176: Chapter 176 Shirley was immersed in immense surprise

Song Tianhao did not answer immediately. He picked up his coffee cup, took another sip, and looked at Ms. Kim with a calm gaze: "Which designer?"

"It is Ms. Durand." Ms. Kim lowered her voice slightly, uttering a name that was thunderous in the fashion world.

This designer was known for being a maverick and immensely talented; she rarely appeared before the media, and her studio was even more mysterious. Anyone who could receive a personal invitation from her to visit was undoubtedly a figure at the pinnacle of the fashion world.

Song Tianhao's brows twitched almost imperceptibly. He set down his coffee cup and tapped his fingers lightly on the table, seemingly deep in thought.

Sulli was so nervous she dared not breathe. She knew the name Durand; that was a true master of fashion! She felt it was an honor just to see an interview with her in a magazine, let alone visit her studio!

A few seconds later, Song Tianhao looked up at Ms. Kim, his voice steady: "When?"

"Two o'clock in the afternoon. The studio is in the Marais district. I will send the address to your assistant's phone shortly." Ms. Kim clearly breathed a sigh of relief, her smile becoming much more sincere.

"Alright." Song Tianhao nodded. Then, he turned his face to look at Sulli, who was sitting opposite him, staring at him without blinking, her face full of longing and nervousness. He said in a casual tone: "I will take Sulli with me. She needs to be exposed to more of this; it will be beneficial for her future fashion resources."

In that instant, Sulli felt as if her heart had been gently nudged by something, then wrapped in a warm, gentle current. It was not just because she had received this precious opportunity—though that alone made her so excited she almost wanted to jump—but even more so because of his words.

"She needs to be exposed to more of this."

The flat tone carried a clear plan and arrangement. He was not only giving her an opportunity, but also considering her "future."

"Th-thank you, President! Thank you, Chief Kim!" Sulli's face flushed with excitement as she hurriedly stood up and bowed.

"You are welcome. Miss Sulli has a unique aura and great potential; I believe Ms. Durand will appreciate it as well." Ms. Kim smiled and nodded, then said to Song Tianhao, "I won't disturb you both while you dine. I will send the specific information to Chief Jang Se-hoon shortly. Enjoy your meal."

After Ms. Kim left, Sulli was still immersed in immense surprise, her movements feeling somewhat floaty as she sat down.

She looked at Song Tianhao, her eyes shining as if they held stars: "President, is it really okay? Would it be inappropriate for me to go? I don't understand anything..."

"You only learn if you don't understand." Song Tianhao picked up his knife and fork again, his tone calm and unruffled. "When you go, watch more, listen more, and speak less. If there is anything you don't understand, ask me when you get back."

"Yes! I will definitely watch carefully!" Sulli nodded vigorously, feeling that the croissant on her plate tasted even better, and even the air had become exceptionally sweet.

Breakfast ended in a subtle, lighthearted, and expectant atmosphere. Sulli ate with great satisfaction, not just because of the delicious food, but also because of the surprise that had fallen from the sky and the sense of security brought by the President's words, "She needs to."

When leaving the restaurant, Song Tianhao said to Sulli: "Go back to your room and prepare first. Makeup for the afternoon street shoot starts at one o'clock, and we will meet in the lobby at twelve-thirty. The visit is at two o'clock; there is enough time, but don't be late."

"Yes, President!" Sulli replied obediently.

Song Tianhao nodded, but did not leave immediately. Instead, he said to her: "I am going up to check on Krystal. You go back and rest."

The smile on Sulli's face paused. Recalling the exhausted voice of Krystal on the phone, the excitement she felt from obtaining the opportunity cooled slightly, replaced by a trace of worry and a little bit of an indescribable, subtle emotion.

She nodded: "Alright, then I'll head up first. President... if Krystal needs anything, please let me know."

"Mm."

Sulli watched Song Tianhao's tall back as he walked toward the elevator, pursed her lips, and then turned to walk toward another elevator.

Song Tianhao arrived at the door of the room and knocked.

It took a while for footsteps to be heard from inside, and the door was opened a crack. Krystal appeared behind the door. She was wearing pajamas with a hotel bathrobe draped over them, her hair was somewhat messy, her complexion indeed looked a bit pale, there were faint dark circles under her eyes, and she didn't look well.

"President." She called out in a low voice, her tone slightly hoarse.

"I heard you weren't feeling well." Song Tianhao stood at the door, his gaze sweeping over her face. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, just a bit tired and didn't sleep well." Krystal lowered her eyes, not looking at him, her fingers unconsciously tugging at the belt of her bathrobe. "I'll be fine after a nap."

Song Tianhao looked at her for two seconds, then suddenly reached out, palm upward, toward her forehead.

Krystal's body stiffened almost imperceptibly, but she did not pull away.

The back of Song Tianhao's hand rested gently against her forehead for a few seconds. His fingers were slender, his palm warm, and the sensation of the touch was clear and fleeting.

"No fever." He withdrew his hand, his tone remaining calm. "I had the restaurant send up some breakfast, eat a little. If you aren't feeling well, you can take leave from the street shoot this afternoon."

"No need, I'll be fine after a rest, I won't delay work." Krystal immediately shook her head, her voice slightly stronger than before, but still carrying a sense of detachment.

Song Tianhao did not insist further, merely nodding: "Rest well. If you need anything, find your assistant or call me directly."

"Yes, thank you, President." Krystal thanked him in a low voice, still not looking up at him.

Song Tianhao did not say anything else and turned to leave.

Listening to the footsteps in the corridor fading away, Krystal slowly closed the door and leaned her back against the cold door panel. She raised her hand and touched her forehead, where the warmth of the back of his hand seemed to still linger.

She closed her eyes. The stuffy feeling in her chest did not dissipate because of his visit; on the contrary, it became even clearer.

She walked back to the bedside, picked up her phone, unlocked the screen, and the image remained on the album interface. In that encrypted folder, a dozen-second-long video lay silently.

She did not click it, but stared at the thumbnail. In the image, there was the back of Song Tianhao leaning slightly, and Sulli's side profile as she looked up intently.

After looking for a while, she turned off the screen, tossed the phone aside, pulled up the quilt, and covered her head.

At one-fifty in the afternoon, a black sedan stopped at the entrance of a quiet alley in the Marais district.

Song Tianhao and Sulli got out of the car. Sulli had changed out of the dress she wore in the morning and into an outfit more suitable for a visit.

She was wearing an off-white silk shirt paired with black high-waisted wide-leg trousers, with a sharply tailored khaki trench coat over it. Her hair was tied into a crisp high ponytail, her makeup was exquisite but not heavy, and her whole look appeared sharp yet carried a touch of artistic flair.

This was an outfit she had put together after an urgent discussion with her assistant before coming; it was neither overly formal nor lacking in respect.

Song Tianhao, on the other hand, was still in that dark gray casual suit, only he had taken off the jacket and draped it over his arm, revealing a simple white T-shirt underneath, looking casual yet stylish.

The alley was very quiet, paved with old cobblestones. On both sides were typical Parisian Haussmann buildings, the walls somewhat mottled and covered with green vines. Unlike the bustling Champs-Élysées, this place was filled with a low-key, settled artistic atmosphere.

"Is it here, President?" Sulli asked in a low voice, looking at a plain, even somewhat inconspicuous dark blue wooden door in front of her.

There was no sign on the door, only a small brass doorbell.

Song Tianhao checked the address on his phone, nodded, and stepped forward to ring the bell.

After a while, a small window on the door was pulled open from the inside, revealing a pair of wary, dark brown eyes. They sized them up, and asked in French: "Who are you looking for?"

Song Tianhao answered calmly in fluent French: "I have an appointment with Ms. Durand. Sky Entertainment, Song Tianhao."

The person inside looked at them for a few more seconds, especially carefully observing Sulli, who was standing behind Song Tianhao and appeared somewhat nervous, and then the small window was closed. A few seconds later, the door lock clicked open.

The door was pulled open from the inside, and a muscular man wearing black cargo pants and a buzz cut appeared at the door. He made a "please enter" gesture to them without speaking.

Song Tianhao signaled to Sulli and walked in first. Sulli took a deep breath and followed behind him, stepping through this mysterious door.

The man leading the way walked in silence, with Song Tianhao and Sulli following behind.

Sulli followed half a step behind Song Tianhao, unable to resist sniffing lightly. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light as she sized up this legendary designer's studio.

The foyer was small, with unpainted red brick walls that were pockmarked and bore the dull traces left by time. Several huge abstract paintings with wildly splashed colors leaned crookedly against the wall, the edges of the canvases somewhat worn.

On the floor lay a few rolls of bundled fabric of indiscernible material, their colors dusty. A uniquely shaped wall lamp, welded from discarded gears and copper pipes, emitted a dim, yellow light overhead.

A burly man wearing black cargo pants, a buzz cut, and tattoos on his arms stood silently by the door, nodding his chin toward the depths of the corridor as a gesture. His expression was blank; his gaze lingered on Sulli's face for a moment, emotionless, before moving away.

Song Tianhao nodded slightly to him and strode inside. Sulli hurried to follow, her high heels clicking softly on the old but polished dark wooden floor. The sound seemed somewhat abrupt in this overly quiet space, and she subconsciously lightened her steps.

The corridor was not long, and the walls on both sides were covered with all sorts of things. Faded design sketches, pictures torn from magazines, brightly colored fabric samples, and even a few bird feathers and dried plant specimens were layered, without any method, yet they strangely constituted a messy and full visual impact.

At the end of the corridor, voices could be vaguely heard, very softly, along with faint music—not jazz, but more like some kind of experimental, rhythmically fragmented electronic music.

Emerging from the corridor, the view suddenly opened up.

This was an extremely spacious room with an astonishingly high ceiling. A huge, slanted glass skylight occupied almost the entire roof, unreservedly admitting the bright but non-glaring Parisian afternoon sunlight, illuminating the countless tiny dust motes floating in the air.

The light was clear, carrying an almost sacred texture, falling upon the mountains of fabric, scattered design drafts, and countless finished or unfinished garments hanging in the air.

The space was divided into several areas in a messy yet orderly fashion. Near the entrance were a few huge, mottled wooden worktables, piled high with colorful rolls of fabric, open paint boxes, pen holders filled with various pens, and scattered sketches drawn with wild lines.

Several vintage sewing machines stood silently in the corner, next to stacked mannequins, some wearing semi-finished products, some with bare white torsos, in various poses.

Further inside was a small reception area partitioned off by metal frames and glass, with a few stiff-looking metal chairs that didn't appear very comfortable, and a low coffee table made from a single piece of raw wood.

At this moment, four or five people were already sitting there, men and women, whose attire all exuded a sense of "I am very artistic" detachment, and they were talking in low voices.

And most eye-catching of all were the dense rows of clothing hanging along the walls on both sides. From the magnificent crinolines of the 18th-century Rococo style to the flapper girls' fringed short skirts of the 1920s, to the deconstructive, fragmented postmodern designs...

Clothes of different eras and styles lined up like silent soldiers, gleaming with either soft or sharp luster under the sunlight. This was a fragment of history, a graveyard of inspiration, and an incubator for creativity.

Sulli was so shocked by the scene before her that she almost forgot to breathe. She had been to the company's wardrobe room and had seen the dressing rooms at photography studios, but those places were orderly and served the purpose of "styling."

But everything here was full of raw, untamed creativity, even a kind of almost barbaric vitality. Every piece of fabric, every line, seemed to be breathing.

Her gaze was unconsciously drawn to a figure.

Beside a worktable, with her back to them, stood a woman.

She was very thin, very tall, wearing a pair of sharply tailored black linen trousers and a matching turtleneck sweater. Her short, silver-white hair was combed meticulously, gleaming with a cold light in the sunlight.

She was leaning forward slightly, using an old magnifying glass to carefully examine a piece of deep purple velvet fabric with complex dark patterns spread out on the worktable. Her movements were slow and focused, as if the only things left in the world were her and that fabric.

The man with the buzz cut who had brought them in walked over to the woman and said something in French in a low voice.