14. Finding Love

Su Yun was left breathless, unable to see the inevitable connection between these two matters.

“No…”

“Are you about to say ‘impossible’ again?” He Mian interrupted once more.

Su Yun couldn’t figure out the person before her, but she was certain of one thing: this man’s romantic history was undoubtedly rich—it was evident from every angle. (He Mian: I am truly wronged.)

Given her own recent failed relationship and Emma’s cautionary tale, she had no intention of falling in love anytime soon.

To uproot someone from your heart is to lose half your life.

During those days right after the breakup, she forced herself to smile by day and wept by night. She never wished to endure that heart-wrenching pain again.

Of course, it wasn’t as if she had wholly rejected men.

At present, a carefree, uncommitted romance seemed like an appealing option.

In truth, He Mian was the ideal lover—never clingy, never concerned with the trivialities of daily life, only speaking of poetry and beauty.

“Isn’t it a pity to come to Paris and not have a romance full of poetry and passion?” He Mian tempted her, “The kind you don’t have to be responsible for.”

Su Yun truly felt she was an open book to He Mian; his words echoed her own thoughts.

Looking into his dark, gleaming eyes, she agreed, “…Alright.”

He Mian handed her a glass, and they clinked them together, sealing their mutual decision.

Just before their glasses touched, Su Yun suddenly drew back her hand: “I have one condition—no cheating during this relationship. If you want to end it, just tell me anytime.”

“OK.”

Their glasses met. Their “romantic” arrangement was officially established.

-

Su Yun, sporting dark circles, dragged herself up for morning reading. Though blessed with extraordinary linguistic talent, she worked diligently to avoid fading into mediocrity.

On weekends, without classes, her stomach sang along during her morning studies.

The fridge was spotless—only Evian water and alcohol. The kitchen was pristine, lacking any sign of cooking.

Su Yun stared in silent frustration, changed clothes, and prepared to go out.

Just as she approached the door, it suddenly moved—someone was coming in!

Su Yun’s first reaction was that a thief had entered; she hurried to He Mian’s room.

Without knocking, she opened the door and closed it behind her.

Inside, it was dark; He Mian was sleeping soundly.

Su Yun peeked through a crack to observe. The intruder looked every inch a villain—broad-shouldered, burly, beer-bellied. Yet, he was surprisingly civilized, changing into slippers before heading straight for the kitchen. Was he here to steal food?

Su Yun switched on the light and hurried to He Mian’s bedside, whispering urgently, “He Mian, He Mian, there’s a thief in the house. He’s in the kitchen stealing things.”

He Mian frowned, eyes still shut: “Let him steal.”

“You don’t care about your paintings? Hey.”

“I’ll just paint new ones.” Sleep was his top priority.

“You…”

Knock, knock, knock—a series of knocks at the door.

“Mian, are you awake?” Fei Xiaobao heard the commotion in He Mian’s room and knocked, asking.

Su Yun, panicked by the knocking, was about to rouse He Mian again.

Wait—Mian?

-

Su Yun sat upright, the tension palpable, as she and Fei Xiaobao sized each other up, both quickly looking away.

This burly man was actually He Mian’s agent!

His build and features still gave the impression of menace up close—a classic villain, the type to make children cry.

Had this man been a mobster before applying to be an agent?

At the same time, Fei Xiaobao was scrutinizing Su Yun as well—there was a woman in He Mian’s apartment!

And she was strikingly beautiful: fair-skinned, lovely.

“Mian, who is this?” Xiaobao asked He Mian, who was sitting beside him.

He Mian was clearly not fully awake, yawning, “My translator, Su Yun. This is Xiaobao.”

The second half was directed at Su Yun; He Mian had already mentioned Xiaobao’s identity in the room.

Xiaobao was first shocked, then incredulous, and finally enlightened—everything made sense.

Beauty is captivating. He thought it odd that a mere translator could command a monthly salary of 100,000 euros.

He Mian’s agreement to this job must have something to do with this translator lady.

The two-day art exhibition in Paris had gone well, with many paintings sold. Xiaobao had been busy, and the ever-increasing numbers in the account made him grin from ear to ear.

Numerous aristocrats came, eager to commission a painting from Master He; Xiaobao had to painfully refuse, since He Mian never accepted private commissions and only painted by his own whim. He had the talent to be willful—a single painting was worth a fortune.

Many left disappointed. One person was particularly persistent, insisting on a face-to-face meeting with He Mian. Despite Xiaobao’s repeated persuasion, the client raised the price threefold.

Xiaobao could no longer bring himself to refuse; He Mian was rich, but he wasn’t, and he still hoped to save up to marry someday. If he kept turning away money, he’d be a fool.

So he discussed the matter with He Mian, determined to risk everything if He Mian refused—even resorting to tears and tantrums, all for his own happiness.

Unexpectedly, before he could even cry, He Mian agreed after a brief thought, leaving Xiaobao genuinely stunned.

Because Xiaobao was busy with work and couldn’t care for He Mian, and He Mian couldn’t speak the language in Paris, Xiaobao suggested finding a translator to accompany him.

When Xiaobao brought it up, he was cautious—worried He Mian would object. Most artists were eccentric, and He Mian was the most peculiar of all; one of his quirks was not liking to share a room with strangers.

Unexpectedly, He Mian readily agreed, though insisted on finding someone himself.

Xiaobao breathed a sigh of relief—best to let He Mian pick, lest his own candidates displease the master.

But when Xiaobao learned the translator’s sky-high salary, he was dumbfounded for several seconds: “Mian… Mian, aren’t you being scammed?” The pay was outrageous.

“Just pay it.” He Mian waved his hand with impressive flair.

Xiaobao stared at the zeros on the contract, whined, “Mian, why don’t I be your translator?” His spoken language was decent, after all.

“Fine, friendly price—two thousand yuan a month, housing included.”

“….” After a speechless pause, Xiaobao ventured, “Can you cook, wash, and tidy up?”

“Ah, meals delivered on time, housekeeping hired regularly.”

Xiaobao raged inwardly: Why are you hiring a translator who only translates? Damn, she earns more in a month than I do in a whole year.