In the hotel suite, heavy velvet curtains sealed off the London night and its glittering lights with uncompromising thoroughness. Only a single wall lamp by the bed remained lit, casting a small pool of dim, yellowish light, like the glow of an old dream. The air still carried the particular atmosphere left in the wake of desire—sweet, cloying, faintly saline—mingled with the expensive tuberose perfume clinging to Emily's skin. Now, however, the scent felt stagnant and overripe, like cosmetics left out overnight.
Emily was curled up beside Marco, her cheek pressed against his chest, which had cooled slightly after the sheen of sweat. Her fingers traced idle circles along his arm, unconsciously. In the lovemaking just moments before, she had given everything she had, more pliant and intoxicating than usual, winding herself around him like a vine, as though she could use the warmth of her body to drive away the shadow that refused to leave his brow. Now she lifted her eyes to him, lashes damp, her voice softened as if soaked in water.
"Marco… you hardly come to see me anymore. When I call, you're always busy."
Marco lay with his eyes closed, one arm tucked beneath his head. His Adam's apple moved almost imperceptibly, but he didn't answer. He was simply exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that seeped out from the marrow of his bones. The family's rotten accounts, his father's obstinacy, the covetous glances of illegitimate heirs, his mother's unfathomable past, and that suddenly scorching-hot chess piece called "Zola"… All of it felt like countless damp, icy hands tearing at him day and night. He had come here seeking a moment's respite, hoping that in Emily's familiar, beautiful body—one that demanded no thought—he might temporarily forget the revolting reality outside. Like a desert traveler throwing himself toward a mirage, fully aware of its illusory nature, yet still craving the faint suggestion of shade.
But Emily was clearly unwilling to be nothing more than shade.
When he didn't respond, she pressed herself closer, her breath fragrant, tinged with a tremor of grievance. "Last week, that little bitch Sophia ran into me at Bergdorf's and made snide remarks, asking whether I'd soon be unable to drink the new season's champagne… And that gallery invitation—the seating was ridiculous. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone who I was seated with."
She paused, watching his reaction. When she saw his expression remain unmoved, the unease in her heart began bubbling up like air pockets rising from deep water.
"Marco… is something changing? Is something happening in your family? Tell me… I'm scared."
The words "something changing" were like two fine needles, gently puncturing the fragile bubble of "escape" Marco had been desperately maintaining. His eyes remained closed, but the corner of his mouth dipped ever so slightly—a nearly imperceptible curve that mixed impatience with mockery.
Emily's grievance, her fear, landed on his nerves—already worn raw by reality—not as something that inspired tenderness, but as an irritating noise. She was still tallying salon seating arrangements, society gossip, champagne labels. She couldn't see—or perhaps refused to see—that beneath the lavish roof about to collapse, the beams had long been hollowed out by insects, the foundation already crumbling. All she cared about was whether her skirt would be splashed with mud, whether the crystal chandelier above her head would continue to shine as brightly as before.
He had come here to be, briefly, a man—nothing more. Not the heir of a family teetering on the brink of ruin. Not a benefactor obliged to soothe his mistress's emotions. Yet Emily was tactless enough to drag all the dust of that cold outside world—everything he was trying to shut out—onto this bed that was still warm with intimacy.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. His voice was dry, edged with irritation at having his rest forcibly interrupted.
"What could be happening? Just the usual troubles." He tried to end it with a single sentence. "If you stop mixing with people like Sophia, you won't hear that kind of nonsense."
The dismissal was almost brutally perfunctory.
Half of Emily's heart went cold. She wasn't stupid. From his recent distance, from the increasingly obvious neglect, from the vague rumors drifting in from her mother's family, she had already smelled the iron-tinged pressure unique to an approaching storm. She wanted reassurance, comfort—anything, even a lie, that would allow her to keep playing her role. But he was stingy even with pretense.
She refused to give up. Propping herself up, she let the silk sheets slide from her smooth shoulders, revealing the graceful lines of her body. She looked at the hard angles of his profile, her voice breaking into a carefully calibrated, tearful cadence—a kind of practiced, pear-blossom sorrow.
"Marco, don't shut me out. Is there really anything we can't talk about between us? I'm yours. Your honor and disgrace are mine as well. I'm only worried about you…"
"Enough."
Marco finally cut her off. His voice wasn't loud, but it hit like a block of ice dropped into warm water, instantly freezing her unfinished words and the tears about to fall. He turned his head and looked at her. There was no trace of his usual languor or desire in his eyes—only a bottomless fatigue, and a cold irritation sparked by her relentless "concern" and "worry."
"I'm tired, Emily." He closed his eyes again, his tone final. "Be quiet."
Three words—like three rusted locks—sealed away every unspoken sentence, every grievance, every tentative probe, deep in Emily's throat. She froze there, holding that on-the-verge-of-tears posture, her exposed skin prickling with fine goosebumps in the cooling air. The warmth of their earlier intimacy had dissipated completely, leaving only the sensation of physical closeness without the slightest hint of comfort.
The room fell utterly silent, broken only by their uneven breathing. The halo of light from the wall lamp enveloped them, illuminating their entwined bodies in a way that felt eerily distant. Emily slowly lay back down, turning her back to him, pulling the sheets tightly around herself. Her eyes remained open as she stared at the narrow sliver of city light leaking through the curtain seam—light that, too, felt cold.
At last, she understood. The iceberg she had been leaning on was not only melting; the bone-chattering cold beneath its surface had already spread into the most intimate waters she could reach.
Marco kept his eyes closed, but his brow never relaxed. This stolen moment of reprieve had ultimately been infiltrated by reality's pervasive chill, turning it into an even more exhausting silence of shared beds and separate dreams. And the beautiful body beside him—once an object of his indulgent desire—now brought him only a deeper, inescapable weariness.
When Emily woke up, the space beside her was already empty. Even the creases had been smoothed away. The sheets, long since cooled, pressed against her skin like a vast, wordless notice. Only the lingering scent in the air—a blend of his cigar and aftershave—proved that the night before had not been a solitary illusion.
On the bedside table stood the hotel's refined silver breakfast trolley, silent and immaculate, its lid sealed tightly over a heated tray beneath. Marco was always like this—considerate to the point of being almost procedural. Even his departure was arranged with flawless precision, as though she were a valuable object requiring careful storage and routine maintenance, rather than a living person capable of fear and dependence.
That "consideration," at this moment, chilled her more than outright indifference ever could. It was like a transparent barrier, reminding her that whatever passed for "intimacy" between them had always existed within boundaries and proportions firmly controlled by him. He could come and go as he pleased. She, on the other hand, could only wait—or accept this cold breakfast as compensation.
She didn't touch the food. It would have tasted like wax anyway; even the porcelain plates and silverware seemed to glint with quiet mockery. She got up in haste, washed, dressed, and slipped back into yesterday's expensive ensemble—each piece like an invisible shackle, reminding her of her current identity and predicament.
Back in her own apartment, a high-rise in a fashionable district, the fingerprint lock clicked softly as the door opened. A carefully calibrated fragrance washed over her, along with an emptiness so profound it felt unsettling. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the pristine marble floors and sharply designed furniture—bright, luxurious, and yet… utterly lifeless.
This apartment was not hers. It was leased for her by a company under Marco's name, the rent so exorbitant it once left her breathless—an amount she could never have afforded on her own. In the past, it had been a point of pride, proof of her admission into a certain circle. Now, the four walls felt like a lavish, icy cage, every inch of luxury transformed into a Sword of Damocles hanging overhead. For the first time, she understood with stark clarity that the floor beneath her feet, the ceiling sheltering her from the elements, even the expensive fragrance in the air she breathed, all depended on a single man's favor—one he could withdraw at any moment.
Panic crept up her spine like countless tiny ice insects. How old was she, really? Still in school, studying a major that sounded romantic and poetic but in reality was worlds away from anything practical or lucrative. What job could she get? A receptionist at a gallery? An assistant at a magazine? Those meager salaries probably wouldn't even cover one month of the building's maintenance fees—let alone sustain her current lifestyle. The bespoke dresses, luxury skincare, regular treatments, the places she frequented… every single one of them was built on real money, stacked layer upon layer.
She stopped in front of the full-length mirror and examined herself with near cruelty. Her skin was flawless, glowing with the sheen of meticulous care. Her figure was graceful, the result of private trainers and strict diets. Her features were still delicate, her makeup impeccable. But she knew how fragile that "flawlessness" was, how dependent it was on money flowing endlessly away. Like flowers forced to bloom in a greenhouse on nutrient solution—once cut off from that precise system of nourishment, they would wither and fade in no time.
She had seen it happen too many times. Women who had once dazzled at someone's side, radiant and envied—once they fell out of favor, it was as though their bones had been removed. They aged quickly, dimmed, and eventually vanished silently from the edges of the social scene, leaving not even a ripple behind. She didn't dare inquire about what became of them, afraid that in those evasive looks and vague replies she might glimpse the outline of her own future.
Her gaze drifted, involuntarily, to the floor-to-ceiling custom wardrobe in the corner of the room. She walked over and opened it. Inside was not a closet so much as a miniature museum of luxury, gleaming with cold light. Leathers of every hue, metal clasps, rare skins—all glowing under the spotlights with an allure that felt both seductive and distant. Hermès. Chanel. Dior. Each bag had once been a trophy, a badge of identity, a piece of the illusory fortress she had built, bit by bit, out of "security."
But now, staring at those silent "fortresses," she felt no reassurance—only a sharp shiver. These things could not be eaten. They could not truly be worn, except as decoration. And when real trouble came, they could not be turned into something tangible she could grasp. They were nothing but ornate liabilities—proof of her dependence, and likely the first "floating assets" to be stripped away.
A thought seized her, brutal in its clarity: sell some of them.
The idea cut her like a knife. Behind each bag was a pleasant date, a sweet promise (even if she had always known it was a lie), or a reward she had coaxed out with painstaking hints and careful timing. To sell them would be like tearing pages from the diary she had spent years carefully writing—a diary about "upper-class life."
But she had no choice.
She needed cash. She needed something real she could hold in her own hands, something that belonged to her alone—no matter how pitifully small that foothold might be.
The shop owner picked up the last Kelly bag. After inspecting the engraved marking inside the lining, she did not ask for any identification. Instead, she placed the authenticity card and receipt once more beneath the desk lamp, examining them carefully. Her fingertip paused briefly over the purchase date, then she lifted her gaze and let it pass lightly over Emily's face.
There was no suspicion in that look—only a calm, knowing clarity. As if to say: this year, this location, this purchaser's name (so often a company entity or a reseller's alias), and the subtle relationship between those facts and the young woman standing before her—none of it needed to be spoken aloud. In this line of work, she had seen too many objects arrive bearing their stories. She recognized the patterns. The girl in front of her—dressed discreetly but in unmistakable quality, makeup flawless yet unable to conceal the anxiety pressed deep into her eyes—had come at precisely this moment, carrying several solid pieces that were not heirlooms but were clearly recent "gifts," liquid assets meant to be converted. The shifting winds behind such transactions required no questions; she could already infer most of it.
"Authentication card and receipt are complete. Very good," the shop owner finally said, her voice steady as she removed her white gloves. "That saves us a lot of trouble."
The word trouble was deliberate. It referred to questionable goods circulating in the market, items with unclear provenance and missing paperwork—but it also gently sidestepped more uncomfortable inquiries about ownership. It offered Emily a dignified exit ramp, while preserving the shop's rule of dealing only in "clean" merchandise.
The appraisal process, however, remained exacting.
With ringed fingers, slender and sharply jointed, the shop owner brushed lightly over a minute scratch on a palladium clasp. "It's an issue of lighting. You wouldn't notice it in daily use, but it won't escape inspection."
She pointed next to a barely visible indentation on the base of another bag. "Likely compressed during storage. It's very minor, but perfectionists will mind."
Her tone was clinical, like a physician delivering a diagnosis. Each "flaw" was accompanied by a corresponding reduction in price.
Emily tried to protest. "This one… I hardly ever used it. You can see the sheen of the leather—"
"Yes, the leather is in good condition," the shop owner agreed, nodding—then smoothly pivoted. "But this size and color have noticeably slower circulation this year. If we take it in, we incur both capital lock-up and time costs while waiting for the right buyer."
She laid out market demand, liquidity, and holding costs—cold, impersonal business logic—directly in front of Emily, cutting off any appeal rooted in sentiment or original price.
The final figure still made Emily's chest tighten. It was lower than her psychological bottom line, yet seemed to be the most "fair" price this tasteful establishment was willing to offer. There was almost no room left to negotiate. The shop owner's manner was polite but immovable, like a wall padded in velvet.
"If you agree," the shop owner said, retrieving a beautifully printed document from the drawer, "we can sign a simple transfer agreement. It lists the items, their condition, and the final price. As for payment—we can issue a bank draft. Or, if you require cash—" she paused, her gaze flicking briefly to Emily's tightly held handbag, "—large cash amounts require advance arrangement. We can accommodate that, but it will take some time."
A bank draft meant a formal paper trail. Cash involved more complex logistics and delay.
After a brief, silent calculation, Emily said hoarsely, "The draft."
She needed money she could use immediately. And somewhere inside her lingered a faint, almost laughable hope—that a signed agreement might make this feel like a transaction, rather than a distress sale.
The shop owner nodded and filled out the document swiftly. Emily signed her name numbly. Her handwriting wavered, lacking the elegant fluency she had practiced so carefully over the years.
The bags, wrapped in white cotton cloth, were taken away with care and placed in the inner room. In their stead, a thin envelope bearing the bank's insignia was set in front of her.
"Thank you for your business," the shop owner said. It was impossible to tell whether the words were merely courteous—or something else entirely.
Emily picked up the envelope. Her fingers were cold.
She did not thank her. She couldn't. She only inclined her head slightly, then turned and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
Outside, cold air rushed toward her. She clenched the envelope containing the bank draft, its stiff edges pressing into her palm. The process inside—the meticulous appraisal, the calm stripping away of value—had drained her far more than she had anticipated. It felt less like she had sold a few bags, and more as though she herself had been placed on an operating table, examined under a magnifying glass by professionals who dissected, devalued, and finally affixed a cruel but truthful price tag to the illusory worth she had relied upon to survive.
As she walked back, her steps felt unsteady. The draft would not change her life. At best, it bought her a brief reprieve—how long she could breathe, she didn't know.
What chilled her more than the financial loss was the clarity that followed: everything she depended on derived its "value" entirely from others' assessments and the direction of the market—fragile beyond belief. Even this final act of liquidation required such cold, professional verification and bargaining that the last remnants of her illusion of ownership were torn apart, completely and without mercy.
The bank draft was eventually converted into a stack of cash—not especially thick, but by no means a small sum. Money held in the hand was real. The paper carried that faintly cool texture unique to banknotes, temporarily dispelling some of the weightless unease in Emily's chest. But beneath that sense of solidity lay a much larger void—this amount of money, spent without replenishment, in this city and at the standard of living she was accustomed to, would not last more than a few months.
The panic did not subside with cash in hand. Instead, like vines growing in the dark, it took advantage of this brief reprieve to spread and tighten more wildly. She needed the money to generate money. She needed a rope—something that looked feasible—that might pull her out of the increasingly obvious downward spiral. And just then, her "friend," a man named Leo—the Italian pretty boy with flirtatious eyes and a devil-may-care smile—appeared at exactly the right moment, as if he had scented her unease.
She had met Leo at a yacht party. He hovered at the fringes of Marco's broader social circle, a decorative accessory of sorts. His family background seemed decent (or perhaps once decent), and he dabbled in vaguely defined "investments," drifting through fashionable but largely useless social scenes. Marco's attitude toward people like Leo was casual, even indulgent. He did not object to Emily associating with him. In Marco's eyes, someone like Leo—glittering on the outside but posing no real threat—was precisely the kind of trinket one might allow around a caged songbird: a diversion, a bit of amusement, even a way to display one's own magnanimity. As long as Emily remained on call, kept her body "clean" (meaning free of diseases or messy addictions), and maintained the carefully preserved beauty he appreciated, he didn't much care who she had a drink with or flirted with on the side. This "indulgence" had once been privately interpreted by Emily as a form of trust or nonchalance. Now, in hindsight, it felt more like the detached condescension one shows a pet.
Leo asked her to meet at the members-only café she often frequented. He wore a flamboyantly tailored velvet suit, his smile dazzling almost to the point of glare. He immediately noticed the lingering gloom between her brows and the composure she was forcing herself to maintain. Skipping excessive pleasantries, he leaned closer, lowered his voice, and spoke with the intimacy of someone sharing a secret.
"Emily, sweetheart, you look like you need a little… sunshine. There's a small opportunity right now—something a few friends put together. Low threshold, but the returns are beautiful."
He quoted an annualized rate of return that made Emily's heart jump—several times higher than anything offered by conventional, conservative investments.
"It's mainly short-term arbitrage in Southeast Asia," he continued lightly. "You know—information gaps."
He wrapped everything in fashionable, faintly mysterious financial jargon—"information asymmetry," "arbitrage"—and casually dropped a few names she vaguely recognized from social occasions, as a kind of informal endorsement.
Seeing the mix of hesitation and longing flash through her eyes, Leo pressed on. His peach-blossom eyes shimmered with sincerity—or something carefully performed to resemble it.
"I put some money in myself. Just got my first payout last month. Solid. I only thought to bring you in because you seem weighed down lately—I wanted to give you a hand. With our relationship, would I ever screw you over?"
He lightly brushed the back of her hand. His fingers were cool.
Under normal circumstances, Emily might have been more guarded. But now she was like someone drowning—desperate to clutch at any piece of driftwood that floated close enough. Leo was a companion implicitly "approved" by Marco, which lent his words an added layer of credibility. The absurdly high returns glowed like the only bright light in the darkness, tempting her to overlook the enormous risks that might lurk beneath. And Leo's talk of "helping her out," combined with that intimate touch, offered a thread of false warmth and alliance at a moment when she felt acutely isolated.
She needed this kind of "opportunity" too badly. She needed money to make money. She needed proof that she was not condemned to dependence. She needed the illusion of some control over her fate to fight back the swelling panic. As for risk—she wasn't completely blind to it. But at a subconscious level, she wanted to believe this was a shortcut out of the mire, a secret favor destiny occasionally bestowed upon beautiful women.
"How much… for the initial investment?" she heard herself ask, her voice dry.
Leo named a figure that matched almost exactly the bulk of what she had made from selling her bags, as though tailored specifically for her. He saw her struggle and added, kindly—or perhaps relentlessly—"No rush. Think it over. But this window is short. No telling when the next one will open."
That sentence became the final straw.
A window. Something that would close if she hesitated.
Driven by overwhelming anxiety and fear of the future, the last remnants of her rationality were completely submerged.
A few days later, in the private tea room of a luxury hotel—Leo said it was safer and more discreet—Emily slid the thick envelope of cash across the table toward him. There was no formal contract, only a hastily handwritten "investment confirmation" from Leo, bearing his signature and a vague project code. He accepted the money and once again assured her that substantial dividends would arrive by the next quarter. He hugged her lightly and whispered into her ear, "Relax, sweetheart. Just wait for the good news."
Leaving the tea room and walking down the hotel's ornate yet empty corridor, Emily felt a wave of hollow relief, as if she had set down a crushing weight—or as if she had stepped into even deeper fog. The money was gone, exchanged for a flimsy piece of paper and a promise dripping with temptation. She forced herself not to think about the traps that might lie ahead, repeating Leo's words in her mind: "Solid," and "wait for good news."
Back in the apartment that didn't belong to her, standing before the noticeably emptier wardrobe, Emily faced the mirror and tried to summon a smile of relief. The reflection stared back with a stiff, fragile expression. Deep in her eyes, a darker unease—born of having placed her entire wager—was quietly spreading.
Now she had nothing left. Nothing but this face, this body, and a promise suspended in midair, with no certainty of when—or whether—it would be honored.
The storm had not yet truly arrived. But she had already handed over her last life vest, standing bare-handed at the edge of the deck. All she could do now was pray that the so-called "good news" would actually come.