177: Chapter 177 You can give it a try

Ms. Durand did not turn around immediately; she simply raised a hand, signaling him to be quiet.

Her fingers were long and slender, with distinct knuckles. Though her skin had loosened with age, one could still discern the graceful shape they must have had in her youth.

Her nails were trimmed clean and neat, with no polish applied.

She looked at the piece of fabric for another few seconds before straightening up, putting down the magnifying glass, and slowly turning around.

Choi Sulli finally saw the other woman's face clearly.

It was a face covered in wrinkles, yet exceptionally sharp.

The eye sockets were deep, the brow bone high, the bridge of the nose straight to the point of harshness, and the lips thin, pressed tightly into a straight line.

There was almost no expression on her face, save for those blue eyes—like a frozen lake in winter—sharp, cold, and possessing an all-knowing, scrutinizing gaze. At this moment, they were looking calmly and placidly at Song Tianhao, then slowly shifted to Choi Sulli's face.

That gaze did not feel like it was looking at a person; it was more like examining an object, a piece of fabric, or a specimen.

Choi Sulli felt her heart tighten under that gaze. Subconsciously, she straightened her back and clenched her hands slightly at her sides.

She could feel the muscles in her cheeks stiffening, but she still tried to maintain a polite, slightly restrained smile.

"Ms. Durand." Song Tianhao stepped forward half a pace, bowed slightly, and spoke in fluent French. His voice sounded clear and steady in the spacious, high-ceilinged room. "Good afternoon. It is an honor to receive your invitation. I am Song Tianhao from Sky Entertainment, and this is our company's artist, Choi Sulli."

Pierre Durand, the designer known in the fashion world as much for her talent as for her eccentric temper, did not respond immediately.

Her gaze remained on Choi Sulli's face, scanning slowly and carefully from top to bottom.

From Choi Sulli's neatly tied high ponytail to her smooth forehead, her eyes with eyelashes fluttering slightly from nervousness, and down to the tip of her pert nose and her lips painted in dusty pink lipstick.

Then, Ms. Durand's gaze slid downward, passing over the collar of her off-white silk shirt, her slender neck, the girlish curves outlined by the well-fitted tailoring, her straight legs wrapped in black high-waisted wide-leg trousers, and finally landing on the simple black high heels on her feet.

The whole process lasted about ten seconds, but to Choi Sulli, it felt as long as a century.

She could clearly hear her heart thumping in her chest, and her palms were sweating slightly.

Finally, Ms. Durand shifted her gaze back to Song Tianhao.

She spoke in rapid French with a heavy Parisian accent, her voice somewhat raspy but full of vigor: "Mr. Song. Your French is better than I imagined."

Her gaze flicked toward Choi Sulli again, this time with undisguised pickiness. "However, bringing this 'idol' to my studio—are you trying to tell me that entertainment companies in South Korea are now so wealthy that they can just send pretty dolls produced on an assembly line to me for 'artistic edification'?"

Her words were blunt, even somewhat mean.

The guests sitting in the reception area seemed accustomed to such scenes. Someone picked up their cup to take a sip of water, while others whispered to each other, their eyes on Choi Sulli carrying a faint sense of scrutiny and the anticipation of a show.

Although Choi Sulli could not understand all the French, she roughly understood the words "idol," "assembly line," and "pretty doll."

Coupled with Ms. Durand's undisguised appraisal and cold tone, her face flushed red instantly—not from shyness, but from a mix of embarrassment, mortification, and a touch of grievance at being offended.

She bit her lower lip, lowered her gaze to stare at her shiny shoe tips, and felt her cheeks burning.

Song Tianhao's expression didn't change; he didn't even twitch an eyebrow.

He turned his head slightly and whispered the translation to Choi Sulli in Korean. He not only relayed Ms. Durand's words but also added a simple explanation: "She is testing the visitor's confidence and resilience in her usual way. Don't mind the literal meaning; look at her eyes."

His voice was calm—no comfort, no encouragement, just a statement of fact. But this calm voice was like a clear, cool spring that instantly extinguished the sparks of panic in Choi Sulli's heart.

She took a deep breath and, as he said, lifted her head again, summoning her courage to meet Ms. Durand's icy blue, scrutinizing eyes.

This time, she did not flinch.

Ms. Durand seemed slightly surprised by Choi Sulli's reaction; the corner of her brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

But she quickly turned back to Song Tianhao, speaking rapidly again, this time at length, interspersed with many technical terms: "... The sense of line is too weak; there is no memorable point.

Her temperament is too 'sweet,' like the cookie-cutter frosted cakes in a shop window. Her eyes are empty, containing only the reflexive smile trained for the camera.

Do you know what kind of place this is? I don't produce 'pretty' here; I produce 'stories,' I produce 'fragments of the soul.' Do you think she has what I want?"

Song Tianhao listened quietly. After Ms. Durand finished, he turned his head again and whispered the translation to Choi Sulli in Korean, this time more detailed, even adding some background context:

"She says your appearance lacks unique lines for memory, your temperament leans towards the sweetness of popular aesthetics, and your eyes lack personalized, impactful content. Her design core is narrative and soul expression; she questions whether you possess the internal qualities to become the carrier of her work."

He paused, looked at Choi Sulli's slightly widened eyes, and added, "She is measuring you by her standards, which is normal. But you must remember, the standard is hers, and you are your own."

Choi Sulli's heart sank at that long string of critical evaluations, but immediately after, it strangely steadied because of Song Tianhao's last sentence.

She looked at Song Tianhao's eyes, as calm as a deep pool. There were no ripples from her being belittled, nor any impulse to rush to defend her, only a near-certain calmness, as if saying: You can do it.

She looked at Ms. Durand again. This time, there was less panic in her eyes and more seriousness, even a bit of stubbornness. She didn't speak, knowing the language barrier, but she responded with her eyes: I am listening.

Ms. Durand and Choi Sulli locked eyes for a few seconds; a flash of emotion, extremely fast and almost impossible to capture, flickered in those icy blue eyes. She didn't say anything more to Song Tianhao but suddenly turned around, raising her finger to point toward the deepest part of the studio, to the wall near a tall window.

There, in the mottled light and shadow cast through the stained-glass window, hung a dress.

A dress that looked very old, even somewhat tattered.

It was in the typical style of the late 19th and early 20th centuries: high-necked, long-sleeved, with a floor-length skirt. The overall color had faded to a dull ivory white, but upon closer inspection, one could see it had originally been some very light champagne gold.

The fabric was heavy silk, but it had lost its luster. The skirt featured intricate, hand-embroidered scrolling vine patterns in the same color thread. Due to its age, the thread in some places had broken and fallen off, leaving incomplete patterns.

There was a large, irregular, darker stain on the hem, as if dark liquid had been splashed on it and couldn't be washed out.

The waist of the dress was cinched very tightly, but the design on the chest was simple, the collar buttoned up tightly, and there were signs of wear at the cuffs.

It hung there quietly in the colorful light and shadow, like a pale, frozen silhouette of time—beautiful, fragile, and carrying lingering, ancient scars.

Ms. Durand pointed at the dress, turned back, her gaze locking onto Choi Sulli like a hawk. She spoke in French, clearly and slowly—this time she seemed to deliberately slow her speech so Choi Sulli could catch the keywords—and then looked at Song Tianhao, signaling him to translate.

Song Tianhao's gaze also fell on the antique dress, lingering for a moment before he turned to Choi Sulli and translated in Korean, word for word:

"She says, 'Child, if you can use no language, but only your eyes, your body, and all the senses you can muster right now to tell me what kind of story this dress is telling, then I will admit that you are qualified to step through this door and qualified to stand here and breathe the air of this place.'"

He translated it very accurately, even restoring the mix of provocation, testing, and a hint of expectation in Ms. Durand's tone.

When his voice fell, there was silence in the studio.

The guests in the reception area also stopped talking, and everyone's eyes were focused on Choi Sulli. The air seemed to solidify; only dust danced silently in the beam of light from the skylight.

Choi Sulli froze completely.

No language? Only eyes and body? To interpret a tattered antique dress whose era, background, and even details she couldn't clearly see?

How is this possible? This is simply a fantasy! It's deliberate harassment!

She subconsciously looked at Song Tianhao, her eyes filled with helplessness and panic. Her lips moved slightly, wanting to say something, but she couldn't make a sound.

She was just an idol, a singer, a rookie actor who had just started Acting. What did she know about classical clothing? What did she know about historical narrative? She couldn't even tell what era this dress was from!

Song Tianhao was also looking at her. His gaze remained calm, but those eyes, which always seemed excessively cold and sharp, were now reflecting the tiny, fragmented light spots cast by the window frame, appearing softer than usual. He didn't speak, just nodded at her with a tiny movement.

The nod was light, faint, and almost imperceptible. But Choi Sulli understood it.

There was no urging, no command in it, only a simple trust: You can try.

She remembered yesterday at the subway station, he looked at her like this too, telling her in a calm tone: "Forget the camera, forget being pretty, think about yourself. If you were her right now, who would you be waiting for? And why are you waiting?"