The door of the Image Design Center closed softly behind them, temporarily isolating the space filled with lights, colors, whispers, and countless meaningful gazes.
The corridor returned to relative emptiness and quiet, with only the emergency indicator lights emitting a faint green glow.
Su Yuqing did not immediately walk away.
She leaned back against the cool door panel, as if needing this support to digest the invisible pressure from inside the room just now.
That pressure did not come from the work itself, but from the girl standing quietly beside her, waiting for her instructions, and from the words that still echoed clearly in her ears—
“As long as Master likes it.”
The aftershock brought by those words unsettled her far more than any direct opposition or criticism.
It was like an overly clear mirror, reflecting the vague and dangerous line between the two of them, and also the unmistakable surprise, scrutiny, and a trace of indescribable subtlety in the eyes of those around them.
Silence stretched between them for a few seconds, broken only by the low hum of the central air conditioning.
Su Yuqing slowly turned to face Bai Wanxue.
The corridor light was not bright, outlining Bai Wanxue’s delicate profile and her pale red eyes, which remained clear even in the dimness.
She was looking quietly at Su Yuqing, her expression pure and innocent, as if the words that had caused ripples moments ago were just the most ordinary statement.
Su Yuqing took a deep breath, trying to make her voice sound calm, firm, and carry the professional tone a manager should have when lecturing an artist under her charge, even though she knew this facade might be as thin as a cicada’s wing in front of this “existence.”
“Wanxue,” she began, her voice sounding a bit dry in the empty corridor.
“There’s something I need to make clear to you.”
Bai Wanxue tilted her head slightly, indicating she was listening.
“Hmm?”
“From now on,” Su Yuqing enunciated each word clearly and deliberately, “outside, in public places, especially within the company, when other colleagues and staff are present—you are not allowed, absolutely not allowed, to call me ‘Master’ anymore.”
This demand clearly caught Bai Wanxue off guard.
Her pale red eyes blinked noticeably, a clear flash of confusion passing through them, and her brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.
She did not immediately object or agree.
She just looked quietly at Su Yuqing with those eyes that seemed capable of discerning emotions, and then, in her unique tone with a questioning lilt, she asked softly:
“Why? Meow.”
No agitation, no grievance, just pure incomprehension.
This pure incomprehension was, at times, harder to deal with than fierce rebuttal.
Su Yuqing averted her gaze, not wanting to meet those overly transparent eyes for too long.
Her tone was slightly stiff as she replied, “There’s no particular ‘why.’ It’s a rule, workplace etiquette, it’s… to protect the professional image of both of us.”
It seemed she was trying to summarize her motivation for making the above demand with a vague, more adult-sounding reason.
But this reason clearly could not convince Bai Wanxue.
She took a very small step forward.
The distance didn’t close much, but her presence suddenly became more distinct.
Lifting her face, her gaze persistently chased Su Yuqing’s evasive eyes.
In a voice that sounded like she was stating a fact yet carried a certain stubborn logic, she said:
“But, ‘Master’ is Master, and ‘Wanxue’ is Wanxue. The relationship between these two is clear and unique. Wanxue understands very well that she absolutely belongs to Master. This point will not change just because there are other people watching or not. Meow.”
She paused, as if organizing more persuasive words, then posed a question that went straight to the core, making Su Yuqing’s scalp tingle:
“So, if Master wants to change this form of address, to change the relationship shown to the outside… then Master must also tell Wanxue a real, reasonable ‘reason’ for why Wanxue cannot publicly acknowledge this relationship between herself and Master. A reason that can convince Wanxue. Not… ‘there’s no particular why.’ Meow.”
Her logic was simple, direct, even carrying a childish stubbornness, yet strangely difficult to refute.
She wasn’t being coquettish or provocative; she was genuinely seeking an explanation she could understand and accept.
This attitude rendered all of Su Yuqing’s pre-prepared platitudes like “it looks bad” or “it’s easily misunderstood” stuck in her throat.
Su Yuqing felt a familiar sense of powerlessness, mixed with the irritation of being backed into a corner.
She knew going in circles with Bai Wanxue was useless.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, a hint of sharpness born from desperation flashed in their depths.
She no longer avoided the other’s gaze, looking directly into the depths of those pale red eyes.
Her tone also cooled:
“Fine. You want a reason? Then I’ll give you the most direct, most irrefutable reason right now.”
She raised her hand, pointing at the door behind them that had just closed—the door to the Image Design Center.
Her fingertip seemed capable of piercing through the door panel, pointing at the staff inside who hadn’t completely dispersed yet.
“Just now, inside there. Did you see—no, with your observation and insight that rivals Zhi Ai’s, almost terrifying, you definitely saw—”
“Did you see the instantly changing expression on every single person’s face in that room when they heard you call me those two words, loud and clear?”
Her words sped up, carrying suppressed emotion:
“Surprise, amusement, curiosity, scrutiny, awkwardness, even… a trace of barely perceptible disdain or excitement for the drama? Don’t play dumb with me, Bai Wanxue.”
“I know you definitely saw it, and saw it more clearly than anyone. You could even distinguish the subtle differences in the twitch of each person’s lips and all the information flashing in their eyes, couldn’t you?”
Su Yuqing’s accusations echoed in the quiet corridor like rapid gunfire.
She stared intently at Bai Wanxue, not missing any subtle change on her face.
Bai Wanxue listened quietly until Su Yuqing finished.
There was no trace of being exposed or flustered on her face.
She even nodded lightly, admitting in a tone almost as calm as an academic discussion:
“Wanxue doesn’t need to play dumb. Yes, Master. Every change in expression on those older brothers’ and sisters’ faces at that time, the movement of their muscles, the shift in their gaze, even the subtle changes in their aura… Wanxue saw it all clearly with her own eyes, and… recorded it all clearly. Meow.”
Her frank admission actually made Su Yuqing choke for a moment.
“Then isn’t that exactly it?!”
Su Yuqing’s voice rose unconsciously, carrying a kind of anxious and aggrieved “You clearly know.”
“Since you could see it! Since you clearly knew how awkward it would make me, how much it would invite speculation, how easily I could be labeled with something strange! Then why… why did you still insist on doing that? Why make me continue to feel at a loss under those gazes, like… like a monster on display?!”
Her questioning was no longer just concern at a professional level; it was mixed with the vulnerability and anger of having her personal emotions publicly scrutinized, forced to stand under the spotlight and bear criticism.
Faced with Su Yuqing’s nearly overflowing agitation, an expression of almost pure confusion appeared on Bai Wanxue’s face for the first time.
The confusion was so profound that it diluted her usual calm and ethereal quality.
She tilted her head slightly, her silver-gray hair sliding to one side.
Her pale red eyes were filled with a mist of incomprehension.
She asked, word by word, the question that instantly rendered Su Yuqing speechless:
“Wanxue… doesn’t understand. Meow.”
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