novelraw Chapter 749: Smile! Smile!
Chapter 749: Smile! Smile!
The Plaza, New York, 16th floor, Royal Suite.
Inside the enormous walk-in closet, the air was hushed.
Secretary Jin stood on the thick wool carpet.
Her fair, lithe body was exposed to the air, skin smooth and even, lines taut, not a trace of excess flesh.
The soft rustle of fabric came and went.
The blood-stirring scenery was gradually being covered, replaced instead by an extreme restraint and elegance.
Full curves and a slender waist, wrapped in top-tier tailoring, formed an absolutely exquisite S-shaped silhouette.
This time, she did not pull her hair up like usual;
instead, her dense, voluminous dark-brown hair fell freely over her shoulders.
The roots had been carefully styled to give a natural, airy look—less sharpness, more radiance.
She stood before the mirror, tilting her head slightly, scrutinizing the reflection.After a moment, she reached into the jewelry tray and picked up a delicate pair of gold-rimmed glasses, slowly setting them on her straight, elegant nose.
A new, refined intellectual allure flickered in her eyes behind the lenses.
They were his gift.
“Tap-tap-tap—”
Quick, light footsteps stopped outside the closet, followed by Shangguan Qiuyas’s voice.
“Director Jin, Mr. Philip has arrived at The Frick Collection, and the motorcade is ready downstairs. Shall we depart now?”
Secretary Jin turned, stepped out of the closet.
“Let’s go.”
Shangguan Qiuyas glanced up at the doorway, a flash of admiration and comprehension crossing her face.
No wonder Director Jin refused to wear any of the other outfits and insisted on changing in the Plaza’s closet.
It was to better match President Tang.
Admittedly, this outfit and the suit President Tang wore today perfectly echoed each other in tone and style.
“Clack, clack, clack.”
The sound of high heels striking the floor echoed down the corridor.
The two of them walked through the hallway toward the elevator lobby.
Shangguan Qiuyas followed closely, speaking at a rapid clip.
“According to reports from the scene, Ms. Sloan has already approached President Tang. Although she didn’t publicly say anything outrageous, she was still ostentatious. She even brought out a bottle of Salon 2002 for show... Sarah asked if she should step in to intervene?”
“No need.” Secretary Jin’s steps did not falter;
her voice was calm yet carried absolute command. “Elizabeth is just trying to ride the momentum and raise her price. She’s smart—she knows her limits. Let her perform.”
Shangguan Qiuyas nodded and fell silent.
She also knew full well that Ms. Sloan, though ruthless, was no fool.
These political creatures who survive between Washington and Wall Street know exactly which red lines must never be crossed.
Moreover, for President Tang’s safety, Director Jin had been laying groundwork since 2017, weaving him a second résumé.
When the moment of exposure came, everything would fall into place and make perfect sense:
a computer prodigy with an astonishing gift, the mysterious architect behind a quant fund’s algorithms, and an early investor with a keen instinct for the AI trend.
All his wealth sources and development trajectory would be traceable and reasonable.
More importantly, Director Jin herself was appearing today.
Once she showed up, she would become the absolute focal point.
All speculation, gazes, and chatter would be forcibly drawn to her.
There would still be discussion about President Tang afterward, but most of the heat and attention would be absorbed and deflected by her.
After all, this was New York.
This was her home turf.
On Wall Street, the weight of the name Jin Meixiao was far heavier and far more legendary than in Huaxia.
From entering Harvard on a full scholarship at seventeen, she played the markets with pocket money.
At nineteen, she made her first million-plus dollars on her own and built a vast social network bridging academia and finance.
The most extreme moment came in 2016: days before graduation, she declined all offers from top investment banks and struck out independently.
That year, she shorted the pound during the Brexit black swan event, became famous overnight, amassed original capital exponentially, and was dubbed by the media “the witch from the East.”
She then returned to found Smile Investment, grew it into the multi-billion Smile Holdings, and established the behind-the-scenes Tangjin Family Office.
Over nearly ten years, her name on Wall Street became a constantly appreciating legend, symbolizing absolute rationality and victory.
And Tangjin is no longer simply Huaxia capital.
It permeates energy, technology, medicine, real estate...
Deeply bound to countless interest groups.
Even without President Tang in the spotlight, this huge machine can operate independently and crush any malicious prying eyes.
That is why they are not worried that clever people like Sloan or Adrian would expose President Tang’s secrets.
What they need is a powerful ally, a strong backer.
Whether that backer is surnamed Jin or Tang is unimportant.
Of course, from Ms. Ouyang’s vantage in the Imperial Capital, this is the greatest risk.
“But—”
The elevator doors opened.
Secretary Jin stepped out. The winter afternoon sun poured through the glass façade and wrapped her in a golden halo.
She smoothed a strand of hair at her temple and bent to sit in the armored car with a special license plate.
The door closed, and the world went quiet.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Reunion.
Those two words rolled gently on her tongue, carrying a tremulous sweetness.
In those past years, they had never publicly stood shoulder to shoulder in such a legitimate way.
To her, this was more than a reunion.
It felt like a belated first meeting.
Secretary Jin slowly opened her eyes and looked out at the rapidly passing cityscape.
Her gaze burned with a passion she had never known.
The Frick Collection.
As the two exchanged a brief pause in conversation, the frozen air subtly shifted.
Julian Ashford of Carlyle’s expression flickered;
his practiced smile had not quite faded, while probing, calculating eyes fixed on the Eastern man personally “certified” by Sloan.
The elites clustered around him, like hounds catching a stronger scent, turned their attention in unison.
Meanwhile, in the garden courtyard, more people noticed the disturbance in the exhibition hall.
Whispers spread like a tide.
In the absolute center of attention, Tang Song showed no tension or awkwardness.
Especially with the disguise effect, his true emotions were veiled like a mist, incomprehensible to all—including Ms. Sloan opposite him.
In the corner behind him, the Tiancheng Capital group sat like on needles.
They had been invisible a moment ago;
now they were thrust to the center of the storm.
The enormous contrast and pressure made even moving a toe feel difficult.
They kept glancing repeatedly at Lu Ziming.
But clearly, Lu Ziming was also in a shutdown state, completely unable to think.
Ms. Sloan looked at the man before her, a faint curve forming at the corner of her mouth.
She leaned in slightly to shorten the space between them, lowering her voice so only he could hear, yet in a way that let bystanders perceive the intimacy.
“Mr. Tang, do you know? I waited six whole years for this bottle. Now the stage is set and the audience in place. Are you pleased with this opening?”
It was not a question but a carefully staged presentation, a strong claim to credit.
After all, over these six years she had exceeded her original promises, weaving an influence net through Washington’s political and business circles capable of impacting national policy.
Tang Song smiled softly, withdrawing his finger from the champagne bottle, and met the ambition gathering in her eyes. His tone was calm and full of meaning.
“Not bad, but it seems the leading lady hasn’t arrived yet.”
The fanatic spark in Sloan’s eyes dimmed slightly;
she inclined her head. “You’re right.”
Their low-voiced exchange was barely audible, but Shen Yuyan, standing within arm’s reach of Tang Song, heard every word.
Her mind buzzed again.
The leading lady?
What did that mean?
Sloan stepped back half a pace and straightened, turning to Shen Yuyan at Tang Song’s side.
She extended a hand with a textbook social smile.
“Shirley, right? I’ve heard your name. Mr. Tang’s right-hand?”
Shen Yuyan forced down a swirl of complex emotions and took that hand—the hand that could stir Washington’s currents.
She replied politely, “Ms. Sloan, I’ve long admired you. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Heh, the honor is mine as well.”
Sloan did not immediately let go. Using the handshake posture, she closed the black case holding the Salon 2002 and steadily passed it into Shen Yuyan’s hands.
Her tone carried meaning. “Shirley, could you keep this for Mr. Tang? The champagne needs to breathe. Let’s taste it when the real leading lady arrives. The flavor will be exquisite.”
Shen Yuyan froze and instinctively hugged the weighty case.
She did not answer immediately;
she looked to Tang Song, her eyes full of inquiry and expectation.
Tang Song gave a small nod, implicitly approving the arrangement.
“All right, Ms. Sloan.” Shen Yuyan finally spoke, her voice trembling slightly.
Sloan watched the scene with interest.
Then she turned, making an exquisitely graceful inviting gesture.
“Mr. Tang, would you like to move over here? Some old friends have been waiting.”
“All right.” Tang Song casually set his glass on a nearby round table and turned to Lu Ziming. “Ziming, I have a few things to handle. I’ll step away for a moment.”
Lu Ziming opened his mouth numbly. His voice came out dry. “Oh... okay, go ahead.”
Tang Song nodded to the Tiancheng Capital group and then walked off shoulder to shoulder with Ms. Sloan.
Shen Yuyan took a deep breath, hugged the heavy black champagne case tighter, nodded quickly at Lu Ziming, and followed after them.
She realized she was about to learn the secret she most wanted to know.
They stepped out through the door of the Fragonard Room.
As their figures appeared in the central garden, the previously noisy air seemed to freeze for an instant.
In this top-level social scene dominated by white elites, the atmosphere was thick with arrogance and exclusivity.
An unfamiliar Eastern face would normally feel out of place.
But now, walking beside Ms. Sloan, a calm and profound presence radiated from him that made surrounding critical gazes involuntarily soften.
The crowd slowly shifted, opening a path.
Curiosity, evaluation, reverence...
Countless eyes converged like tangible spotlights on the man with black hair and dark eyes.
The earlier incident spread like wings, and low murmurs rose and fell among the crowd.
Someone who would make the “K Street Queen” Sloan take such care, even personally presenting top champagne, could not be an ordinary figure.
Speculation on his identity began.
But he was so young and so unknown—this Eastern face had never appeared in Wall Street Journal pages or Vanity Fair soirées—so every guess was shrouded in mystery.
Shen Yuyan tightened her lips, held the champagne case, and dutifully followed Tang Song.
She forced her shoulders back, controlled her breathing, and tried to appear composed and proper, so she would not lose face in this suffocating elite scene.
She looked at Tang Song.
He walked beside the imposing Ms. Sloan with steady, measured steps, his rhythm perfectly composed.
He did not speed his pace under everyone’s stare, nor did he slow deliberately.
It was as if all the clamor, speculation, and gazes were separated from him by an invisible barrier.
That deep-sea navy custom suit, gleaming with a cold, refined texture in the natural light streaming through the glass dome, made him appear particularly solemn and composed.
Then Shen Yuyan’s sight fell upon several familiar figures.
By the heavy oak door leading to the music room that connects to the art corridor, a group stood in silence.
They didn’t wander with wine cups for casual mingling;
they formed a self-contained vacuum of formidable presence.
Shen Yuyan’s fingers clenched, knuckles whitening.
They were...
Adrian Phelps, Elena Rostova, Simon Vance... and two other unnamed figures whose bearing matched the preceding luminaries.
Each of them was a top-tier figure who had been the topic of conversation earlier, occupying the summit of Wall Street’s food chain.
Now, however, they seemed to have reached an understanding and waited together.
Tangjin!
A chill ran through her.
So these were the “old friends” Sloan mentioned?
So he did know them!
Tang Song was a core member of the Tangjin Family Office!
At five meters’ distance, the small circles in low conversation seemed to sense a magnetic field and gradually quieted.
Adrian Phelps stopped talking first, turned, and offered a gentlemanly smile.
Other gazes followed.
One, two...
Those looks contained no arrogance, no scrutiny—only a sense of order Shen Yuyan had never seen before.
It was the order and tacit understanding reserved for members of the same camp, the same echelon, facing the same core.
The cool-tempered Elena, the immaculately suited Simon...
They all paused in unison and faced Tang Song and Ms. Sloan;
their postures relaxed and elegant, they naturally opened a gap for their arrival.
“Mr. Tang.” Adrian Phelps spoke first, his voice low and strong, carrying the gravity of an old-fashioned gentleman. “Long time no see. You look... in excellent form.”
“Mr. Tang.”
“Sir.”
The core members behind him offered restrained salutations, polite but tempered, eyes tinged with a hint of respect.
Then they turned to Ms. Sloan and nodded.
This subtle order of precedence left Shen Yuyan’s mouth dry.
It meant that within this circle, Tang Song’s status even surpassed that of the formidable queenmaker.
Tang Song stopped and wore a warm, appropriate smile.
His deep gaze swept each person calmly, taking in their expressions.
Then he extended his hand to Adrian and offered a moderate, measured shake—neither forceful nor perfunctory.
“Long time no see, Professor Phelps.” Tang Song’s cadence was unhurried, carrying a composed ease. “The Frick’s taste is good;
its natural lighting design is more comfortable than the artificial lighting at the Met.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow. “It seems you remember our debate at the Met about whether lighting destroys painting textures?”
Tang Song laughed lightly. “Of course I remember. Your insistence has always been memorable.”
Among these people, he and Adrian were the most familiar.
But in his present life, they had met fewer than ten times.
Even within the Tangjin Family Office, he remained hidden in the shadows.
Only these core members knew of his existence—only they understood what the name Tangjin truly signified.
Tang Song released his hand and glanced at each person in turn.
“Elena, Mr. Victor, Mr. Simon, Mr. Schmidt, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
He called each name succinctly, letting his gaze rest on each for a second as if performing a quick and accurate verification.
“Mr. Tang.” The cool scientist Elena Rostova couldn’t help but comment. “You’ve changed a lot—far more outstanding than I remembered.”
They all turned to look at him.
They had more or less heard of Tang Song’s changes, but meeting him now made it clear.
He had been cold, meticulous, and unfathomable.
Now, while maintaining mystery, he added an irresistible amiability—neither aloof nor forcibly close.
A relaxed authority belonging to the center of power.
Coupled with an exceptionally handsome appearance, it was impressive.
Tang Song smiled. “People are the most complex variables. If we were as predictable as models, the world would be boring.”
Though teasing, the remark landed precisely on what Elena appreciated.
The usually icy Elena couldn’t help a slight lift at the corners of her lips.
“You’re absolutely right.” Adrian stepped aside, guiding Tang Song into the center of the group and replied with a smile, “A moment ago we were discussing that, compared to those frenetically fluctuating numbers, perhaps only a real oil painting can withstand the tide of time. In this restless era, stillness is the most expensive luxury.”
“Stillness is relative, Professor.” Tang Song accepted a glass of soda from a server, gently swirling it. Bubbles rose in the glass as he spoke casually and gracefully. “Like this water—appearing still, its molecules inside still move at high speed, merely waiting for a critical point to release energy. Finance is like that, art is like that, people are like that.”
“Speaking of critical points—” Sloan, who had been at Tang Song’s side, finally saw her opening. “Mr. Tang, aren’t you describing that bottle of Salon? It has been sleeping too long and waits for the perfect moment to release its energy.”
Tang Song glanced at her. “Ms. Sloan is right. But good champagne needs not only time;
it also needs someone who truly appreciates it.”
Sloan immediately understood the subtext and met his gaze for a second, softly replying, “I believe you are that person.”
A round of restrained, elegant laughter rippled.
The atmosphere instantly became congenial and refined.
Conversation flowed naturally from the absorption properties of painting substrates to how AI image recognition reduces false positives in complex scenes, then to the legality of “gray areas” in cross-border tax planning.
Tang Song neither hogged the floor nor flaunted himself;
he listened and gauged the real information behind people’s words.
What he had gained since arriving in New York, combined with the disguise effect of Outfit - Mist Gentleman, let him move through it all with ease.
Focused, steady, hard to read yet not distant.
In the side salon, the Fragonard Room.
The previously disregarded Tiancheng Capital people suddenly found the air around them warming.
Julian, the Carlyle MD who had barely glanced their way before, returned with a glass and voluntarily offered a business card to VP Zhang Zhe, his face full of eager smiles.
Not only him;
other investment bank executives and lawyers, like sharks smelling blood, casually but purposefully closed in.
Their words and gestures repeatedly pointed toward a direction outside the courtyard, full of testing and flattery.
Zhang Zhe and the others clutched business cards they’d never have been able to get before, hearts inexplicably excited, hands trembling.
Through the side salon’s glass, they could vaguely see the handsome figure at the center.
“Gulp—gulp—”
Lu Ziming tipped his head back and drained his drink;
the burning liquid seared his throat.
Only then did he begin to recover.
His face flushed, his mind a jumble, countless images flashing like slides.
He had known Tang Song for years, had been roommates during college.
He had always admired Tang Song and thought he would do well—a sleeper with potential.
Because of that admiration, he had rented Tang Song the apartment cheaply and felt proud, believing he’d helped a brother.
It turned out his judgment was right;
his sister Lu Ziyue had benefited greatly.
He had considered that his best “angel investment.”
Who knew... this wasn’t a sleeper?
This was a real dragon!
This was Wall Street—the heart of global capital!
He had essentially bought a lottery ticket cheaply and won hundreds of millions.
He stared at the figure surrounded by big shots, feeling both alien and stunned.
More than anything, an almost inexpressible delight rose from within.
Now... my good days are truly here!
Then he looked at the campus belle, Shen Yuyan, standing behind Tang Song.
The last bit of bitterness in his heart evaporated.
That damned charm of Tang Song!
If I were a woman, I’d throw myself at him too! Who could resist?!
...
Shen Yuyan stood within this power center of world-class elites.
Holding the heavy champagne case, its weight seemed to vanish. Her senses were entirely occupied by the scene.
Tang Song still regarded the most unremarkable glass of soda.
He did not raise his voice or make any showy gestures—only a slight tilt of his head, a warm smile, as he conversed with the group.
Adrian nodded repeatedly, Elena looked at him intently, and even the domineering Sloan had softened into a quiet listener.
Shen Yuyan felt her heart gripped.
Is this his real world?
She could clearly feel the air shifting.
Those Wall Street elites who had been loudly discussing market sentiment and policy variables now all lowered their voices.
Secretive glances passed through wine glasses toward this side.
Curiosity, calculation, reverence.
Maybe even a flicker of instinctive fear.
Whispers rose like tides from the shadows but dared not get too close.
Everyone’s gaze concentrated on that focal point.
Handsome, upright, gentle, composed...
He wasn’t clinging to power.
He was power.
He wasn’t fitting into the circle.
He was part of the top circle’s composition.
Even at a cocktail hosted by the Kate family that gathered global financial and political elites, Tang Song remained an unignorable core.
At that moment Shen Yuyan felt like she had fallen into a dream.
She sensed fate’s strangeness and incredulity.
At first they had been unconnected university acquaintances.
Later, because of Yanqing, she drew closer.
Stumbling, probing, pulling, gazing up, approaching—she had finally managed to stand by his side.
She had thought she was climbing a mountain.
She hadn’t expected that when the mist cleared, she had been climbing Everest.
Unwittingly, she had achieved the wildest ambition of her life.
Right—who was that “leading lady”?
Her keen sixth sense told her the person must be Tang Song’s woman.
Not only from past lessons but from observing Tang Song these past two days.
Since arriving in New York, he had been somewhat odd.
“I’m thinking about how to attend the cocktail.”
“There are indeed some issues.”
“Yes.”
These previous lines echoed in her mind.
Shen Yuyan felt something surfacing in her head.
At that moment—
Tang Song abruptly stopped talking.
Without warning, he slowly turned and looked toward the corridor connected to the art gallery.
A mysterious connection seemed to pierce the noisy crowd and surge into the soul.
“Thump, thump, thump.”
Tang Song’s heartbeat quickened.
Secretary Jin!
He felt it clearly—she was approaching.
Closer and closer.
He instinctively stepped half a pace toward that direction, as if pulled by some gravity.
Others noticed his oddity, paused, and followed his gaze.
Then came a series of orderly, steady footsteps.
“Tap, tap, tap—” the sound of leather-soled shoes striking the floor, crisp and confident, rhythmic.
From the garden, where whispers still lingered, a subtle shift rippled through the air. Curious eyes turned.
First, several tall security personnel wearing earpieces and solemn expressions moved swiftly and professionally to clear a path.
Then a distinguished middle-aged white man stepped forward.
He wore an expensive bespoke suit and a host badge on his chest.
Whispers burst out.
“That’s... Mr. Philip!”
“It’s the Kate bank director and CEO, Philip Kate!”
Low exclamations rippled through the crowd.
This was one of Wall Street’s real power brokers, a core member of the Kate family—the true host of today’s event.
Even among these gathered elites, he stood at the pyramid’s apex.
Yet the usually stern, proud banking magnate paused.
He did not continue forward;
instead he slightly turned and made an extremely respectful inviting gesture toward the shadow behind him.
The unexpected scene fell silent instantly.
At the end of everyone’s sightline.
In the shadows.
At the edge of the light.
An elegant, sensual figure slowly emerged.
Stepping into the afternoon’s golden courtyard.
A woman.
An extraordinarily beautiful Eastern woman.
She wore an off-white couture silk blouse;
as she moved the hem fluttered like mist and light.
The neckline dipped, revealing a sliver of delicate snow-white skin and a perfectly placed collarbone.
Her lower half was a black, sharply tailored pencil skirt that hugged her slim waist, flat stomach, and breathtaking hip curve.
It presented a rational kind of sensuality in full measure.
Her legs were straight, proportionate, flawless.
Gently wrapped in top-grade pearlescent black stockings.
When the light brushed them, a delicate skin tone shimmered faintly.
Restrained, yet supremely sexy.
She wore no jewelry.
Only a pair of gold-rimmed thin glasses perched silently on her nose, making her clean, beautiful features even more sculpted.
Clear, focused, intellectually magnetic.
Her brown hair fell naturally and swayed lightly with each step.
No aggression.
No glaring edge.
Not even a smile.
Yet the instant she appeared, she easily eclipsed all light and sound around her.
“Whoah—” a strange collective sound rippled through the crowd.
It wasn’t noisy chatter;
it was the group’s astonished reaction to an overwhelming presence.
Shen Yuyan’s pupils constricted;
her heart nearly stopped.
It’s... her!
The mist in Tang Song’s eyes seemed to be blown away by wind;
deep, burning emotions long suppressed slowly rose.
Light.
Air.
Memory.
Dreams.
All elements overlapped before him.
Two gazes crashed together with thunder.
Clear, real, searing.
When Secretary Jin’s look met his, it trembled slightly.
She lifted her fair, long fingers and gently adjusted the frame of her gold-rimmed glasses.
The corner of her mouth curved slowly into a pleasing smile.