wanrong chuckled, wiping his hand across his face, and turned to Dong Rende. "Uncle Dong, what do you think?"

Dong Rende gave a hearty thumbs-up. "Young Master, I've got nothing but admiration—pure admiration."

Riding the momentum, Lin Wanrong finished the remaining illustrations. This fake Eldest Miss Xiao appeared in varied poses, each as stunning as the last—guaranteed to leave those scholars dazed and drooling.

With a final stroke, he smeared charcoal on his face again, stood up, and grinned. "Done. We're wrapped."

Dong Qiaoziao gazed at the booklet's shifting portraits of the same woman, envy in her eyes. Glancing at Lin Wanrong, she suddenly giggled behind her hand.

"What's so funny?" He blinked, caught off guard—but damn, this girl's laugh was pretty.

Pulling a handkerchief from her bosom, she blushed, peeked at him, bit her lip, and stepped closer. With a faint fragrance, she reached to wipe his face.

It clicked—charcoal smudges. That's why she was doing this.

But her move startled him. In this era, propriety between men and women was strict. Even for a commoner like Dong Qiaoziao, this was bold—back in his time, only couples got this cozy. She's not catching feelings, is she? Hell, I'm in trouble—I'm the type to melt at a touch, he thought shamelessly. Truth was, he wasn't ready for romance in this world.

He stepped back quick, dodging her kindness, and took the handkerchief with a grin. "I'll handle it."

She froze, realizing her slip. Her face flared red. To ease her embarrassment, he sniffed the cloth playfully. "Smells nice!"

Grateful for his save, she smiled softly. Flirting was his nature—no acting needed.

Her cheeks glowed like rouge. She murmured a faint "mm" and went quiet.

He shot Old Dong a look, but the man stood there, oblivious, lost in thought. Lin Wanrong fumed inwardly. The girl's clueless, fine—but you're old enough to know better! Push me too far, and I'll gobble up your precious daughter—don't blame me then! Not that he was prudish; he just wasn't acclimated to this world's dating scene yet.

The pair stayed mute, like they were in a silent play. Wiping his face, Lin Wanrong meant to return the handkerchief, but it was black with soot—handing it back felt awkward.

Dong Qiaoziao smiled calmly, taking it from him. "Young Master, let me handle these rough tasks."

Her ease relaxed him. Then he wondered, Am I overthinking? Girls falling for me this fast? With my charm and looks, it'd be weirder if they didn't. He smirked.

Done sketching, he had Dong Qiaoziao trace the lines with a brush to preserve them—charcoal smudged too easily. It was delicate work; one slip could ruin it.

Before he could admit he was a half-baked scholar who couldn't use a brush, she—sharp as ever—didn't ask why he wouldn't. She just got to it.

She traced carefully, sweat beading on her tense little face, terrified of botching his original.

A quiet warmth stirred in him. Their blind trust touched him. In my old world, those bastards scamming grannies for retirement cash—did they grow up on shit? he wondered.

Dong Qiaoziao finished the tracing flawlessly. Her skill left him speechless—even the curves matched his strokes perfectly.

Shaking his head, he sighed, "Qiaoziao, you can't marry someone else—I'd never find another pair of hands like yours."

They'd grown close enough to drop the "Miss." Why call a sweet girl "Miss" anyway?

He laughed arrogantly after, and Dong Qiaoziao bolted out, face flaming—probably thrown by this suave scholar's sudden crassness.

Heh, your handkerchief spooked me, so I'll spook you back. I'm shameless—what you gonna do? He grinned wickedly.

By noon, the booklet was ready. He handed the draft to Old Dong to rush to a printer.

Printing tech here was primitive, and with few pages, churning out 500 copies by night—working overtime—was optimistic.

Old Dong, a savvy local with connections, was why Lin Wanrong picked him. As he headed out, Lin Wanrong stopped him. "Uncle Dong, tell the printer—keep it hush-hush. This draft's gold. If it leaks and gets copied, we're screwed. Get it back fast."

He'd promised Old Dong big profits. No copyright laws here—if it got pirated, they'd lose everything. Even in his world, with protections, knockoffs ran rampant. Secrecy was key.

Dinner was at the Dongs'. A bachelor like Lin Wanrong had a cold stove waiting at home—better to chat with them. Dong Qingshan returned, buzzing with early success.

Dong Qiaoziao lived up to her name again—simple fare, but delicious. Lin Wanrong nearly swallowed his tongue. She giggled behind her hand, her pure beauty radiating quiet warmth.

After dinner, he tagged along to the printer. Money talked—double pay got twenty skilled workers grinding all night. The boss swore 500 copies by dawn.

Printing here was archaic: drafts etched onto kraft paper, inked through to pages, dried, and bound. Quality was rough, but the text and portraits stayed clear.

A workshop pushing 500 copies in an afternoon and night? That was the limit.