The guest suite of Cloud Crest Manor was, of course, under its own canvass of climate. Someone—most probably Mrs. Liu—had set the thermostat at a careful twenty-four degrees: cool enough to keep fever dreams away, warm enough to remind a person they were still alive. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and had the ghost of orchids, arranged in a crystal bowl last night before dawn light slid through motorized blinds, slicing bright stripes across the foot of the bed where slept Xu Manning.
Or pretended to.
She had been awake for twenty-seven minutes, counting heartbeats like other people counted sheep. Dr. Chen's splint encased her right wrist like plaster gauntlet; underneath it, the fracture throbbed in a rhythm dull and persistent-second hand of a broken clock. Every tick informed her the same thing: You're running out of time.
Soft footsteps approached outside the door. Pause. A polite knock. The hushed voice of Mrs. Liu: "Miss Xu, breakfast in twenty minutes. Mr. Xu requests your presence."
Manning did not respond. The footsteps receded. She opened her eyes.
In pale gold leaf coffered the ceiling repeats the Xu family crest: a stylized xuān character coiled into the shape of a phoenix. She had stared at it long enough to memorize every brushstroke. That was the same crest that had once been embroidered on her father's handkerchiefs. The sight of it, one would think, should feel like coming home. But instead, it feels like walking into a trap with someone else's skin.
Contrary to the other excuse he had just listened to in court-while also being her excuse for wakefulness-Mrs. Liu had left clothes on the chaise: dark jeans, dove-gray cashmere sweater, underwear still in tissue paper. All her size. Either Cloud Crest kept a boutique in the basement, or Xu Xiao had people who could measure a woman while she slept. Both possibilities unsettled her.
In the en-suite bathroom, she managed to avoid looking in the mirror until the last minute. The moment she did turn toward it, however, the reflection was of a stranger: left cheek colored in blossoming bruises, cracked lips, eyes too big for her face. The overhead LEDs were merciless. They turned her into a before-photo in a domestic-violence PSA.
She turned on the faucet, let it run cold, and drank straight from the tap. Her stomach cramped-too many days of empty, then too much rich food too fast. She rinsed her mouth, spat pink. Dr. Chen had warned her the inside of her cheek was cut; she did not remember how.
Back in the bedroom, she found a small envelope on the nightstand, heavy cream stock, name handwritten in fountain-pen ink that had dried to the color of dried blood. Inside: a single copper key and four words.
The house is yours. No signature. No explanation. The key weighed less than a cough drop, but it felt like bondage.
She dressed left-handed, awkward with the splint. The sweater's sleeves dangled too long, so she rolled them up and caught a glimpse of the scar on her inner forearm-a thin, white, horizontal mark. A reminder she never needed. The fabric brushed the mark-soft as an apology.
The dining-room was a mausoleum of French oak and Murano glass- like the table that could accommodate twenty- Xu Xiao sat alone at the head, reading the Financial Times on a tablet. He wore battle gear: charcoal suit, steel tie pin shaped like a sword. Morning light would filter through the stained-glass window, marking the changing blues and reds on his face, like the armor of medieval times.
He didn't look up as she walked in. "Sit."
One word cut the room right in half. Manning chose a chair three places away. A maid popped up to pour coffee and was gone. Eggs Benedict steamed upon a Limoges plate. The smell made Manning's mouth water and her stomach decidedly clench.
Xu Xiao folded the tablet, set it aside. His eyes were the color of wet slate. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough," she responded.
"Dr. Chen says the fracture is minor. No surgery. You'll have the splint for three weeks."
"Then what?"
A flicker of something-irritation, maybe amusement. "Then you leave. Unless you've decided to tell me why you were really at my gate."
Manning picked up her fork, put it down again. "I told you. Homeless. Hungry."
"You also told me your parents are dead. Yet your hands have never scrubbed a floor for money, and your teeth have seen an orthodontist. Try again."
She met his stare. "I'm nineteen. Plenty of time for things to fall apart."
He leaned back. The chair creaked-old wood, older money. "Mrs. Liu informs me you have no luggage. No ID. No phone. That suggests either extraordinary misfortune or extraordinary planning. Which is it?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
Coffee was too bitter. She added sugar, watched the crystals dissolve. "You think I'm a spy."
"I think you're a variable I haven't solved for."
"And you hate variables."
"I eliminate them."
A silence settled, heavy as velvet. Outside, gardeners clipped boxwood with shears that sounded like scissors through silk. Manning broke the quiet first. "What does the key open?"
Xu Xiao's expression did not change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "A room on the third floor. My father's study. It's been locked since the day he died. I assume you'll want to search it for whatever you're looking for."
Manning's pulse stuttered. The crest of the Shen family emblazoned on the ceiling, the key in her pocket; suddenly, the house felt smaller, like some sort of maze beginning to close. "Why did you give me access?" "Because you'll find it whether I allow you or not. Better to keep the damage where I can see it." She shoved her plate away. "You're not afraid I will steal something?" "You can't steal what is already yours." The words hung like a blade between them. Blood drained from Manning's face. Xu Xiao was watching clinically. "You do flinch beautifully. Most do when facing the truth." She shot up so quickly the chair scraped dangerously. The splint brushed against the table, sending a flare of pain. "I'm not like any other people." "No," he nodded. "Most people don't leave a five-million-yuan watch in a pawnshop and keep a paper sign as a souvenir." Her head spun around, "You searched my clothes." "I had them incinerated. The sign is in my safe. Along with this." He took out a small silver locket from his jacket pocket. Flicking it open, it had a photo of a girl-- eight, maybe nine-- standing beside a man whose face had been marked out. The girl had Manning's green eyes.
Manning's voice emerged raw. "Where did you get that?" "Your jeans pocket. Hidden in the lining. Careless."
She lunged. Xu Xiao had closed his fist around the locket and had stepped back with it. She stumbled and steadied herself by grabbing the edge of the table. The plates rattled.
Softly he asked, "You want it back? Tell me your real name."
She could taste blood; she had bitten her tongue. "Xu Manning."
"Half right. The xu is for Shen. Shen Manning. Daughter of Shen Tian. Thought dead in a car bombing nineteen years ago."
The room tilted; Manning's grip on the table tightened until the edge bit into her palm. "You knew."
"Since 3:42 this morning." He put the locket down on the table between them, like a poker chip. "Your father and mine were partners once. Then enemies. The bombing was blamed on the Xu Group. Your mother went mad; you vanished. Until last night."
Her knees gave way; she fell into the seat. "Why didn't you report me?"
"To whom, the police? They answer to me. The Shen board? They'd kill you quicker than I would."he leaned even closer. "I prefer to keep my enemies close. And my debts closer."
"What debt?"
"My father died owing yours a blood price. I intend to pay it—with interest." Manning did not tear her gaze away from the locket. The face scratched out could have belonged to anyone, and yet she knew the slope of the shoulders, the way that hand rested upon her child head. Grief hit her like a fist.
With almost imperceptible gentleness, Xu Xiao's voice now grew soft, "Eat your breakfast, Shen Manning. You'll need your strength. For in three weeks when that splint comes off, we shall burn the world down together."
She looked up. His smile was the coldest thing she had ever seen, and the most genuine.
With a fork in hand now, she tasted the eggs for salt and fear and the first bite of the war she started years before she knew his name.
Outside, the gardeners clipped away, oblivious. Inside, a house that had kept secrets for two decades was now quietly beginning to bleed.