Many years later, Li Ming gradually realized that in Washington, many houses weren't really meant to be lived in.
They were more like symbols—of wealth, status, power…
Thick stone walls, expansive lawns, meticulously trimmed hedges, fountains flowing slowly in the center of the courtyard—all of it seemed only a part of the house, not the life inside.
Many of the terms and arrangements were never written into contracts, nor did they appear in any public records. Yet the houses left traces, subtle markers of their true purpose.
After the turn of the millennium, Washington was entering a new phase of prosperity. Massive amounts of capital poured into the city. The federal government, international institutions, and multinational corporations quietly wove a complex, hidden network of wealth beneath the surface of apparent order.
Much of this capital never moved on the books; it flowed silently through real estate, investment funds, and intricate financial structures.
It was at this time that Li Ming's architectural firm welcomed a new partner—Jin Song.
Li Ming had met him through a client. By then, she was beginning to establish her presence in Washington's architectural scene, while Jin Song was already a familiar face in the real estate world. Brokers, developers, and investors all knew him.
Jin Song was not tall, always impeccably dressed in tailored dark suits with perfectly knotted ties. His voice was low, his tone calm and steady.
Yet the longer one worked with him, the more apparent it became just how deeply he knew the city's real estate market.
Which streets were quietly appreciating, which properties had changed hands behind the scenes, which development projects would double in value within a few years—he always seemed to know before anyone else.
Sometimes, as they drove past a house, Jin Song would glance at it and recite its history: when it had been built, who had once owned it, and who held it now. He spoke with the calmness of someone describing the weather, not wealth or influence.
Those years, Li Ming often accompanied him on property visits.
They saw every kind of house—residences bought by Hong Kong tycoons, estates of local Washington magnates, and properties owned by Chinese families. Each home had its own style, each hid its own story.
Once, they visited a Chinese family's residence.
The house was immense. The living room soared like a small cathedral, hallways stretched deep into the house, and each room was spacious and silent.
Strangely, there were almost no signs of life.
No photographs on the walls, no family portraits. No personal objects, no children's drawings, no souvenirs from trips. The entire house seemed deliberately emptied.
Inside, there were only two servants and a teenager. The child stayed mostly in his room, while the servants moved quietly between kitchen and hallway. The house felt vast and mute.
Standing in the center of the living room, Li Ming felt an inexplicable sensation—as if the house had deliberately erased its owners' presence, as if someone didn't want anyone to know who truly lived there.
Jin Song merely glanced around and said nothing.
In the following months, Jin Song began taking her to some of Washington's most prestigious neighborhoods.
He told her that a designer could never truly understand the scale of luxury homes without stepping inside them.
They went to Kalorama. Quiet streets, tall trees almost blotting out the sky. Houses hidden deep within leafy shadows.
Courtyards paved with cobblestones, paths winding among flowerbeds, fountains trickling in the sun, scattering tiny sparks of light.
In the main hall stood a wide oak conference table. A black grand piano rested against the wall. Bookshelves were lined with rare, orderly volumes. The house was silent to the point of solemnity.
They also visited Spring Valley. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls connected the indoors to the gardens, sunlight flooding the living room without obstruction. A harp stood beside a white leather sofa. A long conference table occupied the center, and abstract paintings hung along the corridors. Beyond the balcony stretched an entire golf course.
Li Ming stood by the window, gazing at the distant greens. The space felt too perfect—so perfect it almost seemed wrong to speak.
The most memorable visit was to an old Georgetown house.
Gray stone walls, heavy wooden doors polished smooth by time, an intricately carved fireplace inside. Jin Song explained that it had once belonged to a diplomat's wife, who often hosted dinners there years ago.
Thick carpets lined the halls. A mahogany piano stood near the fireplace. A long conference table filled the study, topped with a globe. Sunlight slanted in through the windows.
In that moment, Li Ming realized—architecture is not just about houses. It carries power, status, and history.
In the following years, they began working on real estate investment projects together. They sought large plots with rundown bungalows. Jin Song handled acquisitions and sales, while Li Ming managed the design and renovation.
Old houses were refurbished and relisted. Slowly, the firm stabilized.
Just as things seemed to be going smoothly, everything changed.
It was a March several years later. Li Ming was in New York for a building materials exhibition. Excited by new construction materials, she tried calling Jin Song to discuss ideas—but the phone went unanswered.
At first, she didn't worry. He was sometimes busy for days. But when she returned to Washington, she sensed something was wrong.
She contacted Jin Song's wife and learned what had happened.
A few days before she left Washington, Jin Song had accompanied a client from mainland China to sell a villa. Four unknown men were there, and before long, Jin Song was abducted along with another man. The kidnappers demanded ransom and threatened that no one should alert the authorities.
In the early days, Jin Song's wife waited anxiously. Eventually, she reported the case to the police.
Years later, the kidnappers were caught. During a search, police dogs kept alerting to a spot in the basement. When officers dug it up, they found Jin Song's body.
Officially, he died of a sudden heart attack during the struggle.
His wife refused to believe it—Jin Song had never had heart problems.
The case remained unresolved.
It slowly became a notorious unsolved mystery within Washington's Chinese community.
Speculation ran wild. Some said that because Jin Song dealt in high-end real estate, he had encountered dangerous people, and perhaps learned things he shouldn't have. Others believed the abduction wasn't originally aimed at him. One rumor suggested the Chinese seller had run a private fund that collapsed, creating debt disputes, and that Jin Song had just happened to be there.
No explanation fit perfectly, and there was no evidence.
Years passed, and the truth remained unknown.
After Jin Song's disappearance, the firm was left in Li Ming's hands alone. She ran it herself for many years.
Many years later, she drove past Kalorama. The streets were still quiet, tall trees swaying lightly in the wind.
She glimpsed a fountain in the courtyard of an old house, sunlight catching the water in tiny sparkling reflections.
In that moment, she suddenly remembered something Jin Song had said years before:
"This kind of house… it's not meant to be lived in."