Chapter One
The afternoon light over Shanghai had begun to lengthen, slanting through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows of Wang Yibo’s corner office like honey poured from a jar. But Yibo noticed none of it. His pen moved across document after document with the mechanical desperation of a man who had already left the room-who had, in fact, left the entire building behind and was racing home in his mind.
Sign. Turn the page. Sign. Turn.
He did not read a single clause.
His secretary, Mianmian, stood before his desk with a stack of files pressed against her chest. She watched him in a state of quiet bewilderment. The Wang Yibo she knew-the man who once caught a discrepancy in a thirty‑page contract before she had even finished handing it to him, who treated each signature as a solemn oath-had vanished. In his place sat a man possessed by a single, frantic urgency: to return home before something catastrophic occurred in his absence.
It had been only a few hours since he had left the Wang mansion, summoned by her urgent call. A merger required his stamp, his initials, his final approval. But now he was rushing back as though the house might combust without his presence.
Mianmian understood why.
She had been there. Three weeks ago, when her boss had asked her to bring documents to his home, she had walked through the ornate front doors and into the sitting room-and had walked straight into a war zone.
There, on the antique rosewood couch that had belonged to Yibo’s grandmother, his wife and his elder sister were trying to murder each other. They rolled across the cushions like wild animals, fingernails raking, long hair flying, obscenities flying from their mouths with enough force to make a sailor blush. Xiao Zhan-who was, by any measure, more beautiful than any woman Mianmian had ever seen-had his hands buried in Amy’s hair. Amy, who had flown in from India looking like a Bollywood goddess, had her teeth bared and her knee pressed into Zhan’s thigh.
When Mianmian had tried to intervene-foolishly, heroically-they had both turned on her. They lifted her like she weighed nothing and threw her onto a settee. She tried again. They threw her again. By the time she fled, her wig had been yanked off and used as a weapon, her makeup was ruined, and her blouse was torn at the shoulder.
She had driven home that evening with a new understanding of why her boss had developed a persistent twitch above his left eye.
“Yes, sir,” Mianmian said now, gathering the signed documents. “But we have a board meeting tomorrow. Your presence is required. It will begin at ten o’clock in the morning.”
Wang Yibo was already on his feet. His suit jacket hung forgotten on the back of his chair. His tie had been loosened to the point of surrender.
“Sir-your briefcase.”
He stopped. Blinked at her as though she had spoken in a forgotten dialect. Then looked down at his empty hands.
“Oh. Thank you, Mianmian. I almost forgot.”
She stepped forward and placed the leather case into his grip. Their fingers brushed, and she felt the tension radiating from him-a low, humming anxiety that seemed to pulse beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.
“If anything else requires attention,” he said, already moving toward the door, “forward it to my email.”
And then he was gone. His footsteps echoed down the corridor with the urgency of a man racing toward an inevitable disaster he could neither prevent nor escape.
Mianmian shook her head slowly. She began straightening his desk-aligning the pen holder, smoothing the blotter, setting the jade paperweight back into its exact center.
Those two women, she thought, will be the death of him.
---
Yibo drove as though the devil himself were riding in his back seat.
He broke speed limits. He ran a yellow light that had already blushed to red. He swerved around a vegetable cart with inches to spare, earning a torrent of Cantonese curses that he did not hear. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles shone white, and his jaw was set so tight that his molars ached.
His mind was already home. Already bracing.
He had told his sister, Leave him alone. He is my wife, and I love him.
He had told his wife, Let her words slide off you like water off a lotus leaf. She will tire herself out.
Neither had listened. Neither would ever listen. They were two typhoons colliding over a patch of land too small to contain them both, and he-fool that he was-stood directly at the eye of the storm, waiting to be flattened.
He thought of his sister, Amy.
What could he say about Amy that would not diminish her? When their parents had died-their father first, felled by a heart attack that came without warning, and their mother six months later, succumbing to a grief she could not outrun-Amy had been the one who stood before their rapacious uncles and refused to yield. She had fought for every share, every property, every ancestral heirloom. She had secured the mansion. She had secured the company. She had placed it all in his name, her younger brother’s name, and asked for nothing in return but his happiness.
She had married a Chinese man first-a gentle soul who had withered away from illness, leaving her a widow before thirty. Then she had found love again, an Indian businessman with kind eyes and a booming laugh, and she had moved to Mumbai, expanded her reach, built an empire that stretched across continents. She had three children now. A thriving second company. A husband who adored her.
Wang Yibo owed his sister everything.
But gratitude, he was learning, was a prison of its own making.
Because Amy had returned to China not for business, not for pleasure, but for war. Her target: Xiao Zhan, Yibo’s husband of three years. Her weapon: the one wound that would not heal.
He cannot bear you a child.
Never mind that Zhan was a man-one of those rare souls whose body carried the potential for life within its masculine frame. Never mind that three years was hardly an eternity, that many couples waited longer, that fertility was a capricious goddess who bowed to no woman’s timetable. Never mind that Yibo himself had told his sister, again and again, I did not marry Zhan to be a breeding vessel. I married him because I love him.
None of that mattered to Amy.
What mattered was the empty nursery. The unused crib that stood in the room down the hall, collecting dust. The silence where a child’s laughter should have been.
And so she had made it her mission to excise Xiao Zhan from her brother’s life like a malignant growth.
“A barren witch,” she called him. “A fruitless bitch. A man who has no right to call himself a wife.”
And Zhan-sweet, soft Zhan, who had once cried at a commercial about a lost puppy-Zhan had sharpened his tongue into a blade and learned to cut back. He had become a tiger in silk robes, a beast in jade earrings.
These two, Yibo thought as he turned into the long driveway lined with ginkgo trees, will be the death of me.
---
The Wang mansion rose at the end of the driveway, a graceful marriage of traditional siheyuan architecture and modern glass. The ginkgo leaves were beginning to turn gold, trembling in the autumn breeze like a thousand tiny fans. It was a beautiful property-a testament to the family’s reverence for the past and their ambition for the future.
But beauty, Yibo had learned, was a poor insulator against chaos.
He heard them before he even cut the engine.
Their voices carried through the walls, through the gardens, through the very marrow of the afternoon-two sopranos locked in mortal combat, their words sharp as shrapnel.
“-eating more than you can chew-”
“-shameless thing-”
“-hide your face in shame-”
“-stupid, so stupid-”
Yibo closed his eyes and counted to three.
Then he opened the car door and walked into hell.
---
The sitting room had been transformed into a battlefield.
A Ming dynasty vase-priceless, irreplaceable-lay shattered near the fireplace, its blue and white shards scattered across the marble like fallen petals. Cushions had been hurled across the room; one hung precariously from the antlers of a mounted deer head. A pot of oolong tea had been overturned, its contents staining the silk rug in a spreading amber bloom.
And in the center of it all, his wife and his sister circled each other like wolves.
Xiao Zhan was, by any measure, breathtaking. He possessed a kind of beauty that seemed almost accidental-as though the universe had been experimenting with light and shadow and had accidentally created something extraordinary. His hair fell past his shoulders in a cascade of ink‑black silk, currently escaping from its usual ponytail in wild, furious tendrils. His eyes, large and luminous and the color of honey in sunlight, blazed with a fury that made him look less like a man and more like an avenging spirit. His silk robe-cream‑colored, embroidered with orchids-had been torn at the collar, exposing the elegant line of his collarbone.
His sister, Amy, was no less striking. At forty‑two, she had the kind of beauty that came from discipline and defiance: sharp cheekbones, a blade of a nose, lips that had smiled through boardroom battles and whispered victories into telephone receivers. Her own hair, long and thick and threaded with the first whispers of silver, hung loose around her shoulders, giving her the appearance of a warrior queen who had just stepped down from her chariot. She wore a deep maroon anarkali suit, its gold embroidery catching the light like scattered embers.
They stood face to face, so close that their breath mingled, so close that the spittle from their words landed on each other’s cheeks. Neither blinked. Neither yielded.
“Amy, you’re eating more than you can chew!” Zhan barked, jabbing his finger toward her face. He was so close that his fingertip nearly touched her eye. Only Amy’s quick backward step saved her from having her pupil impaled. “Amy, stay away from me! I am warning you!”
“And who do you think you’re warning?” Amy snarled, stepping forward again, her own finger stabbing the air in front of Zhan’s nose. “Who do you think you’re warning, you shameless thing? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“Me? Ashamed of myself?” Xiao Zhan snorted, a harsh, ugly sound that did not belong on such a beautiful face. “For what?”
“Yes! You, you, you should be ashamed of yourself!” Amy’s voice rose to a near‑shriek. “In fact, you should be hiding your face in shame, you fruitless bitch!”
She sneered the last two words, and now they were so close that the spray of their spittle mingled in the air between them.
Zhan did not flinch. Instead, he laughed-a cold, hysterical sound that bounced off the high ceilings. “And why should I hide myself? Because what? You must be stupid to think that I’ll hide myself just because I haven’t given birth to a child. Are you my God? No. You’re very stupid to think that.”
“Then leave this house!” Amy’s voice cracked like a whip. “You should leave this house and take your barren self out of my brother’s house!”
Zhan threw his head back and laughed again. “Oh, really? I’m not leaving! I’m not going anywhere! Come and carry me away-let me see you try! This is my husband’s house, and that makes it my house. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bet me.” Amy thrust her palm forward. “You must leave this house. Bet me.”
Zhan slapped her palm without hesitation. The sound cracked through the room like a starting pistol. “I bet you.”
“How dare you bet me? How dare you touch my palms?”
Amy thundered the words, and before Zhan could retort, she lunged. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him backward onto the rosewood couch. But Zhan was quicker than he looked. He twisted mid‑fall, hooked his leg around Amy’s ankle, and dragged her down with him. They landed in a tangle of silk and limbs-fingers tangling in hair, nails raking across forearms, grunts and curses filling the air like incense at a funeral.
“Get off me-”
“You get off-”
“I’ll kill you-”
“Try it-”
Yibo burst through the doorway and stopped dead.
For a moment-just a moment-he considered walking back out. Getting back in his car. Driving to the airport. Boarding the first flight to anywhere else in the world.
But he was a Wang. And Wangs did not flee.
“What is it? Wait! Wait!” he screamed, his deep voice cutting through the chaos. He rushed toward the couch, reaching for his wife’s waist, trying to lift him off his sister.
They did not spare him a glance.
Zhan elbowed him in the ribs. Amy climbed up Yibo’s back like he was a piece of playground equipment. Zhan reared back his hand to slap Amy across the face-
Slap.
The sound was sharper than expected. Cleaner. More final.
Yibo froze.
His cheek burned. His vision swam with stars. His ears rang with a sound that seemed to come from very far away.
His wife had just slapped him.
Not Amy. Zhan.
“How dare you touch him!” Amy shrieked, and Yibo could have laughed at the irony if his face hadn’t been throbbing. She rounded on Zhan, her hand raised for retribution. “Are you mad? How dare you slap my brother!”
Zhan stepped back, chest heaving, eyes wild. “Were you trying to slap me just now?”
“Who do you think you are that I wouldn’t slap you?” Amy sneered, her eyes boring into his.
“Amy, were you actually trying to slap me? Oh my God! Try it! Try it, Amy!” Zhan thrust his face forward, offering his cheek like a sacrifice. “I said try it, and I’ll show you what I’m made of!”
“Can you two stop?” Yibo thundered, still holding his slapped cheek. “I said stop this!”
But they did not stop. They did not even look at him.
“Witch! That’s what you are-white witch! A man whore!” Amy screamed.
“I agree, I’m a witch.” Zhan’s voice dripped with venom. “And what are you? A slut. A white slut. Go back to your husband’s country and leave my house!”
They lunged for each other again, and Yibo threw himself between them.
“ENOUGH!” His voice echoed off the walls, rattling the windows. “Enough of all this bullshit! Enough! What is all this? Why can’t you two behave like adults? What is this? Why are you behaving like kids? Even kids are better than both of you!”
“Look who’s talking!” Amy turned on him now, her fury momentarily redirected. “Are you an adult? No, tell me-are you an adult? Are you mature? Well, if you think you’re mature and an adult, then act like one!”
She hissed at Zhan, then turned and stalked toward the staircase, her maroon robes billowing behind her like dark wings.
“Fool!” Zhan shouted after her. “Where are you going? Come back and fight me! You should be ashamed of yourself-useless woman!”
But Amy did not turn back. She climbed the stairs with regal disdain, disappearing into the shadows of the upper floor.
Zhan exhaled-a long, shuddering breath-and turned to face his husband.
And then he saw Yibo’s cheek.
“Baby.” The fury drained from his voice, replaced by something softer. Worry, perhaps. Or guilt. He stepped closer, reaching up to cup his husband’s jaw with gentle fingers. “Did I... did I slap you?”
Yibo looked down at him-this beautiful, impossible creature who had somehow become the center of his universe-and felt something inside him crack. “You tell me. You were there.”
“I slapped you?” Zhan’s fingers traced the red mark. “I slapped you? Like, for real? I slapped you?”
He said it with such genuine bewilderment that Yibo almost believed him.
“You didn’t even apologize,” Yibo said quietly.
Zhan’s hand dropped. His expression shuttered. “I didn’t slap you.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
And then, because Xiao Zhan had never known how to yield, he turned on his heel and walked away, following Amy up the stairs, leaving Yibo alone in the wreckage of his home.
Yibo stood there for a long moment.
Then he removed his suit jacket-which suddenly felt too heavy, too hot, too much-and threw it onto a chair with more force than necessary. He sank onto the couch, dropped his head into his hands, and sat in the silence.
These two, he thought. These two will be the death of me.
---
The next morning dawned gray and indifferent.
Zhan dressed carefully: a cream silk blouse that draped off one shoulder, tailored black trousers that hugged his hips, the jade earrings that Yibo had given him for their first anniversary. He studied himself in the mirror, turning this way and that, checking for bruises. There were none visible, but he felt them anyway-bruises on his pride, bruises on his patience, bruises on his heart.
He drove to his best friend’s boutique without calling ahead.
Yubin’s establishment occupied a converted warehouse in the French Concession, all exposed brick and crystal chandeliers and racks of clothing that cost more than most people’s monthly salaries. The scent of sandalwood and fresh lilies hung in the air, and soft jazz played from hidden speakers.
Yubin himself was already waiting, leaning against his office doorframe with a cup of jasmine tea and an expression of profound knowing.
“You look like hell,” he said pleasantly.
“Thank you. You look like you swallowed a canary.”
“I did. It was delicious.”
Zhan threw himself onto a velvet settee and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “She called me barren again.”
“Of course she did. It’s her favorite word. She probably dreams in it.”
“Barren. Fruitless. Witch.” Zhan’s voice cracked. “I am so tired, Yubin.”
Yubin’s teasing expression softened. He set down his tea and crossed the room, settling onto the settee beside his friend. “You mean that woman has vowed never to let you have peace in that house?”
“I don’t know why you’re stressing yourself over that Indian whatever.” Zhan’s voice hardened. “She’s not my problem. Please don’t bother yourself. I’ll handle her. She doesn’t know she’s fighting a lost battle because me-Wang Zhan-I will never surrender to her! I’m so ready for her. Whichever way, however she wants it-I’m so ready for her!”
“I trust you, baby boy.” Yubin placed a hand on his shoulder. “But you really need to be very, very careful.”
“I am.” Zhan lifted his head, and his eyes were dry now, fierce. “But don’t worry. It’s a matter of time. I’m sure everything will fall in place.”
“Amen.” Yubin smiled. “God will answer your prayers.”
“Thanks, dear.” Zhan stood abruptly, brushing imaginary lint from his trousers. “So where are the things I bought?”
Yubin laughed-a genuine laugh, warm and unguarded. “This woman has really turned your brain upside down. Have you forgotten I gave one of my boys instructions to put it inside your car?”
Zhan flushed with embarrassment. “Pardon me, I totally forgot. I forgot I gave him my car key. I have to get going because I’ll be late. I have to help Guo Cheng prepare food today.”
He hurried toward the door.
“Hope I’ll get my alert!” Yubin called after him, laughing sarcastically.
“You and your money!” Zhan laughed despite himself. “Of course I’ll transfer it.”
He was gone, his heels clicking against the polished concrete floor like a countdown to the next explosion.
---
Zhan drove home with his purchases in the back seat-bags from Yubin’s boutique containing three new blouses, a pair of leather boots, and a cashmere scarf the color of winter plums. Guo Cheng, the young household servant who was actually a few years younger than Zhan, came hurrying out the moment his car pulled into the driveway. The boy had kind, nervous eyes and quick hands, and he had served the Wang family for only two years, but he had already learned to read the storm signals.
“Young master,” he whispered, taking the shopping bags from Zhan’s arms. His gaze darted nervously toward the front door. “She is waiting.”
“Let her wait.” Zhan’s voice was steel wrapped in silk.
He walked through the front doors and into the foyer, where the afternoon light fell in golden shafts across the marble floor. And there she was-Amy, leaning against the doorframe to the courtyard, her arms crossed, her lips curved in a smile that held no warmth.
“And what else do you know how to do,” she asked, her voice dripping with honeyed venom, “if not spending money on shopping? Tell me. I’m curious.”
Zhan stopped. Turned. Smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
“At least I’m spending my husband’s money,” he said, taking a step toward her. “Unlike some women who would rather spend money on a man just to be called a MARRIED WOMAN!”
He emphasized the last two words with a mocking tone, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.
Amy’s smile faltered. “And what are you insinuating?”
“What I’m insinuating,” Zhan said, stepping closer still, “is that you are the one providing money for your husband and your family. Which is not meant to be so. As far as I know, a man was meant to provide for his family-not the other way around. And that’s what you’re doing. Why? Because you’re so cheap.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and snorted at her.
Amy waved her hand frantically, proudly. “However you see it, at least there’s joy in my home.”
“Oh, really?” Zhan tilted his head.
“Yes!” Amy glared at him.
“There’s joy in your home?” Zhan’s voice rose. “Just the same way it was in my home before you came in with your destructive spirit! But let me tell you something-the living God I serve will not let your plans come to pass. He will not let you succeed, and that’s a promise.”
“The joy of every married couple,” Amy hissed, “is having children. And what do you have to offer? NOTHING.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Zhan’s smile turned razor‑sharp. “I have a lot of things to boast about. I mean, for the fact that my husband loves me so much from his heart despite not giving him a child-I can boast of that and so many other things.”
He hissed the last word and turned as if to walk away.
---
Upstairs, hidden behind the gauze curtains of his study, Wang Yibo watched the scene unfold below. He pressed his palm to his forehead and let out a long, silent groan. They were at it again-bickering in the open courtyard, their voices carrying across the gardens, disturbing the peace of the entire neighborhood. He could see the neighbors’ curtains twitching. He could see the gardener pretending not to listen.
He was getting more tired and frustrated by the day. He just stood there, watching, helpless.
---
“That’s because you bewitched him!” Amy barked below.
Zhan whirled back around. “The same way you bewitched your first husband and killed him? You think we don’t know? You should be ashamed of yourself, you stupid slut!”
SLAP.
Amy’s hand connected with his cheek before he could finish the word. The sound cracked through the courtyard like a gunshot.
“How dare you?” Amy snarled.
Zhan did not hesitate.
SLAP.
He returned the blow with equal force, equal fury. “How dare you slap me?”
And then they were fighting again-grabbing, scratching, pulling, falling. They crashed against the courtyard wall, rebounded, stumbled across the stones. Fingers tangled in hair. Nails drew blood. Obscenities poured from their mouths like water from a broken dam.
Yibo, watching from the upstairs window, pressed both hands to his face and wondered if this was what madness felt like.
He ran downstairs.
He always ran downstairs.
---
By the time he reached them, they had exhausted themselves into a stalemate-panting, disheveled, but still snarling. Their chests heaved. Their hair hung in wild tangles. A thin line of blood trickled from a scratch on Amy’s forearm. Zhan’s silk blouse had been torn at the sleeve.
But they were not done.
“Leave my brother’s house!” Amy barked, shoving Zhan’s shoulder. “Leave him alone, useless thing!”
“Witch!” Zhan shoved her back. “You should be ashamed of yourself, evil whore!”
“Leave him alone, you barren witch!”
“Why should I leave him?” Zhan screamed. “Is he your husband, or are you going to allow him to fuck you, slut?”
“Free him so he can think straight, stupid childless manwhore!”
“I will not leave him!” Zhan slapped his own ass with both hands, glaring at Amy. “He belongs to this ass! He will continue fucking me forever! Deal with it! I will not let go of his dick!”
“Are you fruitful, barren bastard?” Amy laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. “All the sperm deposited inside you are just wasting. You’re a worthless, childless bitch!”
“Yes, I am fruitful, and let it be!” Zhan’s voice rose to a near‑shriek. “At least he enjoys my ass and always pleads with me to open it wide for him to fuck! But you-you’re a second‑hand bitch, used by your first husband whom you killed, fucked by different men-shameless witch!”
Just then, Yibo threw himself between them, as he had done a hundred times before.
“Can you two stop this?” His voice thundered across the courtyard. “What is all this for Christ’s sake? Why do both of you like quarreling and bickering at each other all the time? Can’t I have peace in my house? Can’t we be one family and stop this?”
He pointed at both of them, his hand shaking. They stood on either side of him, holding their waists, looking away-refusing to meet his eyes or each other’s.
“Which one family, Yibo?” Amy’s voice was quieter now, but no less venomous. “Tell me-which one family? A family is made up of father, mother, and children. What qualifies this one to be one? Tell this barren witch to bear us a child so that there will be peace in this house.”
She pushed Yibo aside-not hard, but with enough force to move him-and walked into the house without looking back.
“Yibo.” Zhan stepped forward, his voice cold. “Tell your sister to stay away from me. Warn your sister to leave me alone. I will not take it from her.”
He pushed Yibo-the other direction, as if to emphasize his separation from Amy-and walked inside as well.
Yibo was left standing exactly where his wife had pushed him. His arms hung at his sides. His shadow stretched long in the dying light. He stood there, scratching the back of his nape in frustration, and wondered when all of this would stop. When would he have peace in his house? This was getting out of hand. If something was not done-soon-blood would spill. He could feel it in his bones.
He looked up at the gray sky, at the ginkgo leaves trembling in the breeze, at the mansion that was supposed to be his sanctuary and had become his battlefield.
“God...” he whispered. “Help me. These two will cause my death.”
No answer came.
Only the wind.
