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Many years later, Anyu wondered what would have happened to her life had she simply done this: What if she had drunk less?

What if she had swallowed her pride, forgotten about Isaac’s rejection, and returned to the shop with Esther, pretending nothing had happened?

What if she had known love was not about revenge, nor about possession, nor about dignity?

Love, as she would learn later, was about letting it go.

But these thoughts were not on her mind when she awoke the following day, engulfed in a blaze of silver sunlight permeated with a clotting smell of fragrance.

There was no rhythmic breathing from Esther, or the whir of gnats and flies in the attic, or bustling bicycle bells ringing from the street.

She lay there, unable to move, panicking, tormented by the splitting headache threatening to tear her apart.

She had trouble gathering her thoughts or processing what had happened, although she recalled a few moments in the hotel, her conversation with Isaac, her disenchantment, and her anger.

“Bonjour, ma chérie . It’s a beautiful day today. Shall we have breakfast?”

She turned around, startled. Near the bed stood Bellefeuille, wearing a silk robe with fur trim. His short hair was not yet combed; two tufts of silver-speckled hair stuck up from the sides of his head. His lustrous brown eyes twinkled; his face glowed with something like a sheen of smugness.

The memory of Bellefeuille dabbing at her tears and the ride to his mansion returned to her.

Anyu almost groaned. What had she done? In her drunken state, she had allowed herself to be vulnerable and become the kind of loose woman she despised.

Or was Bellefeuille to be blamed, too, seducing her with his kindness and taking advantage of her?

She couldn’t believe she was so stupid. She sat up, saw her bare shoulders, and sank lower. “Where are my clothes?”

“Your dress was torn. Now don’t get up. I have something for you.” Bellefeuille turned to a carved walnut Louis XV armoire and opened a drawer. When he turned around, he held a small velvet jewelry box. He opened it.

Inside was a brilliant butterfly with two rose-cut diamonds for the antennae, multicolored sapphires for the forewings, and blue beryls, amethysts, and emeralds for the hind wings; there was also a large hexagonal yellow diamond on the thorax and a rope of twisted gold on the abdomen.

The wings were made of brilliant gold, which appeared to be more than twenty-two karats.

She picked it up, recognizing its brilliance, bold design, and daring use of high-grade gold.

“Who made this?”

“A jeweler in Paris. Suzanne Belperron.”

A woman.

“She’s a novice designer, in my opinion. Her style is flamboyant, unconventional, and some say if you stare at her butterflies long enough, they could pierce your eyes.”

But gold at this level of purity was highly malleable, and manipulating it required skill and vision. “Very impressive.”

“You like it.” He held her hand with the butterfly brooch. “Keep it. It’s my gift, ma chérie .”

“You’ll give it to me?”

“A gift fitting for a designer like you. I’ll introduce you to more sophisticated French jewelry. Van Cleef and Arpels, Boucheron, Mauboussin, Chanel, and more unique designs you won’t be able to find in Shanghai if you work for me.”

“I can’t work for you.” She shook her head.

“Why not?”

Anyu put the butterfly back in the box. “I thought of that in the hotel. I don’t want to be a jeweler anymore. In fact, I won’t touch the tools or design a single piece of jewelry from now on.”

“Well, this is unexpected. Why?”

“I want to have nothing to do with Isaac Mandelburg.”

“I understand the Russian jeweler is the tsar of pain, but to cut short your promising jeweler’s career because of him? That’s rather dramatic.”

Dramatic? Maybe. But it would be her declaration. She would sever her ties with Isaac and eliminate his influence from her life. “This is what’s going to be, Monsieur Bellefeuille.”

“It would be a devastating loss to the jewelry world in Shanghai. You’ll give it another thought, ma chérie ?”

“I have to leave now.”

“All right, all right. We don’t have to talk about this. But please. Stay.” He held her hand. “Don’t go. Marry me.”

Anyu wondered where Bellefeuille got this idea that she would marry him. She had only seen him twice as far as she could remember, and she barely knew him—yes, he had been crowned repeatedly at the annual competition in Shanghai, but that was before her arrival.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I do! I read all about you. You’re an orphan from Harbin in the north, lost your parents at a young age. You’re beautiful, talented, and the most popular jeweler in Shanghai. I want to marry you. I’m in love with you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. May I have my clothes?”

He sighed. “Of course. I have something just for you.” He sprinted across the thick blue Persian carpet and returned. “Try it. I think you’ll love it.”

He held a long, elegant cream gown made of fine silk; it had an empire waist, gracefully embroidered.

Anyu had never cared for dresses as much as Esther did, yet she had never seen one as beautiful as this.

She slid her arms into the dress. It fell on her skin like water; the plunging neckline showed off her neck and breasts, and near the waist, it narrowed to hug her curves.

In awe, she stared at the youthful, bold, luxurious image in the full-length mirror near the bed.

“Do you like it, princess?” he asked.

She studied herself again. “It’s all right.”

“I have more.” He took her arm, crossed the grand gilded room with gold molding and silver wood panels, and then arrived in front of two giant wardrobes reaching the ceiling.

With a dramatic wave of his hand, he flung open the first wardrobe and then the second: inside were red, violet, black, ivory dresses, hats with veils, gloves in delicate snakeskins and goatskins, and leather shoes with buckles.

This, and this, and this. All hers. If she stayed.

There was no denying their beauty, and she could tell each piece was high fashion and cost a fortune.

“I’m not sure if they’ll fit me.”

“I know they’ll fit you.” He winked. “Are you hungry? Shall we eat breakfast before you leave?”

She hesitated. She was hungry. A few bites wouldn’t hurt.

She nodded and walked out with Bellefeuille.

In the hallway covered with a lush black carpet printed with triangles and circles, a young man with a nose thin as a chopstick bowed to them.

Butler Huang, Bellefeuille said, and introduced her to his servants in black livery, thirty-three of them, all locals: six cooks in aprons, five laundrymen, five housekeepers, five coolies, and ten gardeners, then two of Bellefeuille’s personal assistants. They gave her a bow in courtesy.

Anyu felt foolish, standing in front of them. Who did they think she was? she wondered.

“You can pick your own amah, ma chérie , if you stay.”

The way he said it, as if a personal servant was a dress. “I’m starving.”

“All right. Is our breakfast ready, Butler Huang?”

“It is, master,” the butler said.

“I’ll have it on the patio in the garden. Come, this way, ma chérie .”

They passed a few more bedrooms, a swimming pool, a music room, and a banquet room with a parquet floor.

Each room seemed grander than the last, decorated with white wainscoting and high ceilings painted with murals.

In one elongated room, all the walls were plastered with mirrors in different geometric shapes—the Hall of Mirrors, he said.

“Here we are.” Bellefeuille steered her to double French doors, which two servants opened for them.

Before her was a vista like none she had ever seen before.

There were shining bronze statues of chariots and gods, white marble fountains spraying streams of water, clay planters holding huge red blossoms, and a copse of willows and maples.

Near a wrought-iron fence was a pond, where a dozen female servants in gray pants, kneeling on the ground, were trimming the lawn with shears.

Now and then, they paused to measure the length of the grass they had cut.

“Great view,” she said. Bellefeuille was trying hard to impress her and make her stay.

“As you can see, I’m a proud Frenchman. I have envisioned my own Garden of Versailles in my backyard. My clients at the conseil d’administration municipal of the French Concession adore this garden.” He led her to a round table on the terrace and sat on a red chair with a cushion.

“Try the éclair , if you like, and boudoirs . Or financiers , made with sliced almonds. You like almonds? Financiers were created by nuns of the Visitandines order in Nancy. Try some.” He gestured to the table filled with plates of fruits, cheeses, sliced meats, and a platter of pastries. Fine French food.

Anyu took a financier . “It tastes like beeswax.”

“Beeswax? That’s strange. It’s very delicious. Have you had it before? Of course, the real French food is much tastier. I shall happily treat you with a lavish French dinner if you allow me. You haven’t had an authentic French meal, I reckon. What do you say?”

Bellefeuille had a grand dramatic style, a hyperbole of a man, unlike Isaac. “I have to go after this.”

“You’re going back to Isaac Mandelburg.” He sighed.

“Absolutely not.”

“No? That’s good to hear. I don’t mean to pry. Was he the person who made you cry?”

She put down the financier and didn’t meet his eyes.

“I knew it. That Russian jeweler is a man of dubious character. Few people in Shanghai know him, his background, or even when he arrived in Shanghai. He barely shows up at any social events, fails to win awards, manages a two-bit shop with his uncle, and if it weren’t for you, they would have been out of business years ago. ”

Anyu said, “You resent him because his jewelry store took your business.”

Bellefeuille waved his hand. “I won’t deny that I have lost clients since you came along.

I’m an honest man. But if you must know, Isaac Mandelburg was my bête noire before you brought his family brand to fame.

He resents me , ma chérie . You might not want to tell him you’re here, or he’d be livid. ”

“Livid?” Anyu listened intently.

“Of course! How do you think he’d feel if you, his famous successor, slept with his rival? He’d be devastated.”

It had not occurred to her that Isaac would be hurt. But to her surprise, the thought of seeing him in pain and breaking his heart pleased her. Shouldn’t it be his turn to suffer?

“Stay here and marry me, ma chérie . You won’t regret it. I’ll treat you well, and I can give you anything you want. You’ll be happy here.”

The almond flavor of the financier grew on her. Bellefeuille was right. It was delicious. “Monsieur Bellefeuille—”

“Call me Pierre.”

“Pierre.” Would she be happy, marrying a man she had only met twice? She doubted it, but she said, “I’ll marry you.”

“You will?”

“Yes.”

“You make me a happy man!” He hugged her so tight that she felt as though her bones were about to be crushed. “I must announce this wonderful news to the world.”

Anyu took a grape from the plate; she hardly paid attention as Bellefeuille showered his praise on her, hardly paid attention as he envisaged their future, an engagement party in a month and a wedding ceremony in six months, hardly paid attention as his butler promised to organize a grand engagement party fit for the union of him and the most popular jeweler in Shanghai.

Only one thought filled her mind at that moment: once Isaac heard of her engagement, he would regret he had rejected her, and he would find her and ask her to marry her.