CHAPTER ONE

PLACE DE FURSTENBERG, PARIS

Scheherazade padded into the gleaming, state-of-the-art kitchen of her apartment in Saint-Germain, lifted the lid from her frying pan, and put a finger on the crust. Not ready yet. She put the lid over the pan again, went back into her dressing room, and took off her sheer ruffled Delpozo blouse. She had just returned from a party at the loft of a fashion photography couple, where the former pastry chef at Noma had cooked up the most elaborate feast ever, but all through the dinner, Scheherazade only dreamed of getting back to her place, heating up some two-day-old pizza in her frying pan,* opening a bottle of red wine, and catching up on The Walking Dead.

Changing into her pajamas, she brought the plate of pizza into her living room, sank down into her gray suede sofa, turned on her television, and selected the latest episode. As her favorite show began to play, the dialogue was suddenly drowned out by the sound of muffled music outside her window. Scheherazade turned up the volume on her TV, hoping to drown out the noise, but it only got louder. Cars started honking on the street and a neighbor could be heard screaming out his window.

Getting annoyed, Scheherazade paused the show, walked over to her balcony, and opened the glass-paned doors. Suddenly the full force of the music flooded her ears, and as Scheherazade peered over her railing, she saw the most curious sight. Carlton Bao was standing on the roof of a Range Rover parked outside her building, holding up a boom box that was blasting Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.”

“Carlton! What the hell are you doing?” Scheherazade shouted down at him, absolutely mortified.

“I’m trying to get your attention!” Carlton shouted back.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to listen to me. I want you to know that I’m not some reckless killer! The only thing I’m guilty of is falling—”

“What? Turn down the music! I can’t hear you!”

Carlton refused to turn down the music, but yelled louder, “I said the only thing I’m guilty of is falling in love with yo—”

At that moment, four bodyguards dressed in civilian clothes suddenly grabbed him by the legs, yanked him off the car, and body tackled him onto the ground.

“Oh fuck!” Scheherazade started giggling. She ran out the door, down four flights of stairs, and out the front door. “Get off him!” she told the security guards that were now standing over Carlton.

“Miss Shang, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! He’s fine. He’s with me,” Scheherazade insisted.

The beefiest guard reluctantly released his knee from Carlton’s back, and when Carlton got off the ground, Scheherazade saw that the left side of his face was all cut up from the asphalt.

“Oh no. Come upstairs—let’s get some disinfectant on that,” Scheherazade said. As they entered her building and rode up in the ornate wrought-iron elevator, she looked him over again.

“What did you think you were doing?”

“That was my wildly romantic gesture!”

Scheherazade frowned. “That was supposed to be romantic?”

“I was doing my best John Cusack impersonation.”

“Who?”

“You know, Say Anything.”

“Say what?”

“You haven’t seen the movie, have you?” Carlton said, suddenly crestfallen.

“No, but you did look cute standing on top of that car,” Scheherazade said, pulling him in for a kiss.

···

At the other end of Paris, Charlie was walking back to the Hotel George V after a very frustrating dinner with Astrid’s old friend Grégoire L’Herme-Pierre. Grégoire had been more charming than usual, and Charlie suspected that he knew far more about Astrid’s whereabouts than he let on. She had been in Paris for probably three days, Grégoire surmised, and then she was gone. No, she hadn’t seemed distraught—I just assumed she was making her usual semiannual trip to the city for her couture fittings.

Over the past two weeks, Charlie had crisscrossed the globe frantically searching for Astrid. Mad with worry, he had started in Singapore, then Paris and London, going to all their familiar haunts and speaking with all her friends. He then headed down to Venice to see if she was hiding out in her friend Domiella Finzi-Contini’s palazzo, but Domi, like so many of Astrid’s friends, remained as silent as the Sphinx. I haven’t heard a peep from Astrid, but then I’ve been in Ferrara for the past month. We always spend the winter in Ferrara. No, I didn’t hear about the scandal at all.

Now he was back in Paris, trying to retrace her steps, trying to understand how she could have abandoned her entire life, and how her family didn’t seem to care that she had been missing for the past month. Entering the hotel, he went to the reception desk to see if there had been any messages. No, monsieur, nothing for you tonight.

Charlie went up to his suite and opened the doors to the balcony, letting in some fresh cold air. The cold air kept him on his toes, helped him to think clearly. Paris had been a dud. She had been here, but she clearly wasn’t coming back. He should try Los Angeles next. Even though her brother Alex had assured him she wasn’t there, he was still suspicious. His entire security team and all the private investigators he had hired had been poring over everything since day one. Astrid had been meticulous. She hadn’t left any sort of paper trail, no bank transfers, no credit card charges in more than five weeks. Someone had to be helping her. Someone close.

He stepped out onto the balcony and leaned against the railing, gazing at the soft golden glow that always seemed to hover over Paris at night. The city, breathtakingly lovely as always, suddenly seemed so lonely. He should never have let her come to Hong Kong. She had insisted on coming, wanting to help him through his crisis, but when she saw Isabel in the ICU, hooked up to all those machines…he knew she was trying to be strong for him, for the girls, but he could see that it just devastated her. And then when Isabel’s mother saw Astrid at the hospital, she went berserk, and that’s when she gave the whole story to The Daily Post, breaking the scandal wide open. It was all his fault. His stupid damn fault.

Charlie went back into the suite and sat down on the bed. He opened the drawer beside the bed and took out a small brown padded envelope. It was an envelope that had been mailed to him in Hong Kong from this very hotel a few weeks ago, and inside was a box containing the engagement ring he had given Astrid, along with a handwritten note that he had now read hundreds of times:

Dear Charlie,

I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking over the past days. Ever since I came back into your life five years ago, I’ve only caused you heartache. I dragged you into my problems with Michael, I dragged you into my horrendous divorce, and now I have dragged you and your daughters into an unthinkable tragedy. Chloe and Delphine almost lost their mother, and I am the only one to blame. I feel like no matter how hard I try, nothing I do ever leads to anything good, and so the best I can think to do is to simply go away so that no more damage can be done. I don’t think I will ever be fit to be your wife, and I can only hope and pray that you and your family will in time be able to find happiness and peace again.