Chapter 6

Oslen, now that was a name I did remember. His father had been friends with my father when they were younger. I recalled something about a broken marriage, a mental illness, and relying on a brat of an only son to run his father's empire. Even as those distant details returned to me, my mind drifted to thoughts of my father.

My father was the child of a generation who knew a great deal of turmoil, starvation, and fear. He grew up in the aftermath of a World War, and as much as he tried to be modern, there was always a generational disconnect between him and me. Nowhere was this more obvious than his love of telling disturbing and tragic stories.

My father loved nothing more than puffing on the stump of his forbidden cigarette (a habit he was so desperate to quit because he didn't want to be seen as old-fashioned). As he did so, he would often recount to me the time his mother made him chop off the head of his favorite hen because the neighbors complained about the amount of waste falling from their balcony-dwelling chicken coup. (He always seemed to forget, no matter how many times I reminded him, that he had told me that story before, and I didn't need to hear it again.)

Then, once he saw that I wasn't adequately shocked, he'll start wagging the end of his cigarette at me, lecturing that I never knew what it was like to be so hungry that I had to strip the bark off of trees and gnaw on them like stale beef jerky. Despite all that the government took from us during Mao's revolution, my father was better off than some. He hid a small satchel of jewels that belonged to his father's rich aunt behind a loose shingle over the chicken coup. My father always hesitated before saying "jewels" as though he meant to say something else. It was one of the many mysteries in my family that I could never truly figure out.

It would only be many years later when I started to read about my family's history, that I would realize my father's family had been wealthy once, very wealthy.

They lost all that money by backing the Emperor of Manchukuo and picking the wrong side during the ill-fated war in 1934. My father's presence in my life had never been consistent. He came and went as he pleased, leaving me to a variety of aunties, both hired and distant blood relations, to raise me. Sometime before he had me, he regained some of the fortune his family had lost. Whatever he reclaimed, it never seemed enough, and he was always away on business. My mother was no help either, as she ran away with her vocal coach when I was ten. Last I heard, one of my aunties told me the woman was trying to make it in Cannes as a singer.

Now my father was gone too. All I had left of him was this black briefcase. What could possibly be inside it that ensuring I had it in my possession during that flight out of our home country mattered even more than delivering a proper goodbye?

My train of thought was interrupted by the sound of Orion clearing his throat. I noticed that he was fidgeting with his cell phone, tapping it against his thigh, as though he wasn't sure if he wanted to speak to me or to go back to pretending he was texting someone else.

I supposed that my body language of pressing myself as far up against the car door wasn't enough to deter him from trying to speak to me. Trying to recall my manners, I struggled not to let out the aggravated sigh brewing in my throat.

He had shown up at the airport to escort me to my grandmother's house. I owe him the favor of not snapping at him for clearing his throat without my permission.

Orion's family was wealthy, and so was mine. That was where the similarities ended. Orion seemed to enjoy making up for his lack of familial guidance by dressing with as much nouveau riche flair as he could possibly carry on that 6'1" frame of his. Perhaps it was because my father grew up in a time when the elite ended up with a bullet in their heads for luxuries as simple as owning a pet dog, but my father always shied away from shows of wealth.

"I have instructions to give you a new cellphone," Orion finally blurted out and offered me the cellphone he had been tapping against his thigh. I felt the shame wash over me. I thought he had been busy texting his high society friends for the last twenty minutes when he had been looking for the right opportunity to hand me my new phone.

Before I could take that shiny beacon of communication, of reconnection with my family, in my hands, Orion snatched it back.

"There's something I need to tell you before you can have it. First, your father was taken into custody three hours ago."

"What? No, that can't—"

Can't be possible.

Did they know who my father was? There wasn't a world leader on this planet who didn't owe him some type of favor. My father was good at being at the right place at the right time to play the hero during a rebellion or a natural disaster.

"It happened," Orion stated with a hard edge to his voice.

Then he seemed to take a deep breath and bowed his shoulders in shame as though the outburst was unintentional. Even in his deferential position, I could see his broad and muscular shoulders flex under the fabric of his closely tailored jacket. The fabric was pulled taut with his every movement. It was as though Lucifer himself had appeared on earth and was forced to comfort a child after their lollipop had fallen into the drain. "And, Angela, listen to me. You can't attempt to contact him. It's too dangerous. He asked my father to look over you. That means you are my responsibility. Do you hear me? If there's any news about your family back home, I will bring it to you. Do not try to reach Charles. Excuse me, I mean your father. You don't know who might be listening."

"You mean you can't protect me from some political assassins, even from inside your fortified city of sleepless dreams?"

"No, Angela, not political assassins. Far worse," Orion waved his hand through the air as though he was batting my questions away. "Can you trust me when I say this is your best chance of staying alive? Laying low will also keep the rest of your family here in Manna City safe. You have a grandmother here and a brother?"

"A grandmother," I clarified. "And a cousin who is happily residing in Paris right now."

Yes, like most men of my father's influence and status, we had family secrets. My aunt and her husband died in a boating accident when I was ten. Wang Shu was her only child. Who knew if it was an accident or if it was someone who wanted to send a message to my father? Either way, my father loved Wang Shu like his own child, no, even more so because he resembled my father in appearance and personality.

I supposed that my full lips and high, child-like forehead made me look too much like my young, flighty mother and not enough like the other Liangs with their grave, deep-set eyes, and eloquently straight brows.

In the last couple of years, my father even started to joke about leaving his fortune to Wang Shu if I didn't find a suitable husband.

A husband — perhaps — like Orion Oslen?

I didn't know why the thought disgusted me so. Orion wasn't the first boy of the right age and family connections my father attempted to set me up with. Yet, even as I sat here, I could see the characteristics in this young man that would send any other girls' hearts afire. Disregarding his annoying habit of tapping on his knee and then the car upholstery with his thumb with every silent second that passed between us, he was a fine physical specimen of a man.

I knew that the girls at the international private school I grew up with would melt at the sight of a pair of owl-like eyes, soft pink lips, and a proud, straight jaw like his. Yet, like always, I felt nothing. I could never feel any emotion other than disgust at the thought of some boy's body brushing up against mine.

It wasn't simply his nervousness and his lack of answers as to what would happen to me next that was sending my disgust shooting into a stratosphere. Was it? Perhaps, instead of allowing myself the indignity of feeling fear, I was choosing to interpret my rapidly increasing heart rate and clammy hands as hatred instead.

Orion's finger brushed against mine as he finally handed the cell phone to me. It wasn't intentional. The phone, being brand new, was slick and slippery. If he hadn't made sure it was firmly in my grasp before releasing it, it would have fallen, and he couldn't allow such a social mishap to occur.

It was an act of gentlemanly politeness. That's all. Why did I want to throw open the door with my other hand and run from this car?

Orion wasn't wholly dense. He saw the disgust all over my face as I rubbed every last fingerprint of his from my new phone before placing it inside my purse.

"I have a girlfriend — my apologies — a fiancée. Perhaps you'll meet her before heading back home."

I nodded and let out a breath of relief. Somehow, the knowledge Orion had been claimed by someone else calmed me. Embarrassment flooded over me. He hadn't come here with any romantic intentions. He was just doing a favor for my father.

My iciness had been uncalled for. No, it had been nothing short of rude.

"I hope so. Head home, I mean," I reply, doing my best to make conversation for the first time. It was an awkward attempt, but my words seemed to relax him as well. Orion nodded eagerly. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. He wore a small signet ring over his pinky, and I could infer by his exaggerated agreement with my every word that this role of a helpful friend was utterly foreign to him. Why wouldn't it be? He was Orion Oslen, the young princeling of Manna City, but to me, he was just another fawning suitor I had finally rid myself of.

"You'll go back home soon, even if I have to bring you there myself. I give you my word, Angela."