Three days after the funeral, Lu Yan's assistant called.
"Miss Song, Mr. Lu would like to know when it's convenient for you to come to the office and sign the papers. The contract has expired."
Song Qingci was scanning items behind the supermarket register. She held the phone between her shoulder and ear, her fingers never pausing.
"Today, this afternoon."
"All right. What time?"
"Four."
"Mr. Lu has a meeting at four—"
"Then after four." She hung up.
Rachel was waiting for her to finish work. She'd heard the conversation and frowned. "You're going to sign?"
"Yes."
"I'll go with you."
"No need."
"Song Qingci—"
"Rachel." She put down the scanner and looked at her. "This is something I have to do alone."
Rachel looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But promise me you'll sign and leave. Don't talk to him more than you have to."
"I won't."
At four in the afternoon, Song Qingci stood at the entrance of Lu Corporation Tower.
She had been here many times. The first time was three years ago, to sign the contract. She had worn her mother's best coat, stood below looking up, and thought the building was so tall she couldn't see the top.
Today, the building was just as tall, but she didn't feel that way anymore.
She walked into the lobby. The receptionist was new and didn't recognize her. "Who are you here to see?"
"Lu Yan. I have an appointment at four."
The receptionist looked her over. The olive green secondhand coat. The supermarket uniform. Pants stained with grease that wouldn't wash out. She didn't fit in this building of suits and pencil skirts.
"Your name?"
"Song Qingci."
The receptionist's expression changed. She'd clearly heard the name. Lu Yan's ex-wife. The stand-in.
"One moment." The receptionist made a call, then said, "Mr. Lu will see you. Top floor."
The elevator reached the top floor. The doors opened to a hallway carpeted in gray, abstract paintings on the walls. She paused as she passed one—she'd thought it was ugly the first time she came, three years ago.
She still thought it was ugly.
The assistant waited at the door. "Miss Song, Mr. Lu is in a meeting. Please wait a few minutes."
"That's fine."
She was led into a small conference room. On the table was a document—the divorce agreement.
She sat down and opened it.
Three years of marriage, ten million dollars. The same one she'd torn up. The terms hadn't changed. Even the typo was still there.
She turned to the last page. The signature line was blank. Lu Yan's name was already signed—sharp strokes, each character written with force.
She took out her pen, ready to sign.
The door opened.
Lu Yan stood at the entrance.
He'd just come from a meeting. He'd taken off his suit jacket, wearing only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. When he saw her, something flickered in his eyes.
"You're here."
"Yes." She didn't look up. The tip of her pen hovered over the signature line.
"Wait." Lu Yan walked over and sat across from her.
Song Qingci looked up.
There were shadows under his eyes. A small cut on his chin. She remembered he'd never used to cut himself shaving.
"Is there something you want to say?"
Lu Yan was silent for a moment.
"What happened with your mother… I'm sorry."
"Your assistant already said that on the phone."
"That day, I—"
"Lu Yan," she interrupted, "you don't need to explain. You went to an art exhibition with the person you should be with. There's nothing wrong with that. We haven't been husband and wife for a long time."
"But we were."
"Were." She repeated the word, a faint smile crossing her lips. "Yes, we were."
Lu Yan looked at her, his throat moving.
"Song Qingci, have you ever thought—"
"No." She answered directly. "I haven't. I used to. I don't anymore."
She picked up her pen and wrote her name on the signature line. Song Qingci. Three characters, stroke by stroke, much steadier than when she'd signed the contract three years ago.
She closed the agreement and pushed it toward him.
"It's done."
Lu Yan looked at her signature, not moving.
"There's one more thing." Song Qingci pulled a check from her pocket and placed it on the table. "Ten million dollars. I'm returning it."
Lu Yan looked down at the check. The amount was clearly written: ten million dollars. The signature line bore her name, along with the corporate seal of Qingci Capital.
"You—"
"I started a company. It's small, but it's enough to pay you back." She stood. "Three years ago, you paid for my mother's medical expenses. Thank you. Now I've paid it back, every cent."
Lu Yan stood too, his chair scraping back.
"Song Qingci, I don't need you to pay it back—"
"You do." She looked at him, her eyes calm. "Starting today, we owe each other nothing. You don't owe me. I don't owe you."
She picked up her pen from the table and put it in her pocket—it was her pen, not his.
"You're free."
She turned and walked toward the door.
"Wait." Lu Yan's voice was hoarse. "What do you mean, 'You're free'?"
Song Qingci stopped, not turning back.
"Lu Yan, when I signed that contract three years ago, I lost my freedom. For three years, I was your stand-in, your accessory, your 'what's-her-name.' I lived in your shadow. I watched your face to know how to breathe."
Her voice was calm, like she was reading a summary report.
"Starting today, I'm not. I'm not a stand-in. Not an ex-wife. Not anyone's accessory. I am Song Qingci."
She turned to look at him.
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, falling on her. She wore her supermarket uniform, her hair pinned up with a pencil, dish soap foam still under her nails.
But her eyes were bright.
"Lu Yan, you're free. And I'm free."
She pushed open the door and walked out.
The hallway was long. Her footsteps were soft on the carpet. She reached the elevator and pressed the button. The doors opened. She stepped inside.
Just before they closed, she saw Lu Yan standing at the conference room door, the check still in his hand, watching her.
She didn't wave. Didn't say goodbye.
The doors closed.
The numbers jumped down from the top floor. 58, 57, 56…
She leaned against the elevator wall and closed her eyes.
In her pocket, her NYU student ID pressed against her thigh. Tomorrow, an exam. The day after, an internship interview. The day after that, a report to submit. She still had many things to do.
The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened.
She walked out, pushed through the building's glass doors.
New York's December wind hit her face. Cold. But the sun was bright.
She stood at the entrance, tilted her face up, and took a deep breath.
The air smelled of coffee, gasoline, the particular dry cold of winter.
She put her hands in her pockets and walked down the steps, merging into the crowd on the street.
No one noticed her.
She was just an ordinary girl on a Manhattan street, in an old coat, with a canvas bag, walking in the December wind.
But in her pocket was a student ID.
In her bag was a dog-eared copy of Options, Futures, and Other Derivatives.
In her mind were Donovan Black's words: "In five years, she will become the most dangerous woman on Wall Street."
Her pace was unhurried, but steady.
She walked into the subway station, swiped her card through the turnstile, and waited on the platform.
Wind rushed from the tunnel, lifting her hair.
She looked down at her watch.
4:47 PM.
At this time, her mother, Chen Yulan, would usually be making dumplings in the kitchen. She would line them up in neat rows, saying as she worked, "Qingci, when you have a home of your own one day, I'll make you dumplings every day."
She looked up at the light growing brighter in the tunnel.
"Mom," she said softly, "I'm going to have a home of my own."
The subway arrived.
She stepped on and found a seat by the window.
The train started moving. Lights flashed past the window one by one, like a flowing river.
She opened her book and continued reading.
New York streamed past outside—tall buildings, billboards, pedestrians, traffic. This city was so vast it could swallow a person's entire past.
But it could also hold a person's entire future.
She turned a page, her pen poised over the new one.
Outside the window, the sun shone just right.