Within a few days, locals who frequented Yong’an Department Store all knew: a new brand called “Vilanido” had arrived. The clothes were fresh, stylish, and very attractive.
Expensive?
Compared to foreign brands like Pierre Cardin, which cost hundreds per piece, these were actually quite affordable.
“Well, it’s still Yong’an, not some tiny market—you won’t find clothes for ten yuan a piece here,” people would remark.
Every day, the Vilanido counter drew a steady stream of customers. The women shopping at the department store weren’t short on money; they came for one purpose only:
To buy—clothes, branded clothes, and trendy, attractive designs.
“Like it? Want to try it on?”
Inside the store, Mo Wanzhen was so busy she didn’t even have a sip of water. Meanwhile, in the Juxiang Town workshop, the rows of sewing machines were working so fast sparks seemed ready to fly.
The women’s clothing store was off to such a strong start that not only Wang Chuang and his colleagues were pleased, even Huo Zongzhuo was delighted.
Huo Zongzhuo called Jiang Luo. “Big Boss Jiang.”
“Your Majesty Huo,” Jiang Luo teased, making him laugh.
“I’ll be back in Haicheng in a few days,” Huo said, “let’s have a meal to celebrate your brand’s successful opening.”
Jiang Luo immediately replied, “Ah, I get it—you’re bringing me a gift again.”
Huo chuckled over the phone. “Being too clever spoils the surprise.”
Jiang Luo teased back, “You’re rich enough, whatever you give me won’t surprise me.”
“Then I’ll give you a puppy—so that everything you do will be ‘Wang Wang Wang.’”
Feigning bad reception, Jiang Luo said, “What? What? I didn’t hear clearly.”
“I said ‘Wang Wang Wang.’”
“Alright, a puppy it is.”
Huo laughed. “You little rascal.”
That day, Wang Chuang hadn’t gone on a business trip to Jinling and was at the company. After work, the two rode in Jiang Luo’s car back to the silk factory dormitory.
On the way, Wang Chuang in the passenger seat asked, “Is the workshop staffed enough? Will the clothes be ready on time? I heard the counter keeps calling saying the warehouse is out of stock.”
Jiang Luo replied with a simple “Hmm.”
“The workshop’s small, not many workers—it’s tight, but manageable.”
“No worries, it’s just one counter for now. Supply can keep up.”
“Should we expand the workshop a bit?” Wang Chuang suggested.
They chatted all the way to the dormitory. Parking downstairs, they got out.
By chance, Zhao Mingshi was coming down the stairs.
He looked up and froze in disbelief. Jiang Luo? With a car? Driving a car?
His steps unconsciously stopped. Jiang Luo saw him, but barely glanced before turning his attention back upstairs with Wang Chuang.
Wang Chuang chatted casually, “Not sure what my mom cooked today.” Jiang Luo replied, “Whatever she made, we eat.”
Passing Zhao Mingshi, he continued up the stairs. Zhao Mingshi’s gaze followed, stunned.
He thought: Jiang Luo—a good-for-nothing slacker! How could he now drive a Mercedes? Impossible!
Once Jiang Luo disappeared from view, Zhao Mingshi blinked, turned his gaze to the black car, expression complicated. He knew Jiang Luo was doing business now, and had heard of it from Zhao Guangyuan and Su Lan—but still…
A Mercedes?
Zhao Mingshi couldn’t believe it. Did Su Lan or someone from the Zhao family give it to him?
He bit his lip, eyes darkening, and finally walked away, determined to call Zhao Shuo from the school’s security booth to confirm if Su Lan had really bought Jiang Luo a car.
Why should he?
The more Zhao Mingshi thought, the angrier he became. Why could Jiang Luo just ask Su Lan for a car? Cars are expensive!
In the Zhao household, he had never spent tens of thousands. Why should Jiang Luo have a car? His own allowance was only 500 a month!
Upstairs, Wang Chuang pointed to the scene below, asking Jiang Luo if that was the kid who had been switched at birth. Jiang Luo didn’t answer, letting Wang Chuang assume it was him.
Walking, Wang Chuang said, “The Xi household must be proud—they produced a top Fudan student.” Then teasingly: “The kid’s okay—poor biological parents, yet willing to acknowledge him.”
Jiang Luo mocked, “Are you watching him or watching my spectacle?”
“Eh, just chatting. I don’t care if he’s at Fudan or not—didn’t take the exam myself.”
At the door, Wang Chuang shouted, “Mom! What’s for dinner today?”
Today, the Wang family had chicken—three at once. Six legs for four people—enough for Wang Chuang, Jiang Luo, Bai Ting, and Wang Junwei to each have a leg. With money now, it wasn’t a problem to eat three chickens at once.
At dinner, Bai Ting, Wang Junwei, Jiang Luo, and Wang Chuang discussed leaving the silk factory.
Wang Junwei said, “I checked. The noodle business is okay—especially near the train and bus stations.”
Bai Ting: “I asked friends; a small restaurant would work. Sell buns in the morning, stir-fry dishes at noon and evening.”
Jiang Luo listened while Wang Chuang eagerly discussed it with his parents.
Wang Chuang preferred the noodle business—he could drive instead of walking, relax in the car, earn more than as a worker. The restaurant didn’t appeal—he knew classmates’ families ran restaurants, working from dawn to dusk, earning only hard-won money.
He then looked at Jiang Luo. “Should we have Mom come to the company too?”
“She could be a clerk, or learn bookkeeping from Old Xue.”
Bai Ting and Wang Junwei naturally looked at Jiang Luo.
Jiang Luo replied casually, “Of course. If she wants, she can come.”
Then Jiang Luo suggested: “Auntie, I have an idea. Listen—if you like it, you can do this.”
“What?”
“Open a café, sell coffee.”
Coffee?
Bai Ting’s family was puzzled. Bai Ting knew coffee was bitter, strange-tasting—she couldn’t drink it.
Wang Chuang asked, “What’s the trick with this business?”
Bai Ting: “Coffee’s bitter, not tasty.”
Wang Junwei: “Yeah, very hard to drink.”
Jiang Luo explained, “We’re not selling coffee—it’s style, it’s ‘petit bourgeois.’”
“It’s not just a milk drink. Domestic people aren’t used to it yet. Foreign products just came here.”
Style? Petit bourgeois?
They didn’t understand.
Jiang Luo painted a picture: “Sitting by the Huangpu River, breeze on your face, scenery in view, holding a cup of foreign coffee—isn’t that a bit ‘unusual,’ ‘special,’ ‘stylish,’ and ‘petit bourgeois’?”
The three were still puzzled.
He simplified: “Good location, nice décor, sell coffee—3 yuan a cup, 2 yuan profit. 200 cups a day, earn 400.”
Wang Chuang: “One piece of our clothing earns 400 already.”
“I’m not done,” Jiang Luo continued. “If business is good, more than 200 cups a day.”
“Add a camera—take photos of customers drinking coffee, charge 2 yuan per photo.”
“Sell sandwiches and fries alongside coffee.”
“If run decently, daily turnover could reach 700–800 yuan.”
“Easy to run, no early mornings or late nights.”
This they understood.
Bai Ting murmured, “Will people really buy coffee?”
Petit bourgeois? Style?
Mostly foreign residents in Haicheng, she thought. Jiangsu Road, Huaihai Middle Road already had coffee shops for them.
Jiang Luo didn’t force them to fully understand or follow his plan.