The Gu family driver did not speak as he guided the car through the mansion gates. He wore the navy livery of the house, but his posture suggested military training—back straight, every movement as neat as a period in a legal brief. The vehicle itself was spotless, each interior surface wiped clean of human residue, a rolling confession booth for the newly damned. I watched the world pass through bulletproof glass: stone lions, sculpted azaleas, water features engineered to appear accidental. It was the kind of property designed to make you feel both protected and surveilled.
We coasted up the final curve, and the main house loomed into view. It was grand in the old style, all inlaid marble and dark timber, the roofline sloping with the gravity of centuries. My first impulse was to count the security cameras. I counted seven, not including the ones hidden in the lanterns. Someone—probably Gu's grandmother—had insisted on traditional red banners at the entrance, though they'd been tastefully muted to oxblood and hung just high enough to avoid direct association with the vulgar nouveau weddings on the news. The message was clear: modern, but not American; powerful, but not ostentatious.
The car stopped with a sigh of hydraulics. The driver circled to open my door. I accepted his hand, not because I needed it, but because I wanted to see how he responded to a firm grip. There was a nanosecond of surprise before he recalibrated, matching my pressure exactly, then releasing without another glance.
An Mei was already waiting. She stood at the top of the stone steps, her silhouette outlined by the stained-glass transom behind her. Her hair was the same shade as the steps, pin-straight and caught in a low, severe bun. The only visible ornament was the jade hairpin anchoring it—a gift, I remembered, from Gu Shenyan's grandmother, worn only for occasions when discipline needed to be seen as beauty.
I ascended, suitcase in hand, and An Mei bowed. The movement was shallow but precise, the bare minimum to acknowledge my new title without ceding an inch of control.
"Welcome, Young Madam," she said. Her voice was a soft command, not a greeting. "Allow me."
She reached for my bag. I held on a fraction of a second longer than necessary before letting her have it. She felt the weight, registered the difference between my bag and the ceremonial ones that usually preceded a bride's arrival, then pivoted without comment.
Inside, the air was cool and perfumed with lilies, but the undercurrent was bleach. The entry hall was a museum of family vanity—every painting, every bronze tiger or ivory pagoda spaced to direct the flow of visitors and attention. I followed An Mei past a parade of ancestral portraits, each one staring with the disappointment of someone who'd expected more from their descendants.
The route was as ceremonial as the greeting: up the main staircase, across the mezzanine, through two sets of carved doors. I could feel the sensors track our movements, the subtle change in air pressure as we crossed each new perimeter. The house staff melted away at our approach, reappearing only in reflection—always watching, never present.
An Mei narrated nothing. She did not offer to show me the library, the meditation room, or the rumored panic shelter beneath the west garden. She simply moved with the efficient precision of a surgical instrument, never turning her head unless to ensure I had not wandered off-script. But I knew this route. I remembered it from the last life, the way they'd marched me like a hostage through every corridor, then deposited me in the east wing—a place I'd come to think of as the quarantine zone.
We reached the end of the east corridor, a dead end by design. She stopped before a lacquered door. The handle was shaped like a phoenix, its wings outstretched in a pose meant to suggest welcome. It looked like a warning.
An Mei paused. "The young master requested these rooms prepared for your arrival. They are newly renovated, and face the lake for morning sunlight. If you wish for any changes, I—"
"I'd prefer the south wing," I said, not raising my voice, but shifting the cadence enough that she had to replay the sentence.
The silence was so sharp it hummed. An Mei's face, which had been calibrated for indifference, broke into a fractional crease between her eyebrows. It was the first tell I'd seen.
"The south wing?" she repeated.
"Yes," I said, switching to the formal register. "It's stipulated in the contract."
I produced the folder from my handbag. The contract page was already flagged; I slid it out and held it at chest height. "Section 2, paragraph B. I am to have free selection of living quarters, provided it does not disrupt household operations. The south wing is currently unoccupied."
The pause that followed was longer than protocol permitted. An Mei accepted the document, eyes flicking over the text. I watched her scan the clause, confirm the signature, and then recalculate the next three moves. She handed the folder back, her hands as steady as iron tongs.
"Of course," she said. "There may be some inconvenience with the current setup, but I will make it right. If you will follow me."
I did. This time, she let me set the pace. We walked the length of the mezzanine again, through a set of double doors marked by an inlaid emblem of the Gu family. The south wing was brighter—two-story windows, each with a view of the main gardens, the path down to the private dock, and the row of cherry trees that would blossom in a week or two. The guest suite here was larger, but more importantly, closer to the core of the house. Not exiled, but integrated. It would be easier to monitor comings and goings, to control who had access, to defend a perimeter if things turned adversarial. I was not planning a coup, but I was planning for survival.
An Mei opened the suite doors herself. "If there are any items you would like to relocate from the east wing, please let me know. I will ensure your preferences are respected."
She surveyed the room, noting its vacancy, and perhaps for the first time in years, the lack of covert staff presence. The room was a blank slate, the linen still crisp and the scent of paint barely faded beneath the orchid air freshener.
"Will you be receiving visitors tonight?" she asked.
"No," I said. "I'll need a few hours to settle in. Thank you."
She bowed again, slightly deeper this time. "Dinner is at six, in the family hall. If you have no other instructions, I will leave you to your rest."
She closed the door behind her with a sound like a soft verdict. I waited for her footsteps to fade, then locked the door and braced a chair under the handle. Not for safety—just for principle.
I stood in the center of the suite and let the adrenaline settle. In my last life, I would have spent the next hour grieving the loss of my old room, of my parents, of my control over my own future. This time, I felt only the sharp satisfaction of a well-placed move.
I walked to the window and surveyed the view. The garden below was empty; the dock was deserted; the cameras were angled away from this elevation. There was no one to watch me but myself.
I pressed my hand to the glass, letting the cold seep through. It steadied me.
The south wing was mine. For now.
I unpacked my bag, one item at a time, arranging my things in order of utility. The first drawer I claimed was the safe, its code set to a sequence that would be meaningless to anyone but me. The next was the writing desk: pens, stationery, a blank notebook that would never leave my sight. I opened the closet and ran my fingers over the array of uniforms and event dresses, then shifted them all to one side, leaving space for what I intended to add later.
By the time the sun reached the far end of the garden, I was done. My room looked inhabited, but not yet lived in. That was the point.
I sat at the desk, stared at the door, and waited for the next move.
Let them wonder.
Let them come.
My mother used to say that a woman's first day in a new home set the pattern for her entire marriage. At the time, I thought it was just another of her fatalistic superstitions—one more way to blame a daughter for circumstances she never chose. But as I unpacked my life into the Gu mansion's south wing, I realized it was more accurate than she knew. Every object, every placement, every ritual of domestication was a preliminary move in a game I'd already lost once.
The first rule: visible value goes in the open, leverage stays hidden.
I started with the clothes. The closet was a gallery of expensive dresses, but I hung them with casual disorder, as if I didn't care which ones wrinkled. In reality, I'd already memorized the order by color and cut—another diagnostic test, so I could tell if anyone had rifled through my things when I wasn't looking. The jewelry I arranged in trays on the vanity, letting a few diamond studs and the wedding set catch the light. A decoy; the real assets were never in plain sight.
I took the lacquered jewelry box—a gift from my father, meant to signal adult responsibility—and set it on the desk. With a small blade I kept for opening mail, I worked the seam at the bottom, popping it free with a flick of the wrist. The false compartment inside was shallow but just deep enough for two flash drives and a bundle of crisp, folded documents. I slid in the packet: backup copies of my own banking, the trust information I'd had Jian Wei's office draw up, and a record of small but significant investments I'd made in the weeks leading up to the wedding. All technically mine, all hidden from any family asset manager or would-be auditor. I closed the box, smoothed over the seam, and returned it to the vanity, dead center.
The next cache was trickier. I walked the perimeter of the room, eyes peeled for anything that didn't quite fit the builder's specs. At the back of the armoire, I found a loose panel; behind it, a hollow the width of a paperback. Perfect for stashing the burner phone I'd purchased in cash the day before the wedding, along with the tiny notebook that contained the passwords I could not afford to forget. I replaced the panel, then stepped back to admire the camouflage. Not even a housekeeper with a vendetta could find it unless she knew exactly where to look.
As I worked, I kept a running inventory of escape routes. The windows in the south wing opened fully, though the screens were reinforced with a mesh finer than mosquito netting. Useless in a fire, or in the kind of emergency that required rapid egress. I made a mental note to locate the nearest toolshed, or perhaps a room in the mansion with wire cutters or something sharper. The door itself had a heavy lock—old-fashioned, but probably unpickable without the key. I tested the mechanism, closed it, and listened for the click. It was a good lock, but not perfect. I could see the faintest hairline scratch where a previous occupant had tried to force it. Another clue.
As the afternoon slipped by, I catalogued every inch of the suite, committing it to memory. The bathroom was marble and chrome, so pristine it felt unsanitary. The guest room, already made up, featured a twin bed and a vanity with a single dried orchid in a vase—a detail I found simultaneously touching and sinister, given how rarely real guests were expected to stay here. I placed a book of poetry on the guest bed. A test. If it moved, I'd know who had been through.
In the main sitting room, I placed the tea set from the Lin estate at the edge of the credenza. It was the only relic I'd brought from home, a talisman to remind me that once, I'd known how to brew peace from chaos. I doubted it would help, but the superstition lingered.
When everything was in place, I stepped to the center of the sitting room, spinning a slow 360 to review the arrangement. It looked casual, almost careless. That was the point.
I checked my watch. Less than an hour to dinner.
I sat at the desk and tried to write a letter, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I traced circles on the page, imagining the signature lines of every contract I'd ever signed. The pen felt heavy. I closed my eyes and listened for sounds beyond the suite: footsteps, voices, the distant rumble of staff carts or hallway vacuums. I heard only the hiss of the HVAC and, once, a faint knock from the far side of the corridor. For a moment I wondered if I'd imagined it.
I had not.
At precisely five forty-eight, a firm knock sounded on the outer door.
I took a breath—four counts in, six counts out. My heartbeat was steady, but my palms tingled with the old, useless adrenaline. I stood, smoothed my skirt, and crossed the floor. I unlocked the door, counting the seconds, then pulled it open.
Gu Shenyan stood there, tailored and immaculate, as if he'd just stepped off a billboard for luxury sedans or mutual funds. His hair was perfect, his posture relaxed, but the eyes were cold and precise, measuring me for defects.
"May I come in?" he said, the words neither request nor command.
"Of course," I replied, stepping aside.
He entered, scanning the room in a single sweep. I watched his gaze—first to the desk, then the vanity, then the window, as if mapping the vectors of a future argument. He noted the placement of the jewelry box, the open book on the side table, the arrangement of shoes in the entryway. His face betrayed nothing, but I felt the mental calculus in real time: What does this pattern reveal? What can be exploited?
He stopped by the credenza, running a fingertip along the handle of the teapot. "From your old house?"
I nodded. "It was a gift from my grandmother."
He picked up the lid, inspected the craftsmanship, then set it down with the delicacy of someone handling a live grenade. "You chose the south wing," he said. Not a question.
"I did," I said, meeting his gaze. "The contract allows it."
A flicker—amusement? Annoyance? It was gone before I could diagnose it.
He drifted to the window and looked out. "You're settling in quickly."
"I prefer efficiency," I said.
"Efficiency," he repeated, as if sampling a new spice. "That's rare in this house."
There was an awkward pause, but neither of us tried to fill it. I let him stand at the window, watching the garden, until the silence became a question mark.
He turned back. "Dinner is at six. The family expects you to attend."
"I'll be there."
He gave a curt nod, then glanced at the door. "If you need anything, let An Mei know."
"I will."
He made to leave, then paused at the threshold. He didn't turn around.
"I suppose you know that the last person to claim this suite didn't last a month."
I smiled. "I plan to do better."
He hesitated, then exited with the same controlled precision as when he'd entered. I listened for his footsteps until they faded down the hall. Then I closed the door, relocked it, and stood with my back against the cool wood.
My heart was still racing.
But I was ready.
At precisely eight forty-five the next morning, I was summoned.
Not by phone or text—those were for lesser emergencies—but by An Mei herself, who appeared at my suite with the quiet finality of a debt collector. She knocked twice, then opened the door before I could answer. Her silhouette was backlit, the bun of her hair even tighter than the day before.
"Young Master requests your presence in the blue salon," she said, her tone stripped of any suggestion that this was optional.
"Thank you, Auntie Mei." I finished buttoning my cuffs, then followed her out. I wore navy trousers and a silk blouse that looked expensive but unremarkable, an outfit selected to convey respect without the risk of upstaging anyone in the room. The only jewelry was a slim silver watch and the engagement ring—visible enough to signal loyalty, but small enough to avoid scrutiny.
We moved through the hallways, past the ancestor gallery and into a side corridor lined with contemporary art, the sort of pieces that screamed price tag more than meaning. An Mei led me to the double doors of the blue salon, then vanished with a bow, closing the door behind me with a sound like a velvet guillotine.
Gu Shenyan was already inside, standing at the window with his back to the room. In front of him, centered perfectly on the lacquered coffee table, was a box—walnut, carved with dragons, the kind of antique that you only ever see in museums or on the auction block.
He turned at the click of the door, gestured for me to sit. I took my place on the sofa, keeping my posture formal but not rigid.
He moved to the table, placed a hand on the box. "This is the Gu family seal," he said. No preamble, no ceremony. Just fact.
He opened the lid. Inside, nestled in a pillow of red silk, was a seal of dark green jade. The carving was intricate, every ridge and curve polished to a glassy shine. Next to it was a card envelope, weighted with a foil stamp.
"The family has used this seal for three generations," Shenyan continued. "You'll need it for documents, correspondence, anything you intend to sign in the family's name."
He let the silence stretch, as if daring me to question the privilege.
"Thank you," I said, matching his formality. "I'll keep it safe."
He closed the box, then slid the envelope across the table. I took it, breaking the seal with my thumb. Inside: three access cards, each labeled with my name and department. All color-coded for different levels of clearance—company headquarters, private office, and executive garage.
"These are your credentials," he said. "The board will expect you to observe, at minimum. If you intend to participate, you should read up on the portfolios." He paused. "Your background check was thorough. They'll test you."
I didn't flinch. "That's expected."
He studied me, eyes narrowing a fraction. "You're not nervous?"
I met his gaze. "I'd be a fool not to be."
A beat, then he actually smiled—a minuscule shift at the corner of his mouth. "You're honest. That will make you unpopular."
I shrugged. "I've never found popularity especially useful."
He liked that, or pretended to.
He perched on the edge of the table, hands folded. "Are the accommodations satisfactory?"
"They're perfect." I waited a beat, then added, "The south wing is closer to the core operations. More efficient, for what's coming."
His eyebrow flicked upward. "You've read the house plans?"
I let myself return the smile, just enough to confirm. "I find it helpful to know my terrain."
A long pause as he re-evaluated.
"You're different than I expected," he said, finally.
"I've learned a lot in the last few months."
"From whom?" The question was loaded, but not hostile.
"From mistakes," I said, and left it at that.
He nodded, as if that was the only acceptable answer.
He closed the seal box, set it beside me. "We'll leave for the office at eight. Board meeting starts at nine sharp. You'll want to eat beforehand; they don't break for lunch."
"Thank you," I said.
He rose, adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. "If you need anything, let me know."
"Of course."
He started for the door, then paused. "Most people, when given the seal, hesitate before accepting it."
"I'm not most people," I said.
He didn't disagree.
When he left, the silence settled around me, dense and full of unsaid things. I stared at the jade seal, running my fingers along its edge. The weight of it was both literal and psychological—a totem of everything I'd been denied last time, now offered up like a test.
I replaced it in the box, closed the lid, and returned the cards to their envelope. For a long minute, I just sat there, letting the power of the objects saturate the room.
When I was sure no one was watching, I slipped the access cards into the lining of my blazer, then pocketed the burner phone from my waistband. I left the blue salon and walked to the end of the south wing, where the security cameras couldn't reach. There, tucked between two pillars, I dialed the number I'd memorized in another life.
It rang twice, then picked up. A voice on the other end: "Ms. Lin?"
"Lu Fei?" I said, voice barely above a whisper. "It's time. Begin Phase One."
There was no hesitation on the other end. "Understood."
I clicked off. For the first time since my arrival, my hands trembled—not with fear, but with something perilously close to excitement.
I returned to my room, slid the burner phone into its hiding spot, and double-locked the door behind me.
Outside, the cherry trees were starting to bloom.
Inside, I was already five moves ahead.