“No, no, I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. Astrid’s people have been wealthy for generations. Her father is one of Laurent’s biggest clients,” Isabelle whispered.

“My dear, are you giving away all my secrets again?” Comte Laurent de L’Herme-Pierre remarked as he rejoined his wife in the receiving line.

“Not at all. Merely enlightening Marie-Hélène about the Leongs,” Isabelle replied, flicking away a speck of lint on her husband’s grosgrain lapel.

“Ah, the Leongs. Why? Is the ravishing Astrid here tonight?”

“You just missed her. But don’t worry, you have all night to ogle her across the dinner table,” Isabelle teased, explaining to Marie-Hélène, “Both my husband and my son have been obsessed with Astrid for years.”

“Well, why not? A girl like Astrid only exists to feed obsession,” Laurent remarked. Isabelle smacked her husband’s arm in mock outrage.

“Laurent, tell me, how is it possible that these Chinese have been rich for generations?” Marie-Hélène inquired. “I thought they were all penniless Communists in drab little Mao uniforms not too long ago.”

“Well, first of all, you must understand that there are two kinds of Chinese. There are the Chinese from Mainland China, who made their fortunes in the past decade like all the Russians, but then there are the Overseas Chinese. These are the ones who left China long before the Communists came in, in many cases hundreds of years ago, and spread throughout the rest of Asia, quietly amassing great fortunes over time. If you look at all the countries in Southeast Asia—especially Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia—you’ll see that virtually all the commerce is controlled by the Overseas Chinese. Like the Liems in Indonesia, the Tans in the Philippines, the Leongs in—”

His wife cut in. “Let me just say this: we visited Astrid’s family a few years ago. You can’t imagine how staggeringly rich these people are, Marie-Hélène. The houses, the servants, the style in which they live. It makes the Arnaults look like peasants. What’s more, I’ve been told that Astrid is a double heiress—there’s an even more enormous fortune on her mother’s side.”

“Is that so?” Marie-Hélène said in astonishment, staring across the room at the girl with renewed interest. “Well, she is rather soignée,” she conceded.

“Oh, she’s incredibly chic—one of the few from her generation who gets it right,” the comtesse decreed. “François-Marie tells me Astrid has a couture collection that rivals the Sheikha of Qatar’s. She never attends the shows, because she loathes to be photographed, but she goes straight to the ateliers and snaps up dozens of dresses every season as if they were macarons.”

Astrid was in the salon admiring the Balthus portrait over the mantelpiece when someone behind her said, “That’s Laurent’s mother, you know.” It was the Baronne Marie-Hélène de la Durée, this time attempting a smile on her tightly pulled face.

“I thought it might be,” Astrid replied.

“Chérie, I must tell you how much I adore your necklace. In fact, I had admired it at Monsieur Rosenthal’s a few weeks ago, but sadly, he informed me it was already spoken for,” the baronne gushed. “I can see now that you were clearly meant to wear it.”

“Thank you, but you’ve got the most magnificent earrings,” Astrid replied sweetly, rather amused by the woman’s sudden about-face.

“Isabelle tells me that you are from Singapour. I have heard so much about your country, about how it’s become the Switzerland of Asia. My granddaughter is making a trip to Asia this summer. Perhaps you will be kind enough to give her some advice?”

“Of course,” Astrid said politely, thinking to herself, Wow—it took only five minutes for this lady to go from snooty to suck-up. It was quite disappointing, really. Paris was her escape, and here she strove to be invisible, to be just another of the countless Asian tourists who crammed eagerly into the boutiques along the Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. It was this luxury of anonymity that made her love the City of Lights. But living here several years back had changed all that. Her parents, concerned that she was living alone in a foreign city with no proper chaperone, made the mistake of alerting friends in Paris, like the L’Herme-Pierres. Word had gotten out, and suddenly she was no longer just the jeune fille renting a loft in the Marais. She was Harry Leong’s daughter, or Shang Su Yi’s granddaughter. It was soooo frustrating. Of course, she should be used to this by now, to people talking about her as soon as she left the room. It had been going on practically since the day she was born.

To understand why, one had to first consider the obvious—her astonishing beauty. Astrid wasn’t attractive in the typical almond-eyed Hong Kong starlet sort of way, nor was she the flawless celestial-maiden type. One could say that Astrid’s eyes were set too far apart, and her jawline—so similar to the men on her mother’s side—was too prominent for a girl. Yet somehow with her delicate nose, bee-stung lips, and long naturally wavy hair, it all came together to form an inexplicably alluring vision. She was always that girl stopped on the street by modeling scouts, though her mother fended them off brusquely. Astrid was not going to be modeling for anyone, and certainly not for money. Such things were far beneath her.

And that was the other, more essential detail about Astrid: she was born into the uppermost echelon of Asian wealth—a secretive, rarefied circle of families virtually unknown to outsiders who possessed immeasurably vast fortunes. For starters, her father hailed from the Penang Leongs, a venerable Straits Chinese* family that held a monopoly over the palm oil industry. But adding even more oomph, her mother was the eldest daughter of Sir James Young and the even more imperial Shang Su Yi. Astrid’s aunt Catherine had married a minor Thai prince. Another was married to the renowned Hong Kong cardiologist Malcolm Cheng.

One could go on for hours diagramming all the dynastic links in Astrid’s family tree, but from any angle you looked at it, Astrid’s pedigree was nothing short of extraordinary. And as Astrid took her place at the candlelit banquet table in the L’Herme-Pierres’ long gallery, surrounded by the gleaming Louis XV Sèvres and rose-period Picassos, she could not have suspected just how extraordinary life was about to become.

* * *

* The Straits Chinese, also known as the Peranakans, are the descendants of late-fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Chinese immigrants to the Malaya region during the colonial era. They were the elites of Singapore, English-educated and more loyal to the British than to China. Often intermarried with the native Malays, the Straits Chinese created a unique culture that is a hybrid of Chinese, Malay, English, Dutch, and Indian influences. Peranakan cuisine, long the cornerstone of Singaporean and Malaysian cooking, has become all the rage with foodies in the West, although visiting Asians are dumbstruck by the outrageous prices charged in trendy restaurants.

6

The Chengs

HONG KONG

Most people driving past the squat grayish-brown building on a busy intersection of Causeway Bay would likely assume it was some sort of government health office, but the Chinese Athletic Association was actually one of Hong Kong’s most exclusive private clubs. Despite its rather perfunctory name, it was the first Chinese-founded sports facility in the former British Crown colony. It boasted the legendary gambling tycoon Stanley Lo as its honorary president, and its restrictive membership had an eight-year waiting list open only to the most established families.