But I know it wouldn’t help, not really, no more than I was able to help my mom. The only way to prevent heartbreak like that, from what I’ve seen, is to avoid the ordeal of falling in love altogether. Save yourself before you’re in too deep. What’s romance really good for, anyway? I can buy myself nicer gifts than any guy could afford, I already enjoy the full princess treatment everywhere I dine and shop, and I regularly receive messages from followers that are sweeter and more sincere than any kind of love letter.
The doors to the lift slide open. A couple in their twenties walks out first, the woman gazing dreamily at her boyfriend like he’s the moon in the sky while he’s busy checking a stock-trading app on his phone.
I step inside, more grateful than ever to be alone.
2
Chanel
I’ve always liked Beijing better at night.
There’s something thrilling about the cloak of darkness, the same reason why parties onlyreallystart toget 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 forthe 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.Howwas 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 anassetin 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 aboutlife. 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’tbelieveit, 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.
