“Well, I’m certainly not interested in having any of it if I can’t share my life with her,” Nick said adamantly.

“Who said you couldn’t be with Rachel? Why don’t you live with her as you have been? Just don’t get married now. Don’t rub it in your grandma’s face. Go home and make peace with her. She is in her nineties, how many years does she have left? After she goes, you can do anything you want.”

Nick considered her words in silence. There was a gentle knock on the door, and a steward bearing a tray of coffee and desserts entered.

“Thank you, Sven. Now try some of this chocolate cake. I think you’ll find it to be quite interesting.”

Nick took a bite, recognizing immediately that it tasted exactly like the airy yet rich chocolate chiffon cake made by the cook at his grandmother’s house. “How did you manage to pry the recipe out of Ah Ching?” he asked in surprise.

“I didn’t. I smuggled a slice into my handbag when I had lunch with your grandmother last week and had it flown straight to Marius, the genius chef we have aboard. He spent three days doing his own forensics on the cake, and after about twenty attempts, we got it just right, don’t you think?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Now, how would you feel if you could never have this chocolate cake again?”

“I’ll just have to be invited back to your yacht.”

“This isn’t my yacht, Nicky. None of this is mine. And don’t think I’m not reminded of this every day of my life.”

*1 Also blond, most likely Swedish.

*2 She’s naturally referring to Espen Oeino, one of the world’s leading naval architects, who has designed superyachts for the likes of Paul Allen, the Emir of Qatar, and the Sultan of Oman.

*3 Hokkien for “play money.”

7

BELMONT ROAD

SINGAPORE, MARCH 1, 2013

The man with the machine gun tapped on the tinted glass of Carol Tai’s Bentley Arnage. “Lower your window, please,” he said gruffly.

As the window came down, the man peered in, carefully scrutinizing Carol and Eleanor Young in the backseats.

“Your invitations, please,” he said, extending a Kevlar-gloved hand. Carol handed over the engraved metal cards.

“Please have your handbags open and ready for inspection when you get to the entrance,” the man instructed, gesturing for Carol’s chauffeur to drive on. They passed through the security roadblock, only to find themselves bumper-to-bumper with other fancy sedans trying to make their way toward the house with the red lacquered front door on Belmont Road.

“Aiyah, if I knew it was going to be this lay chay,^*1 I wouldn’t have come,” Carol complained.

“I told you it wouldn’t be worth the headache. It never used to be like this,” Eleanor said, glaring at the traffic jam and thinking back to the earlier days of Mrs. Singh’s jewelry tea party. Gayatri Singh, the youngest daughter of a maharaja, possessed one of Singapore’s legendary jewelry collections, said to rival that of Mrs. Lee Yong Chien or Shang Su Yi. Every year, she would return from her annual trip to India with another stash of heirlooms spirited away from her increasingly senile mother, and starting in the early 1960s, she had begun inviting her dearest friends—women hailing from Singapore’s elite families—to come over for tea to “celebrate” her latest baubles.