The legacy luxury showrooms were jam-packed—Volkswagen here, BMW there—while the new Audi dealership across town felt almost sedate by comparison. Price-cut banners and limited-time stickers had pulled in a tide of shoppers, many of whom had planned to buy the freshly released Audi A6 yesterday but were now wavering. Old-guard brands had issued a joint "statement" trashing the A6 as a dressed-up mass-market sedan. Pair that smear with splashy discounts—up to ¥120,000 (~$16.7k)—and crowds poured through their doors to "save money."
In the middle of one BMW showroom, Wang Wenming and his fiancée stood shoulder to shoulder, their excitement draining by the minute. They were about to set up life together and wanted a car that could be both workhorse and calling card. On paper, the A6 had been perfect: C-class proportions, clean tech-forward design, and—thanks to Heifeng's pricing philosophy—a number ordinary professionals could stomach. The two of them had even watched the entire livestream the night before, nodding along when Heifeng vowed to break the imported-luxury price hegemony and sell an actual executive car at a price China's middle class could afford. That speech made me feel like someone was finally speaking their language.
But family weighs heavily. When their parents heard "Audi A6," the calls came—stern, confident, full of face and convention. If you'll spend money, buy a "real" luxury badge. Don't be fooled by marketing, said the uncles. Audi's just pretending to be high-end, said the cousin who repeats every forum rumor. Ultimately, out of filial habit more than conviction, Wenming let himself be steered from the Audi dealership to BMW. Suppose it kept the peace, OK. They'd finance the difference and make it up with overtime at Huawei headquarters. Loans were manageable; quarrels at New Year's were not.
They found a 5 Series base trim whose lines he liked and whose cabin she could live with. Numbers were scribbled, payments sketched, and smiles exchanged. Then the sales consultant slid over a laminated sheet with an apologetic smile: to qualify for the widely advertised ¥50,000 ($6.9k) "discount," buyers were "required" to purchase an "optional" decoration package worth ¥60,000 ($8.3k). Financing? Of course—but there would be a flat "financial services fee" of ¥10,000 ($1.4k). Also, demand was "overwhelming," so if they wanted the car soon, they could add ¥20,000 ($2.8k) to the price and expect delivery in about a month. Otherwise… well, who could say? Maybe two months. Maybe three.
Silence. Then heat. Wenming's fiancée, quick-tongued and allergic to nonsense, pushed the paper back across the desk with one finger. "Mandatory options for a discount that only exists on the billboard. A service fee with no service. A mark-up for the privilege of waiting. Where, exactly, is any of this written into law?" She wasn't shouting, but heads were turning anyway. The consultant, to her credit, kept her voice warm. "This is standard for our dealership. Everyone does it. If you're unhappy, I'm afraid there isn't much I can—"
"Everyone does it" only made it worse. The couple had heard stories of 4S "tricks," but seeing the menu in black and white when they were ready to sign was something else. The required "gift pack" itemized the usual padding: full-car invisible film, full-car window tint, chassis armor, a dashcam, and mats. Practical things, sure, but not ¥60,000-to-¥70,000 ($8.3k–$9.7k) useful, and definitely not ¥100,000 ($13.9k) as some "premium set" upsell suggested. And the ¥10,000 (~$1.4k) finance charge? Interest was already embedded in the loan; what exactly were they buying for that extra fee—someone's signature?
Wenming could feel his temper rise to match hers, but he swallowed it. "Forget it," he said softly. "We'll go back and buy the Audi." The decision steadied him as soon as he spoke it. The consultant's smile faded a shade, then returned in the practiced way of someone who has previously watched commissions slip out the door. "I'm sorry you feel that way," she said, all politeness. "I hope you find a car you love."
They were halfway to the exit when a man in a thick gold chain muttered loud enough to carry: "If you can't afford a BMW, don't waste our time. Domestic junk is cheap for a reason." He didn't look at them; he didn't need to. The words were aimed like a heel stamped on the threshold. Wenming's fiancée pivoted, ready to fire back, but he caught her wrist with a slight shake. He turned, met the man's eyes, and said in a level voice, "We can afford it. We refuse to be the patsy. Enjoy paying extra for the privilege of waiting." Then he opened the door and let the bright late-morning air wash over them both.
They stood momentarily on the steps, breathing, watching salespeople ferry coffees and contracts past the glass. Funny how the word discount can mean paying more—if you let someone else write the rules. He thought of Heifeng on last night's stage, not talking like a tycoon but like an engineer who wanted the market to make sense again. Strip. The promise was to strip the forced bundles, the invented "fees," the scarcity games, and sell the machine fairly. Reasonably, it would take time for parents to come around and for colleagues to stop measuring worth by the badge on a grille. But a line had to be drawn somewhere, and a life together needed quiet vows. Today's would be simple: no more being shepherded by other people's faces.
"Let's go," she said, calmer now, threading her arm through his. "Let's buy the car we actually wanted." He nodded. As they walked toward the curb, it struck him how quickly the showroom's noise had become static. Inside, the "discount" banners still fluttered in the conditioned air. Outside, the city moved at its own honest pace—buses sighing, bikes ticking past, a kid dragging a helium balloon that bobbed and bobbed but never broke free. A month from now, he wanted to look back on this morning and feel only relief that they'd stepped out when the math stopped making sense. He pulled out his phone to refresh the Audi dealership's queue. There were slots open this afternoon. Good. They'd bring the parents along if they insisted. They'd hear the pitch again, look under the hood, rerun the numbers—no decorations, no invented services, no pay-to-wait. If that still weren't "face," he'd rather save face for their wedding photos.
Behind them, the gold-chained man laughed at something the consultant said and scrawled his name on a line that had cost more than it needed to. Maybe he had money to burn and time to spare. Good for him. Wenming wanted neither to be burned nor to be kept waiting. He wanted a fair deal and a car he wasn't embarrassed to explain. The A6 would do. And someday, when people told this story, he hoped they'd skip the brand snobbery and remember the vital part: two ordinary professionals spent their hard-earned money on something that respected them back.