Chapter 2 Chanel
Chanel
I’ve always liked Beijing better at night.
There’s something thrilling about the cloak of darkness, the same reason why parties only really start to get exciting as the hours tick by and drinks are poured and layers are stripped off. Mornings are for the self-disciplined,
the ambitious, the hard workers with Big Plans in life, people like my best friend, Alice Sun. Nights are for secrecy and
spontaneity, for cocktail dresses and covering up messes, for all the people who don’t have their shit figured out but are
desperate to put it off until dawn.
The air is cool against my cheeks as I wait on the sidewalk, the stars above half concealed behind a thin veil of smog and
clouds and distant city lights.
Cars and mopeds whir past me, their shiny metal edges glinting under the neon signs of surrounding shops: rice noodle stores
and grilled squid stands and karaoke bars, all in full swing. Even though it’s almost one in the morning, this city is used
to staying up late, just like its overworked twenty- and thirtysomethings.
I check my phone again. My driver’s been stuck in traffic for the past ten minutes, and I’m debating whether to just cancel and call a DiDi instead when I spot Ares leaving the hotel.
He doesn’t see me. He’s too busy surveying the street, and as a bus rounds the corner, its headlights throw the hostile edges
of his profile into clarity. There’s an odd sense of urgency to his movements as he checks the time on his phone. Glances
up at the sky, his eyes sharp and focused, as if there’s a secret message written in the clouds. Then he checks his phone
again.
I frown, my mind whirring faster and faster with suspicion. Why had he even been at the Sky Restaurant anyway? He wasn’t eating,
and he wasn’t with anyone. How was he at the Sky, when they’d almost denied me entry? And what is he planning on doing tonight?
Something shady, for sure. I swear I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing, or maybe that’s just what happens when your
dad’s been hiding something awful from you half your life. You know how it looks when someone doesn’t want to be caught.
Whatever he’s up to, Ares definitely doesn’t want to be caught right now. And I need something to soothe my pride after he
ignored me, something to hold over his head and make me feel in control again. It’s not just because I’ve never met someone
like Ares before, someone so wholly immune to my glamour; it’s the fact that he’s a wild card, the only contender for prom
royalty who I know next to nothing about, and with only weeks left until the most important night of my high school career,
I don’t want any disruptions to the social order. If he can’t be an asset in my prom campaign, I sure as hell won’t let him become a threat.
So when Ares starts walking down the street, his steps quick and purposeful, I follow him.
Every muscle from my stomach down to my calves is tensed, as if my body is convinced that something terrible will happen.
Ares walks a few yards up ahead, his silhouette sharp against the darkness, his back turned toward me. He makes his way down
the block with the purpose and certainty of someone who’s navigated this route a thousand times before.
I move faster, as if propelled by some invisible force, a single thread drawing me closer and closer to him, until there are
only five feet of distance between us.
Then, to my utter confusion, he turns the corner and heads into a park.
“What the hell?” I mutter to myself as I follow him in. The single lane is basically empty save for a few late-night joggers,
the upbeat music from their earphones fading in and out as they pass me, heaving and puffing. Soon the stone pavement dips
down into a short flight of stairs, and a lake opens up in full. Lights dance off the black-glass surface, outlining the slick
stone banks on either side.
This is where Ares stops.
He stands on the water’s edge, almost frozen to the spot, staring intently down at the lake.
A minute passes. Two. Enough time for my confusion to nosedive into complete bewilderment.
Nothing about any of his actions tonight make sense, but this might be the strangest of them all.
If he were someone else—say, the poetic, super-in-touch-with-his-feelings type—I might think he was simply marveling at nature and ruminating about life.
Yet there’s an unnerving intensity to the way he’s watching the water now, as if he’s reading a grim report.
A chill stirs my spine. I hesitate, then tiptoe up to him from behind, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it is he’s focused
on—
He whips around so fast I register only a dark flash. A blur, as if the shadows themselves have peeled from the willow trees
to attack.
Cool hands close around my wrists, tight enough to restrict movement, but not tight enough to hurt. Then his face looms over
mine, even more dangerous and deadly from this angle. His lips part.
“Chanel,” he says, both a question and an accusation. It’s the first time he’s addressed me by name—the first time he’s addressed
me at all—but he makes it sound like a curse. “What are you doing here?”
My head spins as I try to invent a believable excuse. “What do you mean? This is my favorite park,” I say. I’ve never set
foot in this park before. “I always like to go for a quick jog at night.”
“Really.” His gaze drops from my face down to my outfit, slowly taking in my thigh-high boots, my leather corset top, the
impractical length of my miniskirt, before finding its way back to my eyes. “Nice jogging clothes.”
I’ve learned from businessmen and politicians that the best way to pull off a lie is to bite down on it, no matter how outrageous
it is. Even if people don’t believe it, they’ll eventually get tired of trying to confront you about it. So I smile at him like he’s just paid me a genuine compliment.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “They’re from Versace’s new activewear line.”
He doesn’t return my smile. Doesn’t even accept it. “Are you done with your jog now?” Despite the flatness of his tone, there’s an urgency bubbling beneath the surface. He clearly wants me to leave as soon as possible, which only confirms my suspicions: He’s hiding something.
“Almost,” I hedge. “You’d probably need to let go of me first, though.”
His hands fall away from my wrists, but he doesn’t step back. This is the closest we’ve ever been, I realize unhelpfully.
Maybe the closest anyone has dared to stand near him in a while. At school, everyone steers clear of him by at least a few
feet, as if there’s an invisible barrier erected around his body.
Up close, his eyes are such a deep, bottomless black that instead of reflecting the light from the park’s lamps, all the light
seems to die in them. A single freckle is dotted on the sweep of his cheekbone like an isolated star. Proximity is meant to
breed warmth, if not familiarity, but his face remains cold and hard.
“In the future, I’d recommend a different jogging route,” he says, barely looking at me now. He keeps glancing up at the moon
like it’s a clock. “This one can get . . . crowded.”
An obvious lie, as outrageous as mine. I grit my teeth. Even though I’d been lying too, there’s nothing that enrages me more
than the lies of men. “It’s a public park,” I point out, cutting straight through his bullshit. “I can jog anywhere I want.”
“And yet you chose this specific spot,” he says. “Interesting.”
“If you think coincidences are interesting, sure.”
The clouds part overhead, revealing a moon as perfectly round as the Sanya-imported pearls dangling from my ears.
A stream of silver light falls over the lake, in the same direction Ares was facing before, and something ripples across the surface right as the moon reaches the highest point in the sky.
Ares whirls back toward the lake as if someone’s just called his name, and I follow his gaze, frowning. It should just be
a trick of the moonlight, but the dark shapes in the water seem to bend and shift, like ink swirled by a brush. . . .
And then I notice it. Only a hazy impression in the beginning, but it grows clearer by the second, like a Polaroid picture
developing, the details solidifying, and my blood roars in my ears as the impossible unfolds, every rational thought I’ve
ever had fleeing my body, leaving behind only: What the actual fuck is happening?
Because I can see myself in the lake.
Not my reflection, not a memory, either, but some other version of me, playing like a film reel over the water—
I’m at school, about to leave the math classroom, when Ms. Hoang beckons me over to her desk. She’s pointing to a test paper
and saying something, but I can’t make out the words, can only watch her mouth opening and closing, her expression grave.
From the doorway, my friend Rainie shoots me a concerned glance, but I just smile like I’m not fussed and motion for her to
leave without me. Then Ms. Hoang waves Ares forward, which he does, reluctantly, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his
gaze pinned on me. . . .
The scene changes. The classroom fades away, and everything darkens.
It’s nighttime, I’m standing in an alley I don’t recognize, have never set foot in before, and my face is pale, my hair falling wild and messy over my cheeks.
Fresh purplish bruises cover my wrists, stark as ink, and there’s something dark splashed across my dress—blood, I realize with a sickening lurch.
And in the strange reflection of the water, Ares is yelling at me, his eyes pitch-black,
blazing with such fury that my breath constricts. The version of me in the lake flinches back, and he seizes my arm, danger
rippling through his movements—
Then a house, burning down.
My stomach heaves. I recognize that house.
I recognize the apricot tree in the front yard moments before it catches flame; it’s the one my father bought as a replacement
after he accidentally killed our old one by feeding it an alarming amount of fertilizer, the one that bore so much fruit every
summer we always ended up collecting them in baskets and sharing them with my father’s clients. I recognize the traditional
low table set out on the porch, where my parents would drink Tieguanyin tea and read through contracts and crack open sunflower
seeds between their teeth; the table I know was made from the wood of old shipwrecks, an overpriced metaphor about how anything
can be salvaged from the ruins. I recognize the swing set we painted over because it wasn’t blue enough, then repainted because
it was too blue, and my followers would recognize it as well, after it featured in one of my most liked posts. And I recognize those
French country curtains, which my mom thought were classy and my father thought made the house look older than it was, but didn’t care enough about interior design to argue over it.
I had left that house only a few hours ago, when Haili called me in distress. I’m meant to return to that house tonight. It’s
my childhood home.
And in the lake, it’s on fire.
Everything in the vision is engulfed in flames, and there’s someone trapped in the house. A woman. Through the smoke, I can
only see the slim silhouette, the sharp profile, the pointed chin, but that’s enough for me to recognize who it is. It’s like
watching a horror film unfold—I can’t do anything but stare, helpless, as my own mother bangs on the doors, screaming for
help, while a window shatters to her right, revealing the crimson glow of a blood moon.
Ares is there too, outside my house, watching everything burn down. His features are half blurred, but it’s most certainly
him; he’s even wearing the Airington school uniform, his hair long and dark and rumpled, his sleeves rolled back and collar
unbuttoned in his usual fashion. A lighter in his hand.
My heart is pounding so fast that I feel lightheaded from it. I think I might double over and vomit into the water.
“Do you see something too?” Ares asks, the sharpness in his voice startling me. I tear my gaze from the lake back to him,
and my blood runs cold. His expression isn’t filled with the terror beating through my veins. He looks . . . hopeful. Not like he’s watching my greatest nightmare unfold, but like he’s just been granted a miracle, a dream about his ideal
future. There’s a glint in his eyes, the lines of his face blazing with intensity.
I lurch back from him. “What the actual fuck?” is all I can choke out. “What did you just do?”
“So you see it too,” Ares says on a drawn breath. He sounds almost awed. “It’s not just me. It’s never been that clear before—”
“Before?” I repeat, my knees trembling. Wake up, I command myself. Wake up from whatever simulation this is. “What do you mean, before? This . . . this has happened more than once?” I jab a finger at the lake, but the vision is gone. There’s only water now,
the reflection of the willows and my own face, drawn tight with horror, rippling across the surface.
“You won’t be able to see it anymore,” Ares tells me. “The moon is starting to go down—you have to wait until it’s at its
highest point every night, and the moonlight has to actually be visible over the water. That’s as much as I’ve figured out
by myself, anyway—”
“No. Stop. No, this isn’t . . . this isn’t possible,” I say, shaking my head fast. “That was—”
“What did you see in the future?” Ares presses. “Was there also a fire in your vision?”
I feel like I’ve run headfirst into an invisible wall, my skull reverberating from the impact. “What are you talking about?
It can’t be the future.”
“Well, it’s not in the past, and it’s obviously not happening right now,” Ares says with a conviction bordering on desperation,
and again I can’t fight the feeling that he wants the fire to happen. But why? What did I ever do to him?
“It can’t be,” I repeat, louder. Even though the lake looks normal now, the images won’t stop flickering through my head:
me, standing in that alley, bloodied and bruised, my mother caught in the fire, screaming. And Ares, the culprit at the center
of it all.
The trembling has spread from my knees to my fingertips.
I’d figured that Ares Yin wasn’t my biggest fan, that I couldn’t trust him, but if what I saw in the lake is any indication of the future, this changes everything. He doesn’t simply dislike me—he’s out to ruin my life, to hurt me and the people I love.
I stare at him, at those wild, dark eyes, the fine-angled face that holds no room for remorse, and I wonder if this is how
prey animals feel, looking into the mouth of a beast right before they’re eaten.
“Chanel—” he starts to say.
I twist around, away from him, and I run.