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She shook her head. “I don’t understand riddles. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

His eyes glittered in the light. “Anyu, a romantic affair between us will not end well, for you and me.”

She didn’t want to hear any more. She turned around; the sleeve of her dress snagged on something and ripped. The sharp sound reverberated in the air, and the guests turned to look at her.

Anyu kept her head up and picked her way out of the tables; at the edge of the garden, she looked behind. Isaac was not pursuing her.

In the grand ballroom, the band was playing loudly, and Esther and Mr. Dearborn were not at their table. Anyu sank into a divan, shaking in fury. She had to do something or she would scream. She waved a waiter over, ordered a bottle of whiskey, and began to drink.

The sharp note nearly choked her; she coughed.

She was not a good drinker, and her anger rose with each swallow.

She couldn’t understand it. Isaac had trained her and chosen her as his successor, but why not marriage?

She had elevated his shop’s reputation, and she would have done anything she could to be with him, to be his.

Why would he turn his back on her? Did she mean anything to him?

Did he care about her at all? How could he do this to her?

One glass and another. Her vision blurred, her head pounded with alcohol, with fury, and she ordered another bottle of whiskey as a thought jumped into her mind. She would not accept this humiliation. If she couldn’t be his wife, then she wouldn’t be his successor either.

There was a man standing beside her, and she didn’t know who it was or how long he had been there. Too blurry. She willed him to walk away so she could be left alone, but he was speaking to her. She blinked, unable to think coherently through the alcohol.

“There, there. Why are you crying, princess?” A hand held her face, a napkin pressed to her cheek. Gently, it dabbed.

She closed her eyes. “I’m not crying.”

And then something loosened inside her, and tears fell in a free fall. She leaned against the man’s shoulder and wept and wept, until all her anger, jealousy, feelings of abandonment, and sadness poured out.

“Whoever broke your heart is a fool, princess,” the man said, stroking her back.

His English had an accent, and he smelled of a spicy scent. She had smelled that before. She blinked to see him better, but her vision was still blurry.

“You don’t remember me.”

“You are?”

“Monsieur Bellefeuille!” his companion, a woman in a strappy sequined golden dress, complained. He whispered something in her ear, and the woman sashayed away.

“Ah. It’s you.” She couldn’t think straight, but she still remembered how he had flirted with her.

He was a talented jeweler, very charismatic.

She couldn’t say she liked him, but she couldn’t say she disliked him either.

However, since her winning the awards, Bellefeuille had made some disparaging remarks about Isaac but still flooded the shop with his invitations.

He was perhaps the last person she should have a conversation with.

“I have sent you many invitations in hopes that you’d grace my party. But I never received a reply.” He inched closer and pressed his body to her.

“I’ve been busy.”

“It appears so. Have you given any thought to my proposal, princess?”

“Pardon me. What proposal?”

“How would you like to work for me?”

“I can’t.”

“You’re a very talented jeweler. The best in Shanghai, as people say. If you work for me, I have no doubt one day you can start your own jewelry brand.”

He didn’t understand. She was drawn to jewelry making because of Isaac and his egg. Starting her own business had never come to her mind.

“Are you here all by yourself?”

“No. I came here with a friend.”

“Isaac Mandelburg?”

It hurt to hear his name. Pierre Bellefeuille had a talent for driving her mad. She rose, splattering the whiskey, searching. “I have to go.”

“Where are you going?”

Her head throbbing, she blinked. The annoying French jeweler had asked something most painful.

Yes. Where was she going? Where could she go?

She had lived with Isaac and his family for more than four years and thought they were her family, yet it had all come down to this: She was wrong.

They couldn’t be her family, and the shop was not her home.

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her head. Esther was probably enjoying herself with her lover. She could wait for her to return, and then they could go back to the shop together. But she’d rather not go back.

“If you need a place to stay, I have a guest room. In fact, my chauffeur is waiting outside, and I’m ready to leave. I can give you a ride if you need it.”

Anyu held the glass and peered at Monsieur Bellefeuille by the glow of the amber.

He knew who she was, so he should have known better that she was not a woman in the notorious Blood Alley.

Inebriated, she still had a good head for making sensible decisions.

She was still a virgin, and as a child who knew too well of her mother’s shame, she had vowed to spend her first night with the man who would be her husband, who, as she had longed for these years, was to be Isaac.

And she remembered well, too: A woman’s reputation was like a porcelain vase: once cracked, it could never be fully repaired.

Shaking her head, Anyu stumbled to the closest table, holding a whiskey bottle to get away from Bellefeuille.

She refilled her glass, drained it, and watched the dancers on the parquet floor.

The music was loud, her head pounding. Then, through the figures swimming in the light, she spotted Esther holding Mr. Dearborn’s hand, turning her head to look for her.

She was ready to go to Esther when the trumpet blared and a group of dancers swarmed the floor.

Among them were two familiar people, Isaac and Mrs. Brown in the crook of his arm, a compatible, decent couple, smiling, their bodies close to each other.

Anyu felt as though a bucket of cold water had doused her. Isaac had said a romantic affair between them wouldn’t end well; it was simply an excuse. He didn’t want her. He wanted Mrs. Brown, the tiara-wearing Mrs. Brown, the diamond purveyor, the wealthiest woman in Shanghai.

Anyu stumbled back to the divan, where the French jeweler had sprawled. He stood up and reached out to hold her steady. “You’re back, princess.”

“Did you say you were about to leave?” she asked.

In Bellefeuille’s Citroen, Anyu burst into tears again, drowned in the violent downpour of misery and self-pity and abandonment.

She had never thought she was worthless, even as an orphan, but now she thought she might be.

Through her tears, she could hear Bellefeuille comforting her—praising her beauty, her talent—and his vow: “I’ll never treat you like this. I would never let you cry.”

Her tears had dried when Bellefeuille’s car stopped in front of a two-story neoclassical building on a street where massive trees loomed.

In the bright headlights, Anyu could make out the wine-red French shutters and an arched wrought-iron front door.

There would be gossip once she entered a foreign man’s house unchaperoned at this hour, she realized, but she was too tired to care.

Bellefeuille’s arm around hers, her steps unsteady, she wound her way through the marble entryway lined with servants in black livery and stumbled into a grand room at the end of the hallway.

“Here we are,” Bellefeuille said.

The bedroom was vast, furnished with elaborate Louis XV furniture and golden silk curtains and a crystal chandelier.

There was a four-poster bed with a large nude portrait above the headboard: a young woman, all gold, including her skin, her hair, and her eyelids, lying upside down on a bed of glossy red leaves.

The woman was vivid and seductive—her round breasts, her plump thighs, and the faint smile on her face.

“I’d like to be alone,” Anyu said, sinking onto a sofa near the paneled wall. She could still barely walk, but she could see the desire in the jeweler’s eyes, and it frightened her.

“Of course, but should you need company, I’ll be in the living room,” Bellefeuille said, but he didn’t let her go, his arm encircling her waist, holding her against his body.

“I’m fine, Monsieur Bellefeuille.”

“Call me Pierre.” Finally, he left the room.

Alone, Anyu sat, holding her head, staring at the nude woman on the wall, her faint smile something like a mockery. She looked like Mrs. Brown, Anyu realized. What was she doing now with Isaac? Dancing? Laughing at her?

Anyu closed her eyes and listened to her breathing. Heavy. Loud. Frantic. Desolate. She wished there were someone to talk to, to complain to; she felt so lonely.

“Oh, my princess. Will this make you feel better?” Bellefeuille appeared, holding a red evening gown. “It’s a beautiful dress. I purchased it in Paris. You must put it on. It’ll improve your mood.”

“I feel better now.” She tried to sit up but tripped on the hem of her dress.

He caught her. “Your dress is ripped. Perhaps you’d like to change?”

“There’s no need. I need to go.”

“Stay, and you can stay for as long as you wish. Come, try it on.”

She held the gown, tracing her fingers over the soft fabric. Even through her glove, she could feel its exquisite texture. “It’s all right. I don’t need—”

He held her hand and took off her glove. Her moonstone ring didn’t seem to interest him, but he made a careful examination of her missing finger.

“It’s true, you lost your pinkie,” he said.

“It was a long time ago.”

“A distant memory, then. I hope you’ve forgotten about it.

Let me.” He took off her other glove and untied the bow at the back of her dress, which slipped off soundlessly, and then he removed her bra, underwear, stockings, and shoes.

He worked in a casual yet focused manner, his hands—soft like an artist’s, not a jeweler’s—sweeping over her body, and it almost seemed rude to protest, until she finally stood in front of him, naked like the woman in the painting.

She couldn’t quite understand what was happening and wondered if she should put her clothes back on and leave.

But there didn’t seem to be a reason to do so.

Bellefeuille was kind to her, and Isaac had chosen Mrs. Brown, not her.

“You are beautiful.”

She covered her breasts, trembling. What was she doing, she wondered, and there was a voice in her head. You’ll grow up like your mother, a seducer ...

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

“I’m not.” But she was—what was she afraid of? She didn’t want to be here, she realized; she didn’t want to be with Bellefeuille, a man she hardly knew. But what else could she do?

Bellefeuille fondled her naked shoulders. “I fell in love with you the moment I met you. Did you know? It was three years ago, when you first won the competition and ascended to stardom.”

The evening when her world had changed.

“I’ve been thinking about you ever since. I sent you countless invitations and went to the banquets and parties you attended. I couldn’t find you. You tormented me.” He kissed her neck, her shoulder, and her arm, his lips soft and full of heat.

She shuddered, frightened but glad—here was a man who wanted her, who loved her at least. “Tormented you?”

“You are so young. You don’t know what love is.”

For all she could tell, love didn’t exist.

“May I take you to the bed?”

She turned to the Louis XV bed; it was enormous, covered with a sea of golden comforters embroidered with starfish and conches and lush pillows decorated with silky frills. It was close, within six or seven steps perhaps. How did she get herself so close to his bed?

He lifted her instead, his arms firm around her body. Then he put her down on the bed. She sat on the edge, feeling the cool silk under her. Did she want this? Did she want to walk away? She didn’t know. But she understood if she lay down, she wouldn’t be able to get up again.

Should she get up?

“I’m in love with you, ma chérie .” He was kissing her again, caressing her face, her breasts, and her thighs. “You’re beautiful, my beautiful princess. Would you like to lie down?”

Could she afford this? After this, she was going to fall apart, vanish, and change into another woman. Yet she was lost and no longer wanted to know who she was.

She lay down.