“Miss Huang,” the president says as their interlocking loosens and the man rather opts to slide a warm hand down to the small of the boy’s back, and Zitao jumps a little at the sudden contact, his hands holding his clutch protectively close to himself as his gown pools at his feet in graceful scarlet and gold waves. “This is Miss Lee Chaerin, one of the local designers with whom we had collaborated last winter. Chaerin, this is one of my highest-selling models, Miss Huang Yingtao.”

As he is extended a wrinkled, feminine hand, his eyes widen at the statement, suddenly too preoccupied with the man’s words to focus on anything else. Is he really one of the highest-selling? 

Slightly dazed, Zitao accepts the hand given to him as he grins softly at the woman, who admires him with icy blue eyes and grayed hair styled into antiquated swirls. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Huang. Mr. Wu is a fabulous designer to have clothe you, and I can tell just by looking at the two of you that he is truly and so wonderfully talented! You are such a beautiful young lady - I still sometimes can’t believe that Mr. Wu has such a knack for finding such gorgeous women.”

Nervous, Zitao forces a pressed little smile and nods his head, the jewelry on his earlobes swaying. “Thank you, Miss Lee,” he tells her kindly. “Mr. Wu is an excellent designer to work for, as well. He’s very work-oriented and knows exactly what he wants.”

Charmed, the president’s lips raise in the shadow of a smirk, and Zitao’s heart beats in a sporadic turn. “Yes, well, I do have a reputation to uphold, Chaerin. Miss Huang is one of the hardest workers that I have yet to come across, for should I need her anywhere for anything at all, she is there to fulfill that request with no questions asked.”

“Ooh,” Chaerin coos, impressed, her nails sliding suggestively against her lip as her inky black eyes slit. “You sound like quite the corporeal catch, Miss Huang. How long have you worked for him, if I may ask?”

“About five months,” Zitao nods, and the woman’s eyes widen again as her eyebrows twitch in a raise, clearly swindled by the boy’s prowess. “I was on a lighter workload for a period of about six weeks because I had fractured my ankle, so Mr. Wu helped me reach a compromise to do my assignments despite being injured.”

“She continued to work equally as conscientiously as she always has,” the president tells the woman, and Zitao’s cheeks flush as the man glances over at him briefly, his eyes sharp yet soft, simply aloof as per usual with his business facade. “Akin to before, Chaerin - she is one of the hardest workers I myself have ever met, and may continue to ever meet so long as I live.”

From the flattery, Zitao’s face has become awfully warm, and he is not sure how well he will be able to handle an entire night of this kind of sweet treatment. How will his heart be able to take being complimented by such an attractive, suave gentleman? 

“Please excuse me for just a moment,” the president says, then, and Zitao’s conscious jerks back to the present. “I shall go fetch us some drinks, yes?”

“Ooh, make mine on the rocks!” Chaerin calls out, and Zitao sees that she already has a martini glass in her hand as she smirks at them, her attitude flippant and mature in the way that she carries herself, full-bosomed and well-endowed. 

As he acknowledges her request, the president gives a short, curt nod, and Zitao feels eyes on him once more. “Miss Huang,” the president mutters beside him in a flat tone, and Zitao’s glossy, shimmering eyes look up by his side, a shy hand resting on the arm of the president’s suit where they’re linked. “Please come with me.”

Formally, the president escorts him to the far left side of the massive hall, an extensive dining table sat over near the right side of the room where a roped-off platformed area sits in the front, somewhere Zitao would imagine an entertainer standing, as the platform is merely only several inches tall, and he watches as the president brings him to a wide, self-serve alcoholic bar. “I have some rules to discuss with you, Miss Huang,” the president says, then, and Zitao’s eyes widen a little bit as the long arm around his leaves him as the president steps away, forward, designating several chute glasses off to the side for personal consumption. “This being a formal event that you are a guest at, you are not permitted to drink hard liquors here. I am going to safely assume that you may have never been to a formal banquet, but simple etiquette that you should know involves not becoming drunk when at formal events, like this one. Do you understand?”

Oh. Zitao can understand how that’s a rule, for it is an event that requires communication and hyperactivity, and being intoxicated would only lessen both sides of the given sociality. Besides, Zitao is not always a hard drinker - frankly, the only times he enjoys ingesting hard liquors are if he does not have to be up early the next morning and is with friends. Unlike perhaps some, Zitao likes to think that he can hold his own pretty well and has well-formed self-restraint when it comes to his alcohol intake and tolerance. “I understand, sir,” he says, and the president’s eyes leave his as he reaches for the ice scoop to pour some crystallized beads of ice into a clean martini glass - likely Chaerin’s. 

“Which liquors do you normally drink?” The president asks him with a keen eye, and Zitao realizes that he doesn’t very much know. He doesn’t normally drink liquors plural.

“I only really ever drink vodka,” he says softly, “so, um… I don’t really know much about liquors. Wine sometimes, too, I guess?”

Taking the information into account, the president nods, and Zitao watches as he turns away from him and scans his eyes over the rows of liquor bottles lined up on the extent of the bar table. “If you are a fan of wine,” the president tells him over his shoulder, “then you might like this one.”

Zitao watches, silent as his fingers flex over the hold of his clutch bag, as the president reaches for a stout black bottle, large with frosty baby-pink lacework wrapping around its body where the front label sits. He watches as the president uncorks the bottle swiftly and practically effortlessly, and he really shouldn’t find it so attractive that a man of his broad, tall stature could so easily uncork a bottle as though it took very little strength to do so, and Zitao can’t help but wonder how much power lies in those muscles and therefore, those hands. When the president sets the bottle back down and hands him a chute glass, Zitao sees that it has been filled with a transparent, summery pink liquid that fizzes along the smooth walls of the glass. When he takes it, bowing his head in thanks, the aroma of sweet, tart strawberries meets his nose, and he finds himself asking, “What is this?”

Pouring himself a glass of something else from a dark, black bottle that translates as nearly silver in the glass, the president says, “Piper-Heidsieck rosé,” and Zitao decides to take a curious sip now that he knows what it is. It’s quite a dark taste, smoky and fruity all at once, and he supposes it’s not all that bad. “Expensive, but very exquisite.”

“It’s good,” he tells his boss, a soft little smile on his face. In this light, the shadows of the man’s eye makeup outline his eyes prettily and make his expression appear darker and more intimidating, rather y, in Zitao’s opinion, and the deep shades in his hair resonate with warm brown tones in this bright of exposure. “Is this wine?”

“It is champagne,” he is told, as the president stands from the bar and turns around with two drinks, one in each hand and each one in a different-shaped glass. “Champagne is quite a common staple drink at professional events - that is, because it tends to be more difficult to become intoxicated off of it. Drink it sparingly.”

Taking another sip, Zitao lowers the glass from his lips. Is the president truly concerned for him, thinking that Zitao may have a low liquor tolerance? He wonders if it is common for women to have low tolerances as compared to men, for he doesn’t himself know. 

“Dinner will be served soon,” the president states. “Until then, you are required to stay by my side at all times, but you do not have to hold onto me anymore unless we are to be photographed together. Do you understand?”

He nods, lips pressed together in determination. “I understand, sir.”

Dutifully, Zitao follows the president around nearly everywhere that he goes, sipping on his champagne each time he is not spoken to in order to alleviate his social anxiety. Although a guest product on display for the president’s handiwork, Zitao is not used to having to interact with so many strangers of such high social stature, and it proves to be somewhat intimidating as Zitao does his best to smile through it and greet each of them with respect as they shake his hand. 

As the president chats with some other designers, Zitao is approached by a rogue photographer and is asked for a photograph, and he feels a sense of pride flood his chest as he accepts the gesture, handing his belongings delicately to his boss as he takes hold of his gown to pose prettily for the camera. When the photographer is done, he thanks him greatly, and asks for a shot of him as well as the president, and Zitao once again links arms with the taller man who straightens his spine on quiet command and permeates Zitao’s senses with the scent of his spicy musk. 

When Zitao is handed his clutch and his drink once more, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye and notices two men approaching them, and the only thing that signifies that thought as being approaching them specifically, is that when Zitao glances over, he makes direct eye contact with the handsome one in front who approaches them with a content little grin and a glass of dark wine in his hand. 

“Good evening,” the man in front says, presenting them with a handsome grin that resonates approachability and kindness. “Is this one of your employees, Kris?”

Blinking, Zitao’s eyebrows furrow slightly. Kris. He had forgotten since nobody at work is allowed to call him by anything other than his professional titles, that the man did have a first business name. 

Beside him, the president’s shoes click softly as he turns in his posture, facing the two gentlemen directly. “Yes, this is one of my models, Miss Huang Yingtao. Miss Huang, these are some of my close companions; this is Kevin, and this is Kyungsoo. Kevin is a photographer beneath Chaerin’s brand, and Kyungsoo is an exchange-seamster from South Korea.”

Zitao is greeted by two hands to shake, one from the shorter man in the back who is dressed in a pinstriped blouse with chic black slacks, and the second from the taller man in the front whom had approached them, a homely grin practically glued to his lips as though it naturally belongs there, and Zitao safely assumes, by which directions the president uses to introduce both men to him, that the taller friend is Kevin, and that the shorter friend is, therefore, Kyungsoo. “It’s nice to meet you,” Zitao grins as Kevin releases his hand. 

“Wow, you’re even prettier in person,” Kyungsoo comments wholesomely, and Zitao’s lips etch itchingly into a smile. “I’ve seen some prints, but shots are usually retouched and airbrushed, you know?”

“Oh,” he blushes, suddenly shy in his form-fitting scarlet gown. “Thank you very much.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Kevin grins, and Zitao’s eyes widen at the thought of the president talking about him extraneously. “Kris always talks about his highest-selling models and sometimes talks about events that happen down at the firm. We heard about you fracturing your ankle - are you alright, now?”

Stunned, Zitao nods on autopilot. “Yes, my - my ankle is much better now, thank you.”

“Miss Huang,” the president interjects beside him as he noisily clears his throat, and Zitao wonders if the man may not be a fan of having his friends expose too much information about him. “Could you possibly return to the bar and retrieve me another martini? Five parts gin, two parts vermouth, and one part lemon, if you could.” 

“Oh,” he comments softly, taking the president’s used glass from him and giving them a polite nod. “Of course. I shall go get that for you - could you hold my clutch for me while I’m gone?”

Nodding, the man takes the boy’s bag as he bids them adieu and returns to the bar table, a devout mission in mind with a handful of scarlet brushed-satin and a determined gait in those steps.

As his model is gone, then, the man turns back to his friends to greet them even further - when his brows furrow, gaze sharpening, when he realizes that his old schoolmate has his eyes on his model’s body as she walks away, hungrily trained on the shape of her rear in the fitted gown. “Kevin,” he scolds flatly, clearing his throat, and his friend jumps a little bit as he snaps out of his gaze, as though it were difficult. “What are you looking at?”

Scandalously, his best friend his head and jerks his chin in the general direction of where the model had walked off, a snide little glint in his eye. “The girl’s got a really nice ,” he comments, and the president’s gaze narrows as his friend smirks, “I’m not gonna lie. Surely you’re not blind, Kris - surely you’ve noticed that yourself.”

“Of course I have, for her body is my commercial property,” the man states sternly, “which means keep your eyes to yourself. She is my plus-one for this evening - she is not eye candy for the viewing pleasure of everyone here.”

As though to laugh it off, his friend’s lips quirk and his shoulders bounce, as Kyungsoo sips his drink bawdily behind him. “I was just joking, Kris,” Kevin tells him. “Relax. You don’t need to get so protective.”

Inhaling briskly, the president’s chest broadens. “I am responsible for her this evening, and therefore, I am responsible for her actions and the actions of those around her that directly involve her. Keep the commentary and the staring professional, yes?”

“Yifan, just relax,” Kyungsoo comments calmingly. “We’re not going to do anything - Kevin’s just a big airhead, and you know that. He just wants to have a little bit of fun.”

Still grumpy, the president scowls, unhappy with the objectifying gazes being sent to his model as she simply follows orders, and he somewhat regrets his decision of having chosen that scarlet and gold gown for her to wear, for despite him having appreciation for it, he had forgotten to take into account others around him. As his aforementioned model turns on her heel from where she stands at the bar and begins to stride over to them, postured awkwardly with a glass in one hand and the front of her gown in the other, he begins to feel the need to break up this festering of testosterone around far too innocent of a lady. 

“They’re setting the table,” he comments dryly, and his friends glance over their shoulders to the banquet table which is beginning to be set to immaculate condition with silver-topped platters and crystal-clear drinking glasses. “Be seated, the two of you. I will go retrieve Miss Huang for supper.”

“Fine,” Kevin scoffs. “You buzzkill.”

Zitao has not been able to eat marbled steak since being put on his diet - which, as the president sets a plate of sliced mignon and herb-seasoned vegetables in front of him with a following glance of permission, makes today all that more special. Hungrily, he finds himself digging in with pristine precision, taking small bites so as to not accidentally spill anything on his gown, and the president pours him a glass of the same pink-tinged champagne that he drank earlier with a graceful, masculine elegance. Thankful, Zitao sends him a grin as he sits down beside him.

The president eats quietly as he chatters away with several other professionals littered around the table, and Zitao remains silent as he takes minimal bites of his filet, wanting to savor the meal in fear that he may not have another. 

What he finds to be the factor that does him in is the gentility that he receives as he finishes his filet and begins to pick at his vegetables, when the president verbally excuses himself, stands from his seat, and asks Zitao if he would like seconds. Nodding out of habit, for whatever garlic-butter had been smothered on the filet sure is delicious, and he finds his heartbeat thundering, smitten, as the president serves him several more slices before sitting back down beside him and saying nothing as Zitao resumes eating.

The absolute finishing touch, however, proves to be the gentle hand that is laid surreptitiously on his clothed knee, the warmth of the man’s skin bleeding into his from over top the cloth, and it’s a wonder that he has not yet merely fainted into the man’s arms like a distressed, lovesick damsel.

To relieve him of the strangeness of having to linger by him like a shadow, the president had given him permission to mingle as he pleased and to enjoy the festivity of the live performer, a balladeer with dark, pretty hair and glittered eyelids that compliment her silvery gown. 

So, as a consolation, Zitao rewards himself with another glass of rosé which, at this point, makes it his third, and Zitao has begun to feel a little bit floaty. Not quite tipsy, but not quite sober, either, Zitao simply feels relaxed, his social anxiety and his self-consciousness dissipating as he sways to the tune of the singer’s folk track. It’s a slightly upbeat little thing that Zitao finds himself liking, the lyrics of which he doesn’t exactly understand, being in a language other than his own, but it remains pretty, nonetheless. 

Quietly, Zitao watches as the president chats with several people over by the entryway, his friends lingering about around the shadows of his steps in a popularized cluster, the majority of the event’s attendees loitering near the bar as well as the entryway, a handful of which have begun to leave early, and Zitao wonders if perhaps they are of older age or have other festivities to attend elsewhere. 

Still, being by himself isn’t all that bad. He makes simple conversation with a lady by the name of Alice, apparently a plus-one under another designer here that she refers to as Mr. Kang, someone who Zitao is not familiar with. She is a nice young woman, around Zitao’s own age and of a bodily stature far lighter than his own, her limbs lithe and her hair long and wavy as it curtains over her bosom in her little cocktail dress. Zitao respects someone who can look so pretty in such a glittery dress, for he is not one of those people. 

As the evening ticks on, however, with four and a half glasses of rosé down the hatch and a permanent pink tone on his already-rouged cheeks, Zitao finds that more and more of the partygoers are beginning to pair off, and therefore, the president’s immediate entourage by the front entrance has begun to dwindle down to a lone few. 

Then, the tempo of the songs that the balladeer has been performing changes, dropping down into something instrument-centric and slow, and Zitao realizes what’s actually happening. The attendees around him are beginning to dance together, slow and languid as they sway with the music, and Zitao’s cheeks flush. No, it can’t be.

He had signed up for a banquet with the president - meaning a professional, formal dinner, as well as free alcohol, with the president. If there’s one thing he had not signed up for, and would likely not have attended would he have known it would have occurred, it would without a doubt be slow dancing. 

Nervous for what he knows is inevitable, Zitao tries to linger among the walls in an attempt to masquerade as one of the shadows, figuring that if the man does not see him, he will not ask him to dance. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Yet, as quite possibly one of the only women in a blood-red gown with noticeable golden detailing, Zitao is very easy to spot, and it’s simply a matter of moments before he notices the president beginning to glance over to him, and Zitao’s heartbeat skips. Slowly, the man says something to the friends he stands with, before Zitao has to avert his eyes as the man begins to approach him from afar, long, casual strides that make Zitao more nervous with each step, and he cannot find it in himself to fight the desire to sink his teeth into his bottom lip and knit his fingers together behind his back when he sets his drink down. 

As expected, the president approaches him with a tensed expression and a softness on his tongue as he croons out a warm, “Yingtao,” and if that hadn’t been enough to melt Zitao into a puddle where he stands, he’s not sure he would last much longer in a wholly-solid state. “I need you to accompany me in a dance. There are far too many eyes on me already for not being out there on the floor.”

No, he couldn’t. He can’t. That would be crossing the line, stepping too far away from the safety of professionalism and officially diving into the threshold of intimacy, and Zitao isn’t sure he’s ready. He can’t get into a relationship with someone while lying to them about who he is, that’s wrong. Wouldn’t they expect wholesome honesty from him in order to build trust? What happens if he breaks that trust? Rather than thinking of his economic situation, he thinks about how it would affect the president as a person. As someone who had already had a loved one taken from him unfairly, how would he react to Zitao betraying him and lying to him all along about who he is? Zitao can’t do that to him.

Despite that, Zitao finds that he doesn’t have the strength to say no as he nods his head yes and slides a manicured hand into the president’s palm, coaxing him away from the truss of the wall as, hand in hand, he is brought out onto the open floor that extends in front of the balladeer. “We only have to do this until the floor begins to clear,” the president mumbles to him as warm fingertips trail along the inside of his delicate palm. Zitao nods, for the only thing he can do at this point is trust him, and as the man’s eyes lock onto his for permission as his free hand rests gently on Zitao’s lower back, the song changes, and the president’s thumb brushes tenderly over his fingers as they begin to sway.

The music is delicate and slow, pretty and instrumental in a way that pulls at Zitao’s heart, and red flags wave in the back of his mind as the president’s arm around him tugs gently and brings them closer together, chest to chest with their faces merely centimeters in distance, and Zitao’s cheeks rosy even further as he notices the man looking down at him, his eyes soft and dark and compassionate, and no, he isn’t strong enough to resist something like this. Not when the president carefully releases his fingers and settles on laying both hands on Zitao’s lower back, and definitely not when he is left with absolutely no choice but to wrap his hands around the man’s neck. His poor little heart isn’t strong enough for this. 

He can’t help but worry that the pound of his heartbeat surely must be noticeable against the man’s chest, and he wonders if the president would have anything to say about it if he knew. Being this close, the spicy scent of the man’s perfume wafting around them and Zitao’s palms lingering shakily on his nape, he finds that he almost can’t breathe as his anxiety peaks and every masculine feature about himself could be on display this close-up. 

Shy and far too afraid, Zitao it up and pulls his hands back to wrap around the man’s own waist as he gently lays his head on his shoulder, his palms curtaining his upper back. 

Having the man so close to him, breathing right under him with skin warm like the day and a heartbeat as real and as fluid as his own, proves to be cathartic at best, and Zitao finds himself helplessly lovelorn as he indulges when he shouldn’t and allows the man to gently guide their steps. 

When the song around them reaches its graceful, leisurely bridge, Zitao feels the soft brush of fingertips along the side of his face and down the chords of his throat, and he instinctively opens his eyes and lifts his head from the man’s shoulder to see just what he’s doing. This proves to be a bad move, for the man’s eyes are glassy, sentimental, and acquiescing, dimmed around the edges and possibly the most human Zitao has ever seen them seem, and his insides melt as he gets lost in the warm tones of his irises. 

Then, before he knows it, the man’s thumb is lingering on Zitao’s cheek and his eyelashes flutter as he looks downward, and Zitao’s insides clench as he realizes what’s happening. He wants a kiss.

No, Zitao can’t do that - but his lips are so close, so rosy and so pretty along the line of his simper. It would be so easy to lean in and give the man exactly what he wants, to give him exactly what would make him happy, but no - Zitao can’t lie to him this way.

Panicking, he pulls out of the tender hold and backs away, his hands trembling as his cheeks burn and the president’s gaze follows him in dejection, as though he were just rejected, and that look truly breaks Zitao’s heart. He can tell very clearly that the man doesn’t understand, but Zitao doesn’t either, and he has no idea how to explain why he doesn’t understand or what he feels may be right or wrong. 

“What is the matter?” The president mumbles between them, his voice soft and low and lilting at the edges as though tainted with upset, and Zitao cannot do much other than bring his jittery fingers up to his mouth and try to sort out the jumbled mess that has become of his insides.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in apology and turns on his heel as he strides away and toward the restrooms. He tries his best not to think about the embarrassment be probably caused his boss by walking away from him like that as he pushes past the women’s room doors and places warm palms on the cool countertop, simply needing the peace and quiet to sort his thoughts. 

He’s meddling far too deeply into dangerous territory, for this kind of road would only go downhill and would only result in hurting the both of them, both Zitao for risking his mother’s life upon the threat of losing his job, and additionally the president upon the threat of losing another romantic interest. Knowing just how much the man has gone through with his love life, Zitao cannot string him along like this. 

This is far too unfair, and Zitao doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this.

When he finds that he has calmed down some, he exits the bathroom with a calming breath and decides that he needs to apologize. Panicking was one thing but walking out on the president like that and leaving him likely embarrassed in front of over a hundred people of equal if not higher commercial stature was another, and Zitao feels very irresponsible and unprofessional. 

As he shyly turns the corner out of the bathroom hall, he’s a little bit surprised to find that the president had been waiting for him, perched against the wall with a straightened spine and crossed arms, and Zitao bites down on his lip as the president’s eyes slide over to him, sharp and annoyed. 

“You should not have done that,” the president scolds him in a low tone, and Zitao averts his eyes, for he knows just how immature he had been. “That was very unprofessional for you to walk away from me like that, especially considering that I had not given you permission to do so.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out an apology, feeling gross for having fled like that.

Then, with resolve, the president sighs, uncharacteristically soft as his voice drops before he says, “No, I am the one who is sorry. We should not have done that.”

Surprised, Zitao’s eyes widen as his hands stutter at his front, his fingers knitting together nervously. He had expected a hard scolding, perhaps even a demotion or a write-up for his behavior - but an apology? Zitao can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Oh,” he mutters quietly, not entirely sure who it is that should be taking the blame. 

After only a few moments, the man stands up fully, his countenance annoyed and irritable - rightfully so, Zitao might add, since the object of his current romantic interest walked out on their first kiss - and looks at him with dull, almost-tired eyes. “I have to finish up some things here,” is what he tells Zitao, just as tall and intimidating as always as he stands mere inches away from him. “I was approached about a few collaboration offers that I have to finalize with their respective companies, and after that, we can get ready and leave. Would that be alright with you, Miss Huang?”

He nods, his lip nestled between his teeth in his nervousness, for it does sting a little bit to no longer have the privilege of being referred to as Yingtao. No longer affectionate, the president gives him a curt nod before he simply walks off, leaving Zitao by the bathrooms with sadness in his eyes and regret in his heart. 

He deserves it, he supposes, for it was very rude for him to just abandon his host that way. So, in a cloud of his own sorrow and self-hatred, Zitao slumps against the wall with his clutch in-hand and pouts as the feeling of having ruined this entire night begins to stick to his skin. Leave it to him to just everything up all the time, no matter what the occasion. 

Lonely and disheartened, Zitao decides to head to the bar for one last drink. Maybe those four glasses of champagne hadn’t been enough, and Zitao feels the need for something slightly stronger to help him forget the embarrassment of this night. 

When he gets there, his fingers linger on a clean, empty glass as he stares at the rows of bottles, unsure of what most of them are, for he is not naturally a heavy drinker. He supposes that rather than play a guessing game and find something that he doesn’t like, that maybe five glasses of champagne is what it will take to make his buzz kick in, so he reaches out and takes the frosted-pink bottle and pours