Chapter 17 Chanel
Chanel
I squint down into the bluish glow of my phone screen, scanning the address Henry had sent me earlier in the afternoon, even
though I’ve committed it to memory already.
Then I glance up, checking the street signs in the unsettling darkness. It’s quiet except for the sound of my own ballet flats,
chosen for discretion over fashion. Wherever this place is, it’s so isolated that there aren’t even any lights to illuminate
the way. Nobody else around to rescue me or even witness it if I were attacked and screamed for help—
I try to shake the thought away, even as the back of my neck prickles with foreboding, the night air uncomfortably cold against
my skin.
Be careful, Henry had texted. Don’t do anything impulsive.
got it lol, stop worrying so much, I’d replied. it’ll age u
Nothing impulsive. Because this isn’t an impulsive decision—it’s a necessary one. To save my mom, to find out what Long Ge’s
deal is.
I stop outside a rusted door, marked faintly with what looks like graffiti spray. The symbol of a dragon. Another glance at the address. Then I draw in a deep breath and push the door open.
The first thing I hear is the clatter of mahjong tiles, mixed with voices from below. I move as lightly as I can, my flats
padding down the stone steps, noticing as I do that they’re stained with something dark red, something that resembles blood.
A chill shudders through me, but I don’t turn back around.
The next set of doors open up to a fight ring.
For a moment, all I can do is stare. There’s a crowd already gathered in the cavernous, dimly lit room, the same kind of crowd
you might find lurking around populated tourist areas, waiting to pick pockets and scam you for everything you have.
Then I spot the boy stepping into the ring, and my heart freezes in my chest.
It’s Ares.
He’s here, somehow, standing just a few feet apart from a man twice his size.
A bell rings, and the man lunges at Ares like a wild animal. Before I can properly react, can even process the fact that Ares
is here, at the same place Long Ge had sent the gift box from, Ares darts out of the way, swift on his feet, and shoves the man from
behind. The man stumbles to his knees, and Ares closes in immediately, grabbing the collar of his shirt to hold him there
while he strikes at his ribs. The man grunts, squirming free long enough to aim a swing at Ares.
Misses.
Tries again.
They exchange kicks and jabs like boxers, but it’s nothing like a professional boxing match. It’s unregulated, ruthless, nothing off-limits. The only goal seems to be to knock the other person flat to the ground, whatever it takes, however much they break or bleed.
I can’t tear my eyes away.
Ares has always been intimidating, but in action, he’s terrifying. A chill shudders through my body. His gaze is utterly unfeeling as he swings his fist straight into the grown man’s face
with a loud crack, punches again and again, his hand coming away stained with crimson.
Fresh blood gushes from the man’s broken nose like running water.
One final, solid punch to the stomach sends him tumbling straight to the ground, where he lies, eyes bulging and gasping like
a fish, struggling to rise again. I clap a horrified hand to my mouth, my stomach turning. I’d thought I was already aware
of how sheltered I was. Well protected, privileged, comfortably shielded from the world by my parents’ money and connections.
But it’s only now that I realize just how sheltered I am. I’ve never even witnessed true violence before. I’ve never seen this amount of blood outside movie screens
and hospitals.
The crowd starts counting down, their voices bouncing off the gray walls.
“Five . . . four . . . three.”
Ares looms over the man, both his fists still raised, ready to attack should his opponent crawl back onto his feet again—but he doesn’t need to worry about that. The man seems to have given up, his limbs splayed over the concrete, his eyes shuttering closed.
“Two . . .”
So this is what Ares has been doing. This is why he’s been showing up to school with new scrapes and bruises. It feels like a missing
puzzle piece slotting into place, but it’s still not enough for me to construct the full picture.
“One.”
Half the crowd erupts into cheers, while the others shout out in protest. But all their faces are flushed, bright with bloodlust.
As the man is dragged off to the side, leaving a trail of red behind him, the spectators turn to each other and start chattering
excitedly. I catch the words winning streak and sure bet, but none of it makes any sense.
My gaze slides back to Ares, who remains standing at the center of it all, alert and erect, his breathing barely labored.
Even though he’s just won, there’s no trace of pleasure or triumph in his expression. Only a kind of grim satisfaction, the
look of someone on the verge of completing an almost impossible task.
I don’t understand it, don’t know why he’s here, but now I’m more certain than ever that it’s connected to Long Ge. Everything
is connected to Long Ge.
Before Ares can spot me, I step back, slipping into the shadows of a narrow corridor. There must be more clues. Information
I can find. I make my way carefully down until I reach the end, where there are only two rooms—storage, to my left, and to
my right, a door marked with the same dragon symbol. My fingers close around the doorknob, but it won’t budge.
Locked.
As I’d anticipated.
I slide one of the bobby pins out of my hair and bend it carefully into a pick, sticking the end into the lock. I work as
fast as I can, listening for footsteps, my heart slamming in my chest as I wriggle the pin, trying to find the right angle,
until I hear a soft click.
And just like that, I’m in.
The room looks like the world’s most depressing office. Windowless, a single standard desk and chair, no decorations whatsoever.
I work my way through the drawers, sliding each one open, not even sure what I’m looking for. I rifle through bound folders,
contracts, sheaves of statistics, hundreds of documents for what seems like dozens of different companies—
Until I come across my mom’s face.
I suck in a sharp, horrified breath. My pulse is beating so loud in my ears that I’m terrified it’ll give me away, that it’ll
echo all the way down the corridor and those men will hear it and come running. Trembling, I pick up the photo of my mom from
the bottom drawer. She’s smiling in full glamour, her already gorgeous face edited to look flawless. I vaguely remember seeing
it before; it’s from an old campaign for a perfume brand, taken years ago.
But it’s not the only photo of her.
The entire drawer appears to be some kind of secret shrine dedicated to my mom.
Newspaper clippings, extracted from over the decades.
Magazine covers. Paparazzi shots of my mom crossing the street in Shanghai, waiting at the airport, sipping a lemon water outside a café I recognize, lounging on a beach with a shawl draped over her body to prevent any unwanted tanning, the camera zooming in so far you can see the sunscreen smudged on her nose.
A torn page from what might’ve been a textbook or yearbook, my mom’s handwriting curling over it: Have a good holiday, Long Ge!
I hope we’re in the same class again next year.
An old hair tie. A single origami star, not even folded very well, one of the corners dented. And letters, the first few written
on yellowing essay sheets, the type teachers hand out at school, with the gridded lines starting to fade, the more recent
ones written on glossy letterhead paper. But they all begin the same way.
Dear Coco . . .
Dear Coco . . .
Coco . . .
I used to hate studying before school—used to dread coming to school at all—but ever since the teachers put us in the same
revision group, I find myself excited to wake up. . . .
Have you ever stared at someone and wondered how it’s possible that the universe could be so kind to them? To give them not
only extraordinary beauty, but also such a warm personality, a lovely laugh, effortless charm. . . .
I get this funny feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I think of you. . . .
Forgive me if this comes across as overly forward, but your existence lends meaning to mine, which I can only take to be a miracle, as I’d always thought of the world as a cruel, inherently meaningless place. . . .
I wanted to extend my congratulations on your first runway walk. It comes as no surprise whatsoever that you’ve made it in
the modeling world.
Do you still remember me? I know it’s been years, but I can’t stop thinking about you. . . .
Sometimes I find myself revisiting the route I took to school. You only walked with me that one time to help carry my books
while I was limping, but it was, truth be told, the best day of my life. I honestly wouldn’t have minded if my ankle had remained
twisted, just to give me an excuse to walk home beside you. . . .
Thank you for the wedding invitation. I hope you’ll forgive me for being unable to attend. . . .
I can’t stand it anymore. You’re too good for him.
I’m sorry, but you are. He doesn’t deserve you, he’s never deserved you.
But right now, you’re also too good for me.
I understand that. Give me three years, Coco, and I promise, I’ll be good enough.
I’ll provide you with everything he does and so, so much more.
If he buys you a mansion, I’ll buy you two, with a hedge maze and a tearoom like you always wanted.
If he buys you a luxury handbag, I’ll buy you the whole brand.
If he flies you out in business class, I’ll fly you out on a private jet.
I’ll make the entire city bow down to you.
I have to stop reading to breathe. A hot, tingling feeling spreads through my scalp, like there are invisible insects crawling
all over me.