The news spread through the society wives' chat group first.
"Did you hear? Song Qingci was washing dishes at a Chinese restaurant in Flushing. Gas poisoning. She died after being taken to the hospital."
"Really? That Lu Yan's ex-wife?"
"Absolutely true. My husband's assistant said so. The hospital confirmed it."
At that moment, Lu Yan was sitting in Tiffany's VIP room, helping Lin Weiyue choose an engagement ring.
Lin Weiyue tried on a five-carat diamond, holding it up to the light, her smile gentle. "Brother Yan, is this one pretty?"
Lu Yan's phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
His expression changed.
"Brother Yan?"
Lu Yan stood up so abruptly his chair scraped far back with a screech. Without a word, he walked out of the store.
"Lu Yan!" Lin Weiyue chased him to the door. "Where are you going?"
He was already in the car. The black Maybach shot out onto Fifth Avenue, running three red lights in a row.
In the car, he made countless calls.
"Check—which hospital? Now!"
"Which hospital is Song Qingci in?!"
His voice went from cold to frantic, from frantic to hoarse. The last call was to the emergency department at Flushing Hospital.
"Is there a patient named Song Qingci? Brought in with gas poisoning—"
The person on the other end flipped through records. "There is one, but it's not Song Qingci. It's a Mexican woman in her twenties. She's out of danger."
Lu Yan hung up.
He stopped the car at the hospital entrance, engine still running.
Then he saw a figure walking out the back door.
A military-style secondhand coat, olive green. A hat pulled low. A plastic bag in hand.
It was Song Qingci.
She'd taken the day off to take an exam. The poisoning victim was another woman working at the restaurant, a Mexican girl who happened to share the same first name, Sonia. The news had mutated as it spread—from "Sonia poisoned" to "Song poisoned," finally to "Song Qingci died of poisoning."
She was alive.
She stood on the steps behind the hospital, looking at the black Maybach.
The window was open.
The December wind poured in, lifting the hair from his forehead. He sat in the driver's seat, a cigarette between his fingers.
She'd never seen Lu Yan smoke before.
He used to say cigarettes were for losers.
But here he was, smoking. Smoke drifted from the window, twisting and vanishing in the cold air.
In his other hand, his phone screen glowed.
She saw the photo—it was their wedding picture.
Taken three years ago. She wore a white gown, her smile careful and small. He stood beside her, expression cold, as if completing a task. One of the few photos he had that included her.
His thumb rested on the screen.
Not swiping away. Looking.
Song Qingci stood in the shadows, her heart racing.
She told herself—don't be soft.
"He doesn't miss me," she told herself. "He just doesn't like seeing a discarded toy picked up by someone else. I am not a toy."
She turned and walked into the night.
The zipper on her coat was broken; wind cut through the collar, making her teeth chatter. She shoved her hands into her pockets and felt the NYU student ID card. In the photo, she was much thinner, but her eyes were alive.
She didn't know that Lin Weiyue had followed Lu Yan to the hospital.
She stood at the parking garage entrance, saw Lu Yan's car, the smoke drifting from the window, the wedding photo on his phone screen.
Her nails dug into her palms.
"Song Qingci," she hissed, her voice very soft, "you're still alive."
Then she made a call.
"I need you to find someone. Song Qingci, NYU Finance Department. I want everything."