“Zachary, pay attention. What about this one?” Across the office, Mom dangled a Polaroid of a long-haired, scarlet-lipped beauty. “I do adore her family. Her mother is in our country club. She’s a tax lawyer. Works at Clarke & Young. Not a partner just yet…” Her delicate brows slammed together as she skimmed her file. “No, no. She won’t do. Too lazy. She only volunteered twice in college.”
Mom boomeranged the photo into the trash pile on the rug. Dozens of pictures scattered across the coffee table, coating the entire surface.
All potential brides for yours truly.
All eligible.
All as boring as a freshly painted white wall.
This particular batch had missed the soirée, during which I’d failed my task—choosing a bride by midnight.
Yesterday, Mom had barged into her friend’s dating agency and confiscated these dossiers. This marked the birth of Plan X.
(She’d labored through A to W over the last five years when it became clear that I’d need divine intervention to drag me down the aisle.)
I yawned, keeping my feet propped over my desk, ankles crossed, as I tossed a tennis ball up to the ceiling. Back and forth. Back and forth. “So what if she isn’t a partner?”
“She’s already twenty-five. She should be well on her way to owning her own firm by now.” Mom’s head snapped up. “You surprise me sometimes.”
Perhaps because you’re the one who’s changed, Mother.
Sun Yu Wen—American name Constance—had a one-track mind.
To find me a bride.
She was running out of time, and I was running out of options. Especially after she’d chalked up the ball as a terrible failure. She’d thrown it for me to pick a future wife.
In reality, I didn’t even leave my office.
At this point, my best bet was a mail-order bride.
A mail-order bride would not huff when I lodged her in the guesthouse.
Would not flinch when I made her go through IVF to avoid touching her.
Would not sulk when I retreated into one of my dark moods, where I didn’t want to see or hear from anyone.
Would not protest when she realized all I had to offer her was money and premium sperm.
I tossed the ball. “Why does it matter that she’s not an overachiever?”
I knew I’d poked the bear, but I had trouble accepting my fate—and a whole entire wife I did not desire.
Mom wanted to live vicariously through me. She knew she’d never remarry. Never open up to someone else.
So, she’d decided, unilaterally, that I needed to stuff her void with a picture-perfect daughter-in-law, grandchildren galore, and more people for her to take care of.
And it was a void.
After Dad’s death, Mom even changed her last name from Zhao to Sun, a huge deal because:
One) Chinese women did not change their surnames.
And two) “Zhao Yu Wen sounds lightyears better.” Her words, not mine.
Mom smoothed her tweed Chanel jacket, her lips twitching downward. “Are you saying you’d like to marry a bum?”
“I’m saying you remind me of Grandma.”
The same grandma who never approved of her marriage to Dad. A sore spot for Mom. One I prodded only when necessary.
Mom shook her head, pinching the corner of a Polaroid so tight, her fingers reddened. “I didn’t raise you to behave like this.”
“Must’ve been one of the nannies.”
We’d had three on rotation.
I still sent them postcards, mooncakes, and fruit baskets every New Year, much to my mother’s chagrin.
Mom did not approve of me treating them as humans. When it came to the nannies, her jealousy reared its ugly head fast.
She still hadn’t realized I didn’t actually have a relationship with them. I just didn’t have one with her, either.
After Dad died, she’d spent the remainder of my teens zoned out, lost in grief, until my aunt snapped her back into shape.
Speak of the devil.
Zhao Yu Ting—American name Celeste (but Celeste Ayi to me)—burst into my office, clad in a gauche Juicy Couture tracksuit and a Gucci fanny pack, looking like a caricature of a rich tourist.
“I’ve arrived.” She held three designer shopping bags on each forearm and boba tea clasped between manicured fingers.
I dug my fingers into my eye sockets. “You were never invited.”
She rushed to me, awarding me with air kisses a solid foot away from each cheek. She knew better than to touch me.
“My apologies for missing your little soirée, Zachary. You know I fly to Seoul for my facial every fifteenth of the month.”
“It’s fine.”
I did not invite her to the party, either.
Mainly because Celeste Ayi could not be trusted with a credit card, let alone other people. She’d probably cause a diplomatic crisis.
“Aren’t I glowing?” She did a little twirl, smacking my temple with her Birkin. “Rejuran Healer, Chanel injections, Aquashine, and Baby Face Cell Therapy. It’s the only way for me to maintain my 22-year-old skin.”
She did not have a 22-year-old’s skin.
In fact, she barely had skin anymore. She was 99% fillers.
I dodged her Birkin when she darted to the couches to hug Mom and came face-to-face with the Go board I’d managed to avoid since the party.
I’d set up a perfect KO to finish off the little octopus. What a coward she was, running away from her inevitable failure.
Celeste Ayi squeezed Mom’s head to her chest, forcing her into a half-crouch.
“We were just going through our options.” Mom swatted Ayi1 away, gesturing to the impromptu dating agency, formerly known as my coffee table. They spoke in Mandarin. “Because Zachary failed to choose a wife at the soirée. Care to tell us your thoughts?”
“Why, yes, of course.” Ayi discarded the shopping bags on the floor, darting into the seat beside her older sister. She slammed her boba on the table, rubbing her hands together. “Finally, you two are smart enough to beg me for my opinion.”
Technically, it was Mom who’d asked for it.
I had no idea as to why.
Celeste Ayi was a total nutcase, and I said that with as much sympathy and admiration a man like me could possibly muster.
She’d moved into my childhood mansion a few homes down the road to help raise me when Dad passed away and never bothered moving out after I left for college.
Seventeen years ago.
The sisters still lived together but could not be more different.
My mother was a straitlaced, PhD-holding former professor, who dedicated her life to raising me to be everything society expected me to become.
Successful. Put-together. An impeccably mannered overachiever.
Celeste, however, was a thrice-divorced, childless singer-songwriter who made infrequent visits to China to perform, cash in, and fuck off with a new boy toy in the country of the day.
She inhaled more conspiracies than she did books, considered malls to be an extension of her closet, and cared a little less about what others thought of her than she did about color coordination.
Ayi tore up a picture, tossing the remnants behind her. “Too much like Tao’s mistress.”
Tao—one name only—and Celeste were the Sonny and Cher of China, only uber-sexualized.
Once upon a time, newspapers hailed Celeste Ayi as the nation’s most provocative, controversial female singer. She’d framed the articles, as if they were something to be proud of.
Then, she caught Tao in a hot tub with three women. Two months later, he went from second husband to second ex-husband.
Now they merely tolerated one another in public long enough for the occasional concert or photoshoot.
Ayi tapped a picture with a long, painted nail. “What about this one?”
Mom shuddered inside her fashionable suit. “Absolutely not. Her dad went to jail for tax fraud. Now her family lives in a tiny, rundown home in McLean that barely Zillows at 1.3 mil. The entire neighborhood petitioned the city to condemn the thing.”
The poverty didn’t bother her.
The problems that came with it did.
Sure enough, Mom snatched up the picture and tossed it onto the trash pile. “I don’t even know what it’s doing here. Remember, Zachary—you inherit the problems of your in-laws, so choose wisely.”
I yawned, ignoring the dozen or so texts Ollie bombarded the group chat with. “Sounds like the solution is to not have any in-laws.”
“And this one?” Ayi pointed at another photo, squinting. “She’s pretty enough. Round eyes. Milky glass skin.”
“Are you describing a goat?” I missed the tennis ball. It bounced off the desk, onto the hardwood, and then to the coffee table, where it rolled until it covered a Polaroid. “On second thought, a goat would require less maintenance than a wife. Carry on.”
They ignored me.
Mom’s lips twisted down. “She’s beautiful, yes, but she’s an influencer.” She punctuated the word with bunny ears. “That is not a proper job.”
“That’s not a job at all,” I interjected. “It’s a hobby you get paid for until the algorithm changes and you lose your clout.”
I absolutely despised social media. The only upside to it was that it seemed to bring us one step closer to the end of civilization.
“Oh, this one is a great option.” Mom plucked another Polaroid from the table, holding it to the natural light sifting through the curtains. “She’s a doctor. A neurologist.”
“At twenty-two?” I watched from the corner of my eye as Mom scurried toward me with a folder. “A perfect age for a brain doctor—before hers has fully formed.”
“She’s your age.” Mom ignored the quip, setting down a background check in front of me. “Not ideal if you’d like four children, which is frankly the bare minimum.”
This is not a daycare. I don’t need a full roster of babies to keep myself afloat.
I opened my mouth, then clamped my lips shut, thinking better of the words. Anything to do with death triggered her.
Whereas I’d gone numb, she’d gone shrill. Both were a nuisance to deal with, but only the latter elicited a headache.
Mom tapped her finger over her lips. “However, she comes from a good family and is actively seeking a husband. I approve of her.”
“I approve of her, too.” Celeste Ayi sashayed to the drink cart, helping herself to a double scotch on the rocks. “She must know a good plastic surgeon. I’ve been meaning to get a mini-lift for a while now. Everyone has one.”
A bitter laugh stuck in my throat.
How cruel was life that the only things my father had wanted for me—a wife, children, and happiness—were the things I reviled the most?
And yet.
And yet.
I couldn’t let my mother down.
When Dad passed away, he’d done so protecting me from sure death. If he’d never shielded me with his body, he’d be alive.
Mom would have a husband to dote on.
Celeste Ayi would be free to find a fourth husband.
The world would operate exactly as it should’ve.
But he’d left us behind. And discounting my unhinged Ayi, I was Sun Yu Wen’s sole living relative.
I’d felt precisely one human feeling my entire life.
Guilt.
Guilt over killing my father.
Guilt over destroying my mother.
Guilt over ruining my family.
Letting go of it would separate me completely from my species. I clung to it as proof I wasn’t a complete psychopath.
Its burden felt delicious against my bones, its suffocating pain reminding me I wasn’t completely numb.
“There she is.” Mom thrust the Polaroid in my face. I kept my feet on the desk and angled the picture with a lopsided tilt of my head. “Her name is Eileen.”
Eileen was objectively attractive.
Warm smile. Nice figure. All the right credentials.
And still—she bored me to death before we’d even exchanged one word.
I handed my mother the picture back, shaking my head. “Too wholesome.”
My phone buzzed with another text from Oliver. I sighed, deciding to answer it before he found a way to escalate.
God forbid he, too, barged in here.
Ollie vB:
You sure?
Ollie vB:
I know a PI who can track down your little con woman in no time.
Zach Sun:
The last time I hired someone upon your recommendation, I ended up with a stranger’s dildo clogging my pool skimmer.
Hard pass.
I’d trust Frankie Townsend before I trust whomever you recommend.
Ollie vB:
Ouch.
Short temper.
Ollie vB:
Maybe it’s time to get laid.
Romeo Costa:
By something other than his hand.
Ollie vB:
His poor dick. Probably goes to bed screaming, “Help! My owner beats me every night.”
Romeo Costa:
Impeccable grammar. A+.
Zach Sun has notifications silenced.
Meanwhile, Mom hadn’t stopped rambling.
She tucked the photo onto the glass edge of the custom frame that held an original Twombly sketch. “Wholesome is bad?”
“For someone with an estimated IQ in the 200s, wholesome can be boring.”
“She’s actually into archery.” Mom cleared her throat. “And can cook.”
“Surgeons work unfathomable hours. She wouldn’t be a good fit as a mother.”
“I said neurologist, not neurosurgeon. If she were the latter, I wouldn’t even ask before booking you a wedding venue.” When she didn’t draw the smile she’d aimed for, she sighed. “Besides, she’s planning a sabbatical before transitioning to part-time.”
I stood, pacing across my office. An office that smelled less and less like my kingdom since Octi had paid it a visit.
Her scent clung to the air—oranges, artificial fruit, cheap soap, and a hint of some cleaning product.
“She’s no good,” I growled, fixing my gaze on that unfinished Go game that mocked me more than that nameless woman’s smile.
“She’s brilliant.” Mom shadowed me while Ayi stacked the remaining photos and used them as a coaster. “Your father and her father were good friends in college. They met at Tsinghua before Dad left for Oxford for his master’s. They were xué zhǎng and xué di.”
Senior and Junior.
They must’ve been close.
That stopped me in my tracks.
I pivoted to face Mom, startling her into an abrupt stop. “Dad knew her?”
Mom’s pinched lips curved into an innocent smile that did nothing to hide her real motive. “He met her many times prior to her family moving to Berlin for business. He was her godfather, actually. I’m sure she has some stories of him to share.”
I grabbed Eileen’s picture again.
For a moment, the idea of meeting her semi-charmed me. Doctors were analytical people, were they not?
Perhaps I could explain my situation. My terms and conditions. All the fine print.
We’d walk into this pragmatically, eyes wide open, each with something to gain.
I could give her the wealth, the status, the perks. Just not the love, the devotion, and everything else that came with a real partnership.
She’d get the kids, too, and wouldn’t even have to pretend to enjoy getting impaled by my supersized cock.
We could have a comfortable arrangement.
A business deal of sorts.
But there was another part of me, a greater part of me, that knew no sane woman would ever subject herself to this kind of existence. Not in a free world, anyway.
They all wanted the romantic dinners, the Instagram-worthy vacations, the conversations into the night, the candlelit sex.
The touching.
The touching.
The touching.
I couldn’t touch humans.
That was my worst-kept secret.
I loathed the feeling of foreign, sticky hot skin against my own. I did not shake people’s hands. Didn’t slap people’s backs, nor kiss people’s cheeks.
I did not hug, cuddle, or make out.
And sex?
Entirely out of the question.
The mere thought of someone laying on top of me made me violently sick.
Flashbacks of the time I’d spent trapped under my father’s lifeless figure lashed against my skin like a spiky leather belt each time I went as far as contemplating kissing someone.
I decided to spare my father’s goddaughter.
“No.” I tore the woman’s Polaroid between my fingers, letting pieces of her sprinkle to the floor like confetti. “Not interested.”
“I’m never going to wear the dress I bought for his wedding.” Celeste Ayi shook her head and knocked back the whiskey in one sip, slapping the tumbler against the drink cart. “I should just wear it for a date.”
Mom straightened her blazer, calculating her next move.
I bared my teeth. “What?”
She stood tall, chin up, suit impeccable, not a hair out of place. But inside, I knew she was falling apart. That every day, I broke her heart, woke up, and did it again.
“Are you gay?” It came out in one whooshed breath. Not laced with judgment but rather desperation.
A plea to explain the past decade.
Anything that made even a little sense, so she could decode my inability to find a wife.
She must’ve been holding the question in for years.
“No.”
If I were, I wouldn’t be alone.
“You know you can tell me—”
“I’m not gay. It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
My inability to tolerate whomever I cannot use or exploit, let alone be affectionate with them.
“I have standards.”
“No one meets them.”
“Well, they’re not very social. Just like their owner.”
“I did hear a rumor.” Mom knotted her arms behind her back and strolled to the opposite wall. My Damien Hirsts and Warhols bracketed each side of her. “That you were here with some young woman at the party?”
My jaw locked at the mention of that little fugitive. “She was a nobody.”
“A nobody you spent three hours with.”
She appraised me, returning to the coffee table and retrieving the Polaroids from beneath Ayi’s boba. She swatted off the condensation.
We were alike, Mother and I, in the sense that we did not tolerate imperfections in anything we did.
“We played Go.”
She stopped. Sneered. “Is that code for something?”
“Yes.” I resumed my aimless journey, searching for a shred of evidence my unwelcome guest had indeed intruded a couple nights ago. “It is code for playing Go.”
I touched ornaments, documents, and furniture. Made sure everything was where it should be.
So far, it did not seem as if the little octopus had helped herself to a souvenir. Everything was here, not an inch out of place.
“I heard that she’s…” Mom’s shoulders rattled with a slight shudder. “A blonde?”
Funnily enough, I didn’t even remember her hair color.
I remembered that it was pale.
And that she wasn’t horrible to look at.
That I didn’t feel bile rising up my throat when we stood too close for comfort.
That I did not immediately step back when her scent invaded my system.
“Is she now?” I stopped in front of the shelves behind my desk screens, inspecting them. “That may well be. I didn’t pay attention to her. Only to the fact that she had two brain cells to rub together and might be considered a decent player by a mediocre player.”
Behind me, Mom’s breaths came out in tremors.
Not the news you hoped for, is it?
Then again, I hadn’t given her the kind of news she wanted for years now.
“Is she smart, then?” She sniffled, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “What does she do in life?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, what are her degrees in?”
“Not sure she has any kind of formal higher education.”
I adjusted a carved wooden figurine of Shou Xing on my shelf. The God of Longevity. A lot of that missing in the Sun household.
I moved on to the next shelf. “Frankly, I doubt it.”
Octi appeared too feral to sit through four years of tertiary education.
Something peculiar caught my eye.
Mother gasped. “How much do you know about her?” She raked her fingers through her hair, ruining her new blowout. She snapped her fingers at Celeste Ayi. “We need a credit check, criminal record, and extensive psychological profile before you can publicly be seen with her.”
My thoughts drowned out her voice.
The little shit.
Octi had tried to steal my jade pendants. The his-and-hers. Dad’s final acquisition.
A deep, crescent hole hugged the lock. She hadn’t lied. She had come here for the art.
Only she’d failed to mention she came to fucking steal it.
I did not get along well with humans.
I got along even worse with thieves.
“Zach? Zachary?” Behind me, Mom started pacing, her steps thumping on the hardwood despite her negligible weight. “Are you listening? What of the fact that people said her dress was completely inappropriate? Would you at least consider sending her to my personal shopper? I’ll pick up the bill.”
But why would my mystery guest be fascinated with this particular art piece when I had hundreds more pricey and less secure lying around the house?
She could’ve picked the figurine right next to it. Unlocked. Unguarded. In plain sight. It would go for double the price, too.
The pendants must’ve meant something to her.
Or, at the very least, one of them did.
“…come to terms with the fact that she is blonde, but I won’t accept an unschooled harlot for a daughter-in-law.” Mother droned on in the background. “In fact, I won’t make promises to accept her at all. Oh, this is horrible. Why couldn’t you have taste?”
“Because then he’d be fun.” Celeste Ayi, who’d long advanced to her third drink, slammed a bottle down at the whiskey cart, guzzling another glass like it was water. She squinted out the window with the tumbler burrowed into her chest. “It’s just my luck to have the most boring nephew possible. A fortune-teller told me so when I went to Hawaii for that bachelorette party. You know the one. She said he’d be nothing but a headache. And you know what? I do blame him for my Advil addiction.”
Neither Mom nor I paid attention to her.
I sifted through mental images of all the art I’d purchased this year until I reached the pendant. Sotheby’s. Newly widowed housewife.
I’d contacted the seller privately and offered far more than the evaluation before the auction even began, refusing to entertain a bidding war.
Not when Dad had wanted to complete the his-and-hers collection.
I remembered the seller. Fifties. Stocky. Bleached hair. Too much plastic in her face for anything that wasn’t a cheap garden chair.
She talked a mile a minute and kept offering to introduce me to her daughters. Daughters that could include the little octopus.
They didn’t appear genetically related, but perhaps the father compensated for the cotton candy the mother had between her ears.
There was only one way to find out.
“Are you listening? Zach? Zachary?” Mom snapped her fingers in front of my face. “I’m taking you to Shanghai next month to find a match. I will not be—”
Her voice sunk in the turbulent ocean of my thoughts.
I knew I’d promised myself not to seek her out, but that was before I found out she’d tried to steal from me.
Now, the peculiar encounter transformed into something else completely.
Little Octi needed to be taught a lesson.
And I was an excellent teacher.
1 Translation: Aunt.
