The journey to the city was grueling. Lin Xia sat in the cabin of the aging Liberation truck, her head resting against the vibrating glass. The 500 silk pieces were stacked in crates behind her, covered by a heavy tarp. These weren't just fabrics; they were her ammunition.
As the truck rumbled toward the Peace Hotel, she saw the city of 1988—a forest of bicycles, low-rise grey buildings, and the occasional neon sign that felt like a herald of the coming decade.
"Drop me at the side entrance," she told the driver. She knew the layout of the Peace Hotel by heart from her previous life's gala dinners. She knew where the staff moved, and more importantly, where the vultures circled.
As she entered the grand Art Deco lobby, her heart skipped a beat. Standing near the concierge desk was Zhang Wei. He looked different—sharper. He was wearing a new suit, likely bought with the last of his family's savings, and he was deep in conversation with Klaus Weber.
Lin Xia pulled her collar up and stepped behind a marble pillar.
"I assure you, Mr. Weber," Zhang Wei was saying in accented but practiced English. "The Lin family workshop had a fire. A tragic accident. They cannot fulfill your order. But my company, Zhang International, has the exact same stock ready for delivery. I can have it here in an hour."
Klaus Weber looked distraught. "A fire? But Lin Xia seemed so capable. This is a disaster for my schedule!"
"She is just a girl," Zhang Wei said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "She was over-ambitious. Now, if you'll just sign this 'Transfer of Intent' form, I can save your shipment."
Lin Xia felt a cold fury. He hadn't just tried to scam her father; he was trying to erase her before she even started. She stepped out from behind the pillar, her footsteps echoing on the polished floor.
"The only thing 'tragic' in this room, Mr. Zhang, is your tailor."
Zhang Wei spun around, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. Klaus Weber's eyes lit up with relief.
"Lin Xia! You're alive? He said your factory burned down!"
"Mr. Zhang has a very vivid imagination," Lin Xia said, walking up to them. She didn't look like a girl who had just spent forty-eight hours over a dye vat. She looked like a queen reclaiming her throne. "The goods are at the loading dock. I've already had the hotel manager verify the provincial export seal."
Zhang Wei scrambled, his desperation showing. "Wait! Klaus, her fabric is... it's primitive! It's village work! My factory uses modern machines. It's much more... consistent."
Lin Xia reached into her small bag and pulled out the very first shawl they had finished—the one she had woven herself during the final stretch. She draped it over the concierge desk. The rich, deep indigo seemed to absorb the light of the lobby's chandeliers.
"Mr. Weber," Lin Xia said, ignoring Zhang Wei entirely. "In the West, everyone has 'modern machines.' But only China has five thousand years of soul. This isn't just a shawl. It's a story. Which one do you think your clients in Berlin will pay a premium for?"
Klaus Weber ran his hand over the fabric. The texture was irregular in a way that felt intentional, organic, and expensive. He looked at Zhang Wei, then back at Lin Xia.
"The girl is right," Klaus said. He turned to Zhang Wei. "Mr. Zhang, I don't know who you are, but you are a liar. If I see you near my business again, I will report you to the trade attache."
"Klaus, please—"
"Leave," Lin Xia whispered.
Zhang Wei looked at her, his eyes filled with a new, burning hatred. "You think you've won? This is one small order. I have connections in the city you can't even dream of. You'll be back in that dusty village by next month."
"I'm moving to Shanghai in two weeks, Zhang Wei," Lin Xia replied, her voice low so Klaus couldn't hear. "And when I get there, I'm going to buy the bank that holds your family's mortgage. Start packing."
Zhang Wei stumbled back, shocked by the sheer venom in her eyes, and fled through the revolving doors.
Klaus Weber was ecstatic. Not only did he accept the 500 pieces, but he sat Lin Xia down in the hotel's famous Jazz Bar to sign a long-term contract.
"I want three thousand pieces for the winter season," Klaus said, scribbling on a notepad. "And I want you to look into silk-lined jackets. Can you do that?"
"I can do anything," Lin Xia said, "provided the price reflects the quality."
By the time she left the Peace Hotel, she had a bank draft for 25,000 US Dollars. In 1988, this was an astronomical sum. She walked to the Bund, looking out over the Huangpu River. Across the water, the area known as Pudong was still just farmland and warehouses.
She knew that in less than ten years, that empty land would hold the tallest skyscrapers in the world. She clutched the bank draft in her pocket. She had the capital. She had the connection with Han Huojin. And she had the foresight.
The "Empress of Silk" was done with the village. It was time to conquer the city.