Chapter 219: Chapter 138: Being a Superhero Is a Real Hassle
The Upper East Side of New York, inside the Pierre Hotel’s famous Roto Hall.
The mid-May weather was neither hot nor cold. The afternoon sun filtered through the leafy canopy along Fifth Avenue, but its rays could not penetrate the weighty history of the Pierre Hotel.
There were no windows in Roto Hall. The only light came from meticulously designed indirect lighting and a massive crystal chandelier, bathing the entire space in an amber hue.
Overhead, Edward Mercas’s famous murals wrapped around the entire oval hall. From the walls, mythological figures and Renaissance nobles gazed down, meeting the upturned eyes of Anya.
She was currently seated at a round table near the edge, watching with utter boredom as the young heiresses she knew gathered in the center. These heirs to prominent family names deftly handled the English scones and finger sandwiches on the three-tiered serving stands.
Among them was Tiffany Rockefeller, whom Anya thoroughly despised.
She hadn’t planned on coming. But as a top student at Horace Mann High School (the kind whose place was secured by a hefty donation from Mr. Sergey) and a prospective Yale freshman, she ultimately couldn’t refuse the school’s enthusiastic invitation to what she considered a pretentious, phony tea party.
The girls, all around her age, gathered in small groups. Most of them had known each other since childhood, some were even neighbors.
The Rockefellers, Vanderbilts, and Du Ponts, for instance, were all close. They had similar upbringings, summered in the Hamptons, and vacationed on Long Island.
The low murmur in the hall was like a thick woolen blanket, completely shutting Anya out.
Sometimes, that’s just how it was. Money alone wasn’t enough. Even though Mr. Sergey’s fortune could buy half of Manhattan, she was still excluded by these people for her lack of shared topics and life experiences.
Anya didn’t care. Neither did they.
Just as Anya was holding her teacup and texting Li Wei to complain about how boring it was, Tiffany Rockefeller sashayed over with two or three of her cronies.
She was quite certain Anya wouldn’t have brought a gun to an occasion like this, and the presence of her friends gave her an inexplicable sense of confidence. With a sickeningly friendly smile, she sat down next to Anya’s table.
"Don’t you have any friends here, darling?" Tiffany’s voice was high and shrill. She deliberately raised it a notch so the nearby girls could hear their conversation. "And by the way, darling, has anyone ever taught you that’s not how you’re supposed to hold a teacup—"
She pointed at the way Anya was holding her cup, then gave her a "helpful" demonstration. Her pinky finger jutted out at an exaggerated angle, tracing a pretentious arc through the air.
Her cronies let out a few grating snickers.
"Seriously, Anya," Tiffany didn’t give Anya a chance to speak. "Do you guys see brown bears every day over there in Russia? I heard your father controls the biggest Mafia in all of Eastern Europe from Moscow, is that true? Did you see dead bodies when you were a kid?"
After saying this, she quickly leaned back, as if to prevent Anya from suddenly grabbing her by the collar and smashing the teacup over her head.
Anya had indeed considered doing just that, but the girls present were all from wealthy and powerful families; nearly every one of their surnames was written into the history books of the United States of America. If she got provoked, it would just prove she was uncivilized and emotionally unstable. If she remained silent, it would be like admitting to those dirty rumors. ’Then again, some of them aren’t rumors.’
Just as Anya was debating whether to leave or fight back, the heavy bronze doors at the entrance to Roto Hall were pushed open by an attendant.
In an instant, the buzzing murmur that filled the hall was abruptly cut off, as if someone had hit a mute button.
This silence was not born of fear, but of the arrival of a higher order of power. Elizabeth Mellon had walked in.
Unlike Tiffany Rockefeller’s flamboyant style, Elizabeth’s attire could almost be described as plain: a minimalist-cut, deep blue silk shirt paired with black tuxedo trousers, and a simple mechanical watch on her wrist.
In terms of age, the girls in the room were all around eighteen, some even a few months older than Elizabeth.
But her presence was simply too powerful. Despite the warm smile on her face, every girl she passed couldn’t help but stand and offer a nod of greeting.
"Miss Mellon."
"Elizabeth."
This was not merely about respect and awe for the Mellon name; it was more about the proximity of bloodlines and one’s influence within the family.
Unlike these high school girls who only knew how to date, bicker jealously, and fight over trusts worth tens of thousands of USD, Elizabeth Mellon was the only daughter of her branch of the family. So, even though she wasn’t from the core, direct line of the Mellon Family, she still shouldered a not-insignificant amount of responsibility for them—something her peers could only dream of obtaining.
Elizabeth Mellon knew every girl present. After making her rounds and greeting everyone, she gracefully approached Tiffany Rockefeller.
"Tiffany, long time no see," Elizabeth said with a beaming smile after giving Tiffany a warm air kiss. "Could you do me a favor and get me something to eat? I’m starving."
The smug look on Tiffany’s face vanished. She glanced at the food table, which was no more than five meters away and clearly laden with refreshments. Yet, Elizabeth Mellon had walked right past it only to ask her to act as a servant.
For someone with the Rockefeller name, this was an even greater humiliation than the one she had just inflicted on Anya.
Seeing this, her cronies immediately scattered like birds. One muttered something about going to the restroom, and the other, saying "I’ll go with you, I’m scared to go alone," quickly vanished from the scene, leaving the three of them at the table.
In the end, Tiffany Rockefeller couldn’t take the pressure. She shot to her feet and left, with no one mentioning the refreshments again.
Elizabeth Mellon sat down unhurriedly, looking at Anya, who was just as beautiful as she was.
Anya wanted to say something, but she felt awkward. She had never liked Elizabeth, yet now she was indebted to her.
"I’ve disliked Tiffany since we were kids," Elizabeth spoke first. "She’s only allowed in the family photos during major Rockefeller holidays or events. But if you didn’t know her background, an uninformed person might actually think her grandfather was the patriarch of the Rockefeller Family."
"Uh-huh," Anya said, taking a sip of her tea. "You came to this boring tea party too?"
Elizabeth Mellon picked up the teapot in front of her, poured herself a cup, and, holding it in the exact same manner as Anya, took a small sip.
"No choice," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Some things you just have to show up for. By the way, when is the Horace Mann graduation dance?"
"The Saturday after next, at the end of May," Anya replied. "Why? Do you have something on?"
"I do, actually," said Elizabeth. "It’s about..."
...
「Meanwhile, at the corner of Madison Avenue and East 61st Street in Manhattan.」
Inside a bespoke tailor shop named Anderson & Sheppard, the only sounds were the SSSHH of chalk gliding across fabric and the soft whir of a measuring tape being extended.
Don Quixote was standing outside the door on the phone. His fitting was done, and he was now discussing matters related to Li Wei’s social media image with a media company.
Li Wei stood before a three-way mirror with his arms held out to his sides. An elderly tailor with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose was meticulously measuring his chest.
"Thirty-nine and a half inches, with a two-finger allowance," he said. "Mr. Li Wei, you have very defined back muscles, a low body fat percentage, and a V-taper from your shoulders to your waist. We’ll need to make some special adjustments to the center seam in the back."
"No problem," Li Wei said, looking at the three or four stacks of fabric sample books on the table. He suddenly asked, "Can I ask a question about the fabrics?"
"Of course," the old tailor said with a welcoming gesture. "We have over 5,000 different suit fabrics and patterns. Whatever you desire."
Flipping through a sample book, he continued, "For someone like yourself who needs to attend important functions, I would typically recommend Scabal’s Diamond Chip collection, or perhaps Loro Piana’s Super 150s fine wool. Both are top-tier choices with exceptional feel, luster, and fineness."
"Hmm..." Li Wei mused for a moment. "Do you have anything that allows for a wide range of motion, or something with high tear resistance?"
The old tailor paused, clearly surprised. Very few clients ever requested features like "a wide range of motion" or "high tear resistance" when commissioning a bespoke suit.
"Well..." He thought for a moment. "A suit, by its very nature, isn’t meant for athletic activity. It’s designed for a tailored, form-fitting feel. Something akin to a suit of armor."
Li Wei nodded. "I understand. I’m asking if a similar fabric exists."
"If mobility is your primary concern," the old tailor said, "perhaps you should look into the suppliers for the national team’s uniforms, or even the apparel provider for your NFL team. They would likely have more expertise in that area."
After hearing this, Li Wei mentally filed the information away.
He needed to trigger a mission, which meant he would have to go out at night. He couldn’t just wear his regular clothes. If a fight broke out and his clothes were torn, leaving behind any traces would be a problem.
’Being a superhero is such a pain,’ he thought. ’How do the characters in comics always manage to so easily get their hands on an inconspicuous combat suit that’s impervious to blades and bullets, and never gets stained or leaves a trace?’
Just as he was wondering whether he should contact an NFL equipment customization company or pay a visit to Nike’s fabric department, Li Wei’s phone suddenly rang.
"Hello?" he said, answering the phone. "This is Li Wei. Chairman Lin?"
