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... tension like a scalpel.

A tall woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a bun appeared at the edge of the dressing rooms, flanked by two boutique staff members in immaculate black. Her blazer was pressed to military precision, her heels sharper than her eyes—which was saying something.

"I believe that’s enough," she said, voice calm but firm.

Everyone turned.

The woman’s gaze swept over the wreckage—fallen mannequins, a sideways clothing rack, Victoria half-drape ...

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Wen Qiao said shamelessly, “I’m your wife.”

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