Chapter 9: The Devil Wears Prada

Haihao Tower.

The thirty-seventh and thirty-eighth floors—two entire levels—are entirely devoted to “Most Glamorous.” That’s how vast it is, yet today the place is jam-packed to overflowing.

After a single command from the fashion world’s “godmother,” Ni Feihong, the building erupted into frenzy at midday. The industry’s biggest names gathered, handsome men and beautiful women rushed about everywhere, a scene of dazzling chaos.

Blonde-haired, blue-eyed PR representatives from top international fashion brands argued heatedly, vying for space and priority in “Most Glamorous.” Many first-tier global brands were present, but the available pages were limited. Whoever Ni Feihong chose to feature and gave more space to stood a better chance of seizing the golden buzz of the autumn season.

It was a contest of masters among top brands. Gaining an edge, creating hype—these mattered, especially now as luxury consumption tilted towards the East. Haizhou had become a battleground for the fashion center, the backdrop for the rise of “Most Glamorous.”

First-class models from all over, each hoping to wear the latest big-name designs, sneak into the pages, maybe even land on the cover. Editors for various sections, category editors, chief editors, PR from each brand, and eager models—all gathered, forming a web of mutual dependence and competition.

Calls rang out in every direction, influential figures intervened, lobbying with every means at their disposal.

The autumn launch event was a boiling cauldron of activity…

Yet in Ni Feihong’s office, there was a temporary oasis of calm. Spacious, bright, minimalist with a hint of metallic—her signature style.

Time was running short, but a crucial decision remained unsettled.

On the wall ahead hung clothing designed by the “Madman.” The style was non-negotiable; that much Ni Feihong had already decided.

Perfect as the clothes were, whether held in hand or hanging there, they lacked a soul.

Even the finest armor is lifeless—it’s the warrior’s blood that awakens it. This is a theory from fantasy.

Translated into the world of fashion, it means a model’s presence breathes life into the clothes.

Someone was needed.

Now Ni Feihong faced a dilemma: this one-of-a-kind, handcrafted masterpiece by Michelangelo, the elusive designer, could not be handled by any of “Most Glamorous’s” top male models.

In fantasy terms, the higher the level, the more spirit it possesses. Clearly, Michelangelo hadn’t designed this for those mere “coat hangers”—they simply couldn’t carry it.

It wasn’t just a matter of sizing.

Ni Feihong, ever efficient, had a handful of elite tailors. This morning, they created several high-quality replicas in specific sizes. Three top male models tried them on, searching for the right feeling, while a renowned photographer handpicked by Ni Feihong herself captured those elusive moments, delivering them for her review.

The results weren’t bad—in ordinary times, they’d suffice. But artists are often neurotic perfectionists. Having seen how the “Madman” wore the piece—how perfectly it fit—Ni Feihong, with her own obsessive tendencies, found herself unable to accept the results from her all-star lineup.

Her acute insight made the comparison unavoidable; once she’d seen the difference, it colored her judgment. “It’s only when you compare that you feel the pain,” as the saying goes.

It wasn’t that Ni Feihong couldn’t gradually “train” someone to capture that feeling. Find the model closest in vibe, talk to him in depth, and with his skill and understanding, he’d eventually meet her standards.

But the challenge wasn’t just the model—it was nearly impossible, in a short time, to produce a flawless, precisely tailored replica for the cover.

Later pages might allow for some margin of error, but Ni Feihong’s “cleanliness” would never tolerate imperfection on the cover.

The success of “Most Glamorous” owed much to Ni Feihong’s stubbornness and pursuit of detail, her knack for catching the perfect moment of balance.

This was the heart of the current conflict.

“Boss Hong, maybe we should give up. Switch to a different style for the main feature. The male market is small, easy to work with, but hard to perfect. Plenty of big brands want the cover, and their money is more than enough,” suggested a middle-aged man wearing a melon-shaped hat, a pipe in his mouth unlit, sporting a distinctive goatee.

He was the Cayenne driver who’d appeared at Tao Zi’s home.

Ni Feihong shook her head slightly. “I’ve said more than once: pages can be sold, but the cover cannot. Content matters, of course, but in this restless, fast-paced era, the cover determines whether people pick up the magazine. There’s no such thing as the male market being small. Years ago, people barely had a demand for clothing—that was simply because no one created that impulse. That’s human nature. If you do it well, do it perfectly, awaken the beauty of men’s fashion, and communicate it clearly to the public, they’ll naturally crave beauty. That’s why I made the female perspective work. It’s why we exist. It’s the purpose of fashion—to lead.”

“When I took over, this was a magazine the company was about to cut. Now, ‘Most Glamorous’ has first-tier brands clamoring for a spot, because I can create demand among beautiful women. If the female perspective can succeed, men are human too. It’s never a matter of impossibility, only a question of dedication and grasping the right moment.”

Ni Feihong’s words were decisive—she was known as the “Devil Wears Prada,” and by now, she was unassailable.

The room fell silent. Editors, directors—all could only follow Ni Feihong’s lead, staring at the “battle robe” in a daze.

Whether it could be done was of no real concern to them.

Their worry was simple: don’t let this delay the schedule for the women’s special issue. Everyone here had a few “dark horses” waiting to shine, resources waiting to be allocated.

Power was everything. Whoever these people promoted—so long as the woman wasn’t hopelessly lacking—would inevitably become famous. This led them to sleep with some rare beauties, expecting a return, demanding that she appear in the magazine.

After another moment’s consideration, Ni Feihong rose. “I’m obsessive. I won’t compromise. Meishu.”

“Hi.” A petite beauty, Ni Feihong’s assistant, Japanese.

“Go to my apartment complex and bring the ‘Madman’ here,” Ni Feihong ordered.

Meishu asked in English, “How should I bring him?”

“How should I know? That’s your problem. I give the order, you figure out how to make it happen,” Ni Feihong replied.

“Uh… alright.” Meishu hesitantly said, “Then please give me the ‘Madman’s’ exact address, boss.”

Ni Feihong shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know his address.”

Meishu grew anxious. “Then what should I do? I won’t be able to find him.”

Ni Feihong waved her hand impatiently. “That’s your problem as well. Regardless, today I want to see that man in this office. If you can’t do it, you’re incompetent. You’re here to solve problems, not create them—otherwise, why would I hire you? You can take the clothes and ask door to door, ‘Is this yours?’ You can talk to property management, call the fire department, even tell the police he’s been harassing you. There are plenty of ways—just use your brain.”

“Hi.”

Meishu was filled with resolve. Now she realized the difference between herself and the devil—success was never by chance; Ni Feihong was truly relentless.

“Meeting adjourned!” Ni Feihong sat back down…