Not long ago, due to the leaked photos of Laila's custom gown, the embroidery studio had been bombarded with phone calls—many of them harassing. Some shady individuals who'd somehow gotten hold of the number joined in the chaos, spouting all sorts of inappropriate nonsense.
Once, the front desk receptionist was driven to tears by a series of such calls. When the boss found out, he tracked down one of the culprits using the phone number—and made sure that person now broke into a cold sweat every time their phone rang.
So when he saw the receptionist on the verge of tears again today, clutching the phone with a pale face, his temper flared instantly.
"I wanna see which suicidal idiot it is this time!" he growled, snatching the phone out of her hand. "You got a death wish or what?! Who the hell is this?!"
Laila was startled by the sudden shouting on the other end. The voice had switched from female to male—had the person on the line changed?
"Hello, this is Laila Moran."
"What kind of fake-ass foreign name is that? You think if you call yourself something foreign, you—"
The studio boss stopped mid-sentence.
He choked.
The words got stuck in his throat—half-spit, half-swallowed—and his voice suddenly went dry.
"…Who did you say you were?"
Laila glanced at the receiver, confused. What's with this connection today? Even saying my name takes three tries.
"I'm Laila. Laila Moran."
This time she deliberately slowed her speech, enunciating each syllable clearly to make sure there was no misunderstanding.
But she thought she caught the guy on the other end mutter something like "Yang Mingzi"?
Did he mistake me for someone else?
She vaguely remembered some past confusion involving a "Jia Xiaoming," so now this "Yang Mingzi" made her instinctively assume it was just another person's name.
A cute little misunderstanding, really.
Meanwhile, the studio boss was freaking out.
There weren't many people in the East who could scare him—aside from his own old man, pretty much no one. On a normal day, he wouldn't be nervous dealing with Laila either…
But not today.
Had he just shouted at her?
Did he… actually say something about "foreign names"?!
The boss smacked himself on the forehead. Of course a foreigner would have a foreign name, you idiot!
"I deeply apologize, Miss Moran. I'm the general manager of the embroidery studio. May I ask how I can help you today?"
He quickly adjusted his tone, reverting to a polite and composed voice—while simultaneously glaring at the receptionist and mouthing furiously: "We'll settle this later."
The girl flinched and immediately ducked her head behind the front desk.
Laila repeated her original inquiry: "I'd like to ask how soon my custom gown can be completed."
This gown was extremely important to her. Especially after the leak, the studio boss had made sure it was a top priority. So he actually knew the progress well.
"The accessories are nearly finished. As for the gown itself, we're working overtime, but because one panel had to be redone due to the leak, it'll still take a bit. I estimate it'll be done in about two weeks."
"Is there any way to finish it sooner?"
The boss looked a bit troubled. "We've already pulled in everyone we could spare. Any faster and we might have to sacrifice quality. And as you know, we take quality control very seriously. Even if it means paying a penalty, we'd never deliver a substandard product to a client."
This standard was exactly how the studio had quietly become the go-to for elite clients. There were certain principles the boss simply wouldn't compromise on.
Laila understood—but considering what she had planned, she still pressed on. "There's really no way? Even shaving off a few days would help. I need it urgently."
"…Alright. I'll do what I can, but I can't guarantee how much sooner it'll be."
The boss thought of the previous leak, remembered who she was, and finally gritted his teeth and agreed.
"That's good enough."
Laila could hear the difficulty in his voice and didn't want to push too hard.
"I'll be waiting for your good news."
After hanging up, the studio boss let out a long sigh and turned to glare at the receptionist.
"You didn't recognize her?! Seriously?!"
"I'm so sorry, boss…" the girl sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "She spoke Eastern so fluently, I didn't think it was her. Not even a hint of a foreign accent!"
The boss was torn between laughing and yelling.
"Who told you that every foreigner speaking Eastern has to sound like one?! Tons of them speak fluently!"
The receptionist pouted, still unconvinced. "Tons? I've only ever met one!"
"You're just inexperienced!"
The boss raised a hand, about to lecture her thoroughly.
But honestly… he couldn't think of many himself.
Sure, lots of foreigners could speak decent English, but there was always something—an accent, a rhythm, an occasional odd intonation.
Even those who'd lived in the East for twenty years rarely sounded completely local.
Someone like Laila, who could pass for a native with her eyes closed?
Practically one in a million.
"…Like that guy who did crosstalk!"
He finally remembered someone—a foreigner who had studied traditional performance art under a respected master and could speak flawlessly in dialect.
That guy's Eastern was also scary good.
The receptionist didn't notice her boss had just wiped away a nervous sweat or that it had taken him forever to think of one example. She lowered her head and, hearing the name, realized how ignorant she'd been.
"I'm sorry, boss. I promise I'll work harder… Please don't send me home…"
Wuwuwu.
Seeing that she was truly remorseful—and basking a little in the feeling of having rescued the situation with his "wisdom"—the boss waved it off.
"Alright, I'll let it go this time. But if something like this happens again, just pack your stuff and go. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!" the girl quickly promised.
Once he'd finished playing the role of the stern boss, he turned and walked deeper into the studio—and his smile quickly faded.
Because he knew better than anyone, due to the earlier leak, the panel that had been exposed had to be completely redesigned and re-embroidered.
And since the gown was a single integrated piece, changing one panel meant adjusting the others accordingly.
Even if those changes weren't massive, embroidery was a laborious craft—every stitch built up with time and precision. You couldn't just "rush" it the way you might other types of work.
Trying to push the deadline could easily affect the final product.
The boss had already pulled in every possible hand to ensure delivery by the original date.
Now, with the client suddenly requesting an earlier deadline?
He was in serious trouble.
He thought about refusing. But after the leak, Laila had been nothing but understanding.
And now she had an urgent need.
If he refused outright, it'd make him look like an ungrateful jerk.