CHAPTER 2
The Call
Jett's "studio" was less an artist's loft and more a unicorn's fever dream. Sculptures of giraffes in tutus shared space with a couch shaped like a giant nacho. A lamp made of disco balls cast fractured light over a statue of David… with truck nuts.
"Welcome to Casa del What Was I Thinking!" Jett announced, tossing her a towel shaped like a pizza slice. "Dry off with Pepperoni Pete! He's very absorbent!"
Luna stood dripping, holding the pizza towel, and almost laughed. Almost.
"Your family deals in priceless art," she said. "And you make… this?"
"This," Jett spread his arms, "is 'Anti-Art'! It's rebellion with googly eyes!" He picked up a sculpture of a cat riding a Roomba. "This sold for ten grand! To a Swedish tech billionaire! He said it 'spoke to his soul'!" He shrugged. "I think he was high."
Her phone rang. The sound was like a shard of ice down her spine. The ringtone—a shrill, traditional melody—was reserved for one person.
BRRRRING BRRRRING
Jett's smile vanished. "Don't answer it."
But Luna was already digging through her soaked purse. She pulled out the phone—a minimalist, matte black brick. The screen read: MOTHER.
She took a breath. Answered.
"Moth—"
"Where are you?" Lihua Xiānyǔ's voice was a scalpel, cold and sharp. No greeting.
"I'm… I'm out. I needed some air—"
"The Chengs saw you sitting in the gutter like a stray animal. Crying. In public. Do you understand what you've done?"
"Mother, Carter cheated—"
"I don't care about your romantic melodrama. You embarrassed this family. You made us look weak. Sentimental. Now the Chens are reconsidering the jade merger because they think our bloodline is 'emotionally unstable.'"
Jett mouthed WHAT? dramatically.
"I'm sorry. I just needed a moment—"
"Your 'moment' cost us fifteen million in potential revenue." A pause, heavy with threat. "Get. Home. Now. We have damage control to do."
"But I—"
Lihua's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Luna. If you're not here in twenty minutes, I will freeze your accounts. Revoke your access to the archives. And personally deliver you to the marriage broker to be matched with whoever will take damaged goods. Do you understand me?"
The word damaged goods hung in the air, toxic.
"Yes, Mother."
"Eighteen minutes."
Click.
The line went dead.
Luna stood frozen, phone still to her ear.
Jett gently took it from her. "Wow. And I thought my mom was intense when she found my sculpture of her as a mermaid with laser eyes." He looked at her face. "You're not going."
"I have to." Her voice was mechanical. "She'll cut me off from the archives."
"It's not all you have."
He said it quietly. Meaningfully.
Luna avoided his eyes. "I have to go."
"Then I'm coming with you."
She laughed, bitter. "To a Xiānyǔ family 'damage control' meeting? They'd eat you alive. You're wearing a llama poncho."
Jett struck a pose. "It's a statement piece! It says 'I'm fun and I know where to get good alpaca wool'!"
But she was already at the door.
"Wait." He ran to his bedroom, came back with a dry sweater (with a unicorn vomiting rainbows), kitten-faced socks, and a token for the subway. "Take Guacamole."
"I can't take your Vespa."
"Sure you can! She's gentle! Mostly! Just don't make any sudden left turns or she gets existential!"
He pressed the keys into her hand. His fingers lingered.
"Text me when you get there. So I know you're alive. Or… you know. Not murdered by your emotionally constipated relatives."
"I'll text."
She started to leave.
"Hey, Luna?"
She turned.
"Remember: you're not 'damaged goods.' You're… limited edition. With rare and valuable flaws. The kind collectors fight over."
She looked at him—really looked—then left.
Jett stood in his ridiculous apartment, listening to the sputter of the Vespa fade away.
"Yeah," he said to the sad taco sculpture. "I'm definitely in love with her." He sighed. "And I have terrible taste in women. And home decor."