Crafted for Her Aesthetic

The car glided out of the villa district, a soft instrumental melody playing through He Yanci's car speakers. The conversation flowed easily—he mentioned trivial daily matters, pointed out new landmarks in Kyoto, even slowed the car to highlight a newly opened gallery or café when traffic permitted.

Wen Ruan had been born here but spent most of her childhood in the south, her frail health demanding milder climates. Though she'd grown accustomed to southern life, Kyoto's ever-evolving skyline still stirred a faint nostalgia.

At the seventh red light, He Yanci's phone buzzed. He apologized and answered via Bluetooth; it was his family, checking on the meeting. Though he didn't 刻意 hide the conversation, Wen Ruan kept her gaze fixed on the window, aware of the unspoken agenda: both families were desperate to push them together.

Her phone vibrated—dozens of messages from Tang Suiyi, all flooding her screen with her nickname:"Ruan Ruan Ruan Ruan Ruan—!"Wen Ruan groaned: "What do you want? I'm still alive, you know. No need to call my soul back.""Hehe, as your 'matchmaker,' I must care about your lifelong event!Have you met him? How is he?"Knowing Tang's gossipy nature, Wen Ruan typed slowly: "Just met him.""Holy sh*t—already? Ruan Ruan, since when were you this bold?""You want to die? Since when have I been that type?" I'm a proper lady, thank you.Tang's reply was instant:"Tsk, we've known each other forever. I know all your little kinks. Does this fiancé of yours meet your 'standards'?"Wen Ruan's mind flashed to He Yanci outside her gate—dark shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, the faint shadow of muscle beneath the fabric. She smirked: "He's… acceptable.""Holy f*ck! 'Acceptable' is high praise from you!"Wen Ruan's "standards" were notoriously precise: shirts must cling just enough to hint at muscle tone, not too tight, not too loose—perfection in tailoring and physique. Her friends often joked only a "gentleman with a hint of beast" could satisfy her.

Tang's messages flooded in again:"Send a photo NOW! I need to see the man who earned 'acceptable' from you. Is he drop-dead gorgeous?"Glancing at He Yanci, Wen Ruan replied: "He's driving. I'm in the passenger seat—it'd be obvious if I took a photo.""Aww, already feeling sorry for him driving? Tell me, does your childhood fiancé's face hit all your aesthetic points?"Adjusting a strand of hair, Wen Ruan conceded: "Hmm… let's just say he's exactly my type.""I KNEW IT! You called this a 'farce' earlier? This is a gift from the gods! Cling to him like a koala!"Wen Ruan sighed. He Yanci had disliked her as a child; she wasn't about to fawn over him now. Besides, she hated arranged marriages—she wanted love to bloom naturally, not be forced."Has he brought up canceling the engagement?""It's too soon—we just left." Men like He Yanci will play the gentleman first, she thought."Listen, Ruan Ruan—Chu Laoda said He Yanci is a legend in Kyoto's elite circle. Rich, successful, globally renowned. You have hordes of rivals. Cling. Now.""Laoda knows too? I'll never live this down.""Of course! We're your family—we care!"Wen Ruan massaged her temple, amused yet exasperated."One last thing: if he doesn't bring up canceling the engagement, seduce him. I got his profile from Laoda—clean Private life,no scandals. A safe investment!""Oh… so you're saying even if I can't have his heart, his body is a good consolation?""Don't sell yourself short! Have you seen how stunning you are? He won't be able to resist you, even if you just bat an eyelid."Shaking her head at the increasingly risqué advice, Wen Ruan cut off the chat: "Gotta go—staring at my phone while he drives is rude."

He Yanci had seen fair skin before, but Wen Ruan's was luminous—almost translucent. When her coat slipped to reveal her wrist, the mutton-fat jade bracelet there seemed to glow against her skin, enhancing its pearlescent quality. Even now, hunched over her phone, she exuded a soft, elegant charm that was impossible to ignore.

"Fine, go 'date'! Lao Da's yelling at me—report back tonight! And photos! Photos!"With a final eye-roll, Wen Ruan tucked her phone away, settling into the quiet.

Minutes later, they arrived. He Yanci parked, removing his glasses—revealing sharp, fathomless eyes that replaced the earlier scholarly warmth with something more cunning, almost fox-like."Usually don't wear them," he explained, noticing her gaze. "Night vision isn't what it used to be."

The restaurant manager greeted them warmly, his eyes lingering on Wen Ruan with curiosity."Miss Wen Ruan," He Yanci introduced her simply.The manager bowed, ushering them inside."I wasn't sure of your preferences," He Yanci said, "but this place specializes in southern and Russian cuisine."Wen Ruan scanned the empty dining hall—he'd clearly reserved the entire space. "I prefer Chinese cuisine, especially southern dishes." Spicy hotpot, preferably, she added silently, but maintained her poised smile."Noted," he replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. More performative politeness, she thought.

Upstairs, the private room was spacious, decorated in classical Chinese style with half-open screens. The air was warm—He Yanci had likely ordered the temperature adjusted for her. Wen Ruan shed her coat, revealing the cheongsam's elegant tailoring. The room's centerpiece was a screen adorned with double-sided Suzhou embroidery depicting ancient spring snows—a craft her grandmother had mastered.

While He Yanci took a call, Wen Ruan stepped closer to the screen, captivated by the intricate stitches. She didn't hear him return, too focused on the artwork. When she turned, they nearly collided, her shoulder brushing his chest—firm, unyielding, a brief, electric contact.

He stepped back instantly, gaze fixed on the screen. "You like these?""Ancient prosperity always sparks curiosity," she said, recovering smoothly. "The skill is breathtaking."His adam's apple bobbed as he looked away, gesturing to the table. "My grandfather has a collection of pre-Song dynasty art books—Tang Prosperity, Karma Tales, Mountain Waterscapes. They're on his shelf."Wen Ruan's eyes lit up, then dimmed. "Grandpa He keeps them for sentimental reasons—they belonged to Grandma He. I wouldn't deprive him of those memories."

He Yanci poured tea, his movements precise. The meal that followed was a symphony of southern flavors—light, delicate, though Wen Ruan secretly craved spice. Still, she ate heartily, her satisfaction evident."I thought you might find it too mild," He Yanci remarked, watching her."Southern cuisine is subtler," she said, dabbing her lips. "But flavorful in its own way.""Perhaps I should visit the south more often to understand it better." His smile was polite, almost teasing.

As the meal ended, Wen Ruan grew restless. He still hadn't mentioned the engagement. Part of her wanted him to bring it up, to clear the air; another part, surprisingly, dreaded it—for her grandfather's sake, at least, she needed this charade to continue a little longer.

The tension lingered, unspoken—two people playing roles, each aware of the other's script, yet unsure how to deviate. For now, the pretense held: smiles, politeness, a dance of duty and denial. But beneath the surface, something had shifted—the brush of a shoulder, a lingering gaze, the faint scent of jasmine tea and sandalwood.

Perhaps "arranged" didn't have to mean "unwanted." But for now, they'd keep their secrets, each wondering: How long can we pretend this is just a formality?