CHAPTER ELEVEN

Oh hell, I played that all wrong. That’s the conclusion I come to the next day as I replay the conversation with Alyssa in my head. She knew more than she was letting on—I’m sure of it. But instead of pressing her about why my mom was kicked out of the family, I let my anger get the best of me and stormed out without any of the answers I desperately want. If only I hadn’t been so damned freaked out by finding out that I’m related to one of China’s elite rich.

A peal of laughter outside my trailer makes me sigh. I should go out and join my castmates for lunch and celebrate a successful first week of filming. But instead of joining them, I take out my phone.

I haven’t been able to connect to my VPN recently, which my friend Sara Li warned could happen. The Chinese government constantly updates their security measures and cracks down on VPN access—so no more Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook for me. Great Firewall of China strikes again. Google still works—but I’m not about to google Alyssa Chua for the hundredth time. I already know that she’s nineteen, just a year older than I am, and she has oodles of money and a killer fashion sense. What else do I need to know about her?

Instead, I search for “Alyssa Chua’s grandmother.” Nothing comes up. I try Alyssa’s mother next, and some articles in Chinese come up. Luckily Google Translate works even without a VPN, so I skim a few articles. There are some mentions of Alyssa’s socialite mother and her involvement in charities, but no images of her. It looks like Alyssa is the face of the family.

Then I search for Alyssa’s grandfather. Again, no results. Then I remember what Alyssa said about him. Sung Shen Yi has made a name for himself as someone you don’t want for an enemy. I type in my grandfather’s name. At once, I get an error message. That’s odd. I try again and get the same message. Then I google something random and have no problem getting access.

This is so weird. I’ve heard that searches for topics like the Dalai Lama or the Tiananmen Square massacre get blocked by the Great Firewall of China. But it’s not like I’m searching for the kind of sensitive information that usually gets blocked. With my stomach knotting, I google 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre. Immediately, I get the same error message that came up when I was searching for Alyssa’s . . . my . . . grandfather. Chills run down my back. Why would information on my grandfather be blocked?

Thoroughly unsettled, I put away my phone. Our lunch break will be over soon, and I’ve frittered it away with Internet searches. Listlessly, I pick at my dry sandwich. It would be unappetizing at the best of times, but the discovery that my grandfather is some kind of shadowy, powerful figure makes the sandwich even less appealing. I’m not sure who’s catering our meals, but they have some odd notions about what Americans want to eat.

Eilene comes by my trailer and smiles sympathetically as I set down the sandwich. “Not doing it for you?”

I make an effort to push away thoughts of my grandfather. “I have a list of food that I will not leave Beijing without eating.” I’ve had all the food on my list before, but I’m dying to eat my favorite Chinese food in China.

She laughs.

“No, I mean a literal list, as in I wrote it down by hand.” I give the sandwich a contemptuous flick. “And a sandwich with processed cheese and mystery meat is not on my list.”

“Then it’s a good thing tomorrow’s your first day off.”

Excitement wriggles through my body and distracts me from thoughts of Alyssa. “I. Cannot. Wait.”

Eilene’s eyes drift to the ever-present tablet in her hand. While I’m enjoying my day off, she’ll probably use the time rewriting scenes with Henry, the screenwriter. There are new worry lines on her forehead, and she’s been looking a bit pale lately. It can’t be easy to be a co-director and now a co-writer in all but name. Just the thought of juggling those roles gives me a sympathetic headache. My own troubles with Jake and the pressure of not letting Eilene down seem minor in comparison. But I bet Eilene doesn’t have a long-lost cousin and a family secret to contend with.

Eilene visibly tears her attention from her tablet and sets it on my dressing table. “Let’s see this list of yours.”

I pull a steno pad out of my bag, flip to the first page, and hand it over.

She takes it and starts reading. “Hand-shaven noodles, dumplings, radish cake, green onion pancake, egg tarts, hot pot . . . Why is hot pot crossed off?”

“Oh.” I blush, not sure how to explain. “It was always a family thing.” My dad, the cook in our family, would spend hours chopping vegetables to stew in the hot pot, and when the vegetables were finally done, we’d all sit down with a plate of thinly sliced raw meat and long chopsticks. I loved dropping the meat into the electric pot and watching it curl in the boiling stew, bobbing among cabbage and turnips. I’d want to pull my meat out too soon, but my mom would tell me to be patient, until I finally learned when it was the right time to pull the meat and vegetables out to be dipped in a little dish of soy sauce and sesame paste.

Just the memory is making me salivate, but it’s not just the food I’m missing. It’s the warm, scented steam rising into my face as we talk, laugh, and mock fight over the “best” corner of the pot. But sometimes, through that steam, I’d catch a look on my mom’s face as she looked around our small table. Like she was searching for faces that weren’t there at the table with us. Who the hell is my grandfather and why doesn’t my mother want me in Beijing?

A frown passes over Eilene’s face. “It doesn’t feel right to eat hot pot on your own, does it?”

She’s seconds away from offering to take me out for hot pot, and that’s time she can’t spare, so I rush to say, “I’m looking forward to seeing Beijing on my own, eating at those little food stalls with no one to tell me to hurry and get into costume!”

“Well, you deserve it.” Her smile is tinged with relief. “Have fun!”

When I get back to the hotel, one of the receptionists sees me and hurries over—completely abandoning the middle-aged couple she was checking in. They glare at me as if this is my fault.

But I’m just as confused. Is this another case of mistaken identity?

“Miss Huang,” the receptionist says, shooting down my assumption that she’s mistaken me for Alyssa. “I’m happy to tell you that your room has been upgraded. Please come with me so I may show you where you’ll be staying.”

Huh? “There must be some mistake,” I say. “No one has told me about an upgrade.”

“There’s no mistake,” she assures me.

Maybe the film studio is feeling generous. “Just let me pack my things.”

“Your belongings have already been moved.”

“Um, OK then.” Wow, they really want to give me this upgrade. “Thanks.”

The couple bursts into complaints as the receptionist turns to lead me to my room, and she answers them politely in Chinese. “I’m sorry, but this is an important guest.” She clearly doesn’t realize I understand Chinese.

My eyes widen. Important guest?

The couple is staring at me in speculation. “Shi ta,” the woman says, her eyes glued on me. It’s her.

Great. Questions can wait. My first priority is to get away from Alyssa’s fans.

The receptionist takes me all the way to the top floor. Here, the halls are lined with metal sconces that look like art pieces, and my footsteps echo on richly veined granite floors. She wasn’t kidding about an upgrade. The receptionist opens one of the doors and then hands me the card with a little bow.

The card almost falls from my nerveless hand. This isn’t an upgrade. It’s a superpowered boost into the stratosphere.

For one thing, it’s not so much a room as it’s a full-size apartment bigger than the one I shared with Glory and Camille in LA. A sitting area with white couches and pillows in muted golds greets me, and the polished wood floors are piled with soft white rugs that come up to my ankles when I walk inside. Next to the sitting area is a full kitchen with a stocked bar. Copper accents and warm wood make the whole space seem bright and lavish.

The receptionist says proudly, “This is our best suite, and I hope you will be comfortable here.”

Comfortable is an understatement, I think dazedly. I blink in astonishment as each new shiny luxury is revealed. A game room with a state-of-the-art gaming system and huge projector screen. A balcony garden fragrant with flowers. I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

Next the receptionist shows me the bedroom, which has a stunning view of the city skyline. As for the tall four-poster bed with a bronze-colored silk throw draped at its foot and fluffy pillows at its head . . . Well, that looks like it will give me the best sleep of my life.

Then she opens the bamboo sliding door to the bathroom. Everything is gorgeous, but the most arresting feature—displayed on a wooden platform with steps leading up to it—is a gigantic jetted soaking tub. That’s when my brain snaps out of its luxury-drugged state. There’s no way the studio would spring for this suite.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think this suite is supposed to be mine.” I cast a longing glance at the bright hammered copper bowls set next to the tub. They’re filled with bath salts of various colors and . . . Holy crap. Are those actual rose petals? Discreetly, I wipe the drool that no doubt must be oozing down my chin.

“Ah,” the receptionist says. “Perhaps this will make things clearer.” She takes me back to the sitting area and gestures to the heavy wooden coffee table, where a bottle of champagne rests inside a copper ice bucket.

Is she actually suggesting that alcohol will clear things up? The drinking age is eighteen in China, but still. Then I notice a pale pink envelope propped up against the ice bucket. My fingers itch to rip into it, but I glance at the receptionist. Maybe I should wait until I’m alone before reading the note.

“I leave you to enjoy your suite,” she says tactfully. “Please call down to the front desk if you need anything. By the way, room service is included in your upgrade, so feel free to order anything you want. The bill will be taken care of.” After dropping that earth-shattering information, she leaves.

I snatch up the envelope and register that it smells like Alyssa’s expensive perfume. Inside is a brief note on pale pink paper that matches the envelope.

Dear Gemma,

Sorry about how weird everything is. I know you don’t want anything from me, but I wanted to give you a better welcome than the one you got from me last night.

Xoxo,

Alyssa

Reading Alyssa’s note makes me even more confused. Is this a bribe so I’ll lie low and keep quiet? Or is this a goodwill gift? I know which one is more likely. A self-centered social media darling wouldn’t think twice about buying me off with a hotel upgrade. But I want to believe that she’s being sincere. I know it’s naive, but I want to believe that Alyssa is genuinely trying to make things right between us.

With a sigh, I put the note down. I’m not going to solve the mystery of Alyssa anytime soon, so I might as well enjoy this unexpected luxury while I can. First order of business—a glass of champagne in a jetted tub. With rose petals.