Crazy Rich Asians

“Can we enlarge the picture?” Astrid asked. As Mr. Lui zoomed in on the blurry, pixilated face, Astrid suddenly sat back on the sofa. “There’s something very familiar about that woman,” she said, her pulse quickening.

“Who is she?” Charlie asked.

“I’m not sure, but I know I’ve seen her somewhere before,” Astrid said, closing her eyes and pressing her fingers to her forehead. Then it hit her. Her throat seemed to close up, and she couldn’t speak.

“Are you okay?” Charlie asked, seeing the look on Astrid’s face.

“I’m okay, I think. I believe this girl was at my wedding. I think there’s a picture of her in a group photo from one of my albums.”

“Your wedding?” Charlie said in shock. Turning to Mr. Lui, he demanded, “What do you have on her?”

“Nothing on her yet. The flat’s registered owner is Mr. Thomas Ng,” the private investigator replied.

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” Astrid said numbly.

“We’re still assembling a dossier,” Mr. Lui said. An instant message flashed on his phone, and he reported, “The woman just left the flat with a young boy, approximately four years old.”

Astrid’s heart sank. “Have you been able to find out anything about the boy?”

“We have not. We did not know there was a boy inside the flat with them until this moment.”

“So the woman has left with the boy and my husband is alone now?”

“Yes. We don’t think anyone else is in the apartment.”

“You don’t think? Can you be sure there isn’t someone else in there? Can’t you use some sort of thermal sensor?” Charlie asked.

Mr. Lui gave a little snort. “Hiyah, this isn’t the CIA. Of course, we can always escalate and bring in specialists if you wish, but for domestics such as these, we don’t usually—”

“I want to see my husband,” Astrid said matter-of-factly. “Can you take me to him now?”

“Ms. Teo, in these situations, we really don’t advise—” the man delicately began.

“I don’t care. I need to see him face-to-face,” Astrid insisted.

A few minutes later, Astrid sat quietly in the back of the Mercedes with tinted windows while Mr. Lui rode in the front passenger seat, frantically barking orders in Cantonese to the team assembled around 64 Pak Tin Street. Charlie wanted to come along, but Astrid had insisted on going alone. “Don’t worry, Charlie — nothing’s going to happen. I’m just going to have a talk with Michael.” Now her mind was reeling, and she was getting more and more antsy as the car inched through lunchtime traffic in Tsim Sha Tsui.

She just didn’t know what to think anymore. Who exactly was this girl? It looked like the affair must have been going on since before their wedding, but then why had Michael married her? It clearly wasn’t for money — her husband had always been so rabidly insistent about not wanting to benefit from her family’s wealth. He had readily signed the hundred-and-fifty-page prenuptial agreement without so much as a blink, as well as the postnuptial her family’s lawyers had insisted on after Cassian was born. Her money, and Cassian’s money, was more secure than the Bank of China’s. So what was it that motivated Michael to have a wife in Singapore, and a mistress in Hong Kong?

Astrid looked out her car window and noticed a Rolls-Royce Phantom next to her. Enthroned in the backseat was a couple, probably in their early thirties, dressed to the nines. The woman had short, smartly coiffed hair and was immaculately made up and dressed in a purple blouse with an enormous diamond-and-emerald floral brooch pinned to her right shoulder. The man at her side was sporting a florid Versace silk bomber jacket and Latin dictator — style dark sunglasses. Anywhere else in the world, this couple would have looked completely absurd — they were at least three decades too young to be chauffeured around so ostentatiously. But this was Hong Kong, and somehow it worked here. Astrid wondered where they came from, and where they were going. Probably off to lunch at the club. What secrets did they keep from each other? Did the husband have a mistress? Did the wife have a lover? Were there any children? Were they happy? The woman sat perfectly still, staring dead ahead, while the man slouched slightly away from her, reading the business section of the South China Morning Post. The traffic began to move again, and suddenly they were in Mong Kok, with its dense, hulking sixties apartment blocks crowding out the sunlight.

Before she knew it, Astrid was being led out of the car, flanked by four security men in dark suits. She looked around nervously as they escorted her to an old block of flats and into a small fluorescent-lit elevator with avocado-green walls. On the tenth floor, they emerged into an open-air hallway that skirted along an inner courtyard where lines of laundry hung from every available window. They walked past apartments with plastic slippers and shoes by the doorways, and soon they were in front of the metal-grille door of flat 10-07B.